The fort’s namesake, Kiowa Brazeau, peered at the five approaching riders through thick spectacles that made his eyes appear unnaturally large. It was with considerable relief that he made out the face of Yellow Horse. Kiowa had worried about the disposition of the Sioux.
William Ashley had just spent the better part of a month at Fort Brazeau, planning the future of his Rocky Mountain Fur Company in the wake of the debacle at the Arikara villages. The Sioux had been allies with the whites in the battle against the Arikara. Or, more accurately, the Sioux had been allies until they had grown weary of Colonel Leavenworth’s listless tactics. Halfway through Leavenworth’s siege, the Sioux abruptly departed (though not before stealing horses from both Ashley and the U.S. Army). Ashley viewed the Sioux desertion as treachery. Kiowa harbored quiet sympathy for the attitude of the Sioux, though he saw no need to offend the founder of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. After all, Ashley and his men had been Kiowa’s best customers ever, purchasing virtually his entire inventory of supplies.
Ultimately, though, Fort Brazeau’s meager economy depended on trade with the local tribes. The Sioux took on added significance since the dramatic change in relations with the Arikara. Kiowa worried that the Sioux’s disdain for Leavenworth might extend to him and his trading post. The arrival of Yellow Horse and three other Sioux braves was a good sign, particularly when it became clear that they were delivering a white man who had apparently been in their care.
A small crowd of resident Indians and transiting voyageurs gathered to greet the newcomers. They stared in particular at the white man with the horrible scars on his face and scalp. Brazeau spoke to Yellow Horse in fluent Sioux, and Yellow Horse explained what he knew of the white man. Glass became the uncomfortable focus of dozens of gazing eyes. Those who spoke Sioux listened to Yellow Horse’s description of finding Glass, alone with no weapons, grievously wounded by a bear. The rest were left to wonder, though it was obvious that the white man had a story to tell.
Kiowa listened to Yellow Horse’s story before addressing himself to the white man. “Who are you?” The white man seemed to struggle with his words. Thinking he did not understand, Brazeau switched to French:
“Qui êtes-vous?”
Glass swallowed and gently cleared his throat. He remembered Kiowa from the Rocky Mountain Fur Company’s brief layover on its way upriver. Kiowa obviously didn’t remember him. It occurred to Glass that his appearance had changed significantly, although he still had not had a good glimpse of his own face since the attack. “Hugh Glass.” It pained him to speak, and his voice came out as a kind of pitiful, screeching whine. “Ashley man.”
“You just missed Monsieur Ashley. He sent Jed Stuart west with fifteen men, then headed back to St. Louis to raise another brigade.” Kiowa waited a minute, thinking that if he paused the wounded man might offer more information.
When the man showed no signs of saying anything further, a one-eyed Scotsman gave voice to the group’s impatience. In a dim-witted brogue he asked, “What happened to you?”
Glass spoke slowly and with as much economy as possible. “Grizzly attacked me on the Upper Grand.” He hated the pathetic whine of his voice, but he continued. “Captain Henry left me with two men.” He paused again, placing his hand to comfort his wounded throat. “They ran off and stole my kit.”
“Sioux bring you all the way here?” asked the Scot.
Seeing the pain in Glass’s face, Kiowa answered for him. “Yellow Horse found him alone at the Arikara villages. Correct me if I’m wrong, Monsieur Glass, but I’ll wager you made it down the Grand on your own.”
Glass nodded.
The one-eyed Scotsman started to ask another question, but Kiowa cut him off. “Monsieur Glass can save his tale for later. I’d say he deserves a chance to eat and sleep.” The eyeglasses lent Kiowa’s face an intelligent and avuncular air. He grabbed Glass by the shoulder and led him into the cabin. Inside, he placed Glass at a long table and said something in Sioux to his wife. She produced a heaping plate of stew from a giant, cast iron pot. Glass inhaled the food, then two more large helpings.
Kiowa sat across the table from him, watching patiently through the dim light and shooing away the gawkers.
As he finished eating, Glass turned to Kiowa with a sudden thought.
“I can’t pay.”
“I didn’t expect that you’d be carrying a lot of cash. An Ashley man can draw credit at my fort.” Glass nodded his head in acknowledgment. Kiowa continued, “I can equip you and get you on the next boat to St. Louis.”
Glass shook his head violently. “I’m not going to St. Louis.” Kiowa was taken aback. “Well, just where do you plan on going?”
“Fort Union.”
“Fort Union! It’s October! Even if you make it past the Rees to the Mandan villages, it’ll be December by the time you get there. And that’s still three hundred miles from Fort Union. You going to walk up the Missouri in the middle of winter?”
Glass didn’t answer. His throat hurt. Besides, he wasn’t looking for permission. He took a sip of water from a large tin cup, thanked Kiowa for the food, and started to climb the rickety ladder to the sleeping loft. He stopped part way, climbed back down and walked outside.
Glass found Yellow Horse camped away from the Fort on the banks of the White River. He and the other Sioux had tended their horses, done a little trading, and would leave in the morning. Yellow Horse avoided the fort as much as possible. Kiowa and his Sioux wife had always treated him honestly, but the whole establishment depressed him. He felt disdain and even shame for the filthy Indians who camped around the fort, prostituting their wives and daughters for the next drink of whiskey. There was something to fear in an evil that could make men leave their old lives behind and live in such disgrace.
Beyond Fort Brazeau’s effect on the resident Indians, other aspects of the post left him profoundly disquieted. He marveled at the intricacy and quality of the goods produced by the whites, from their guns and axes to their fine cloth and needles. Yet he also felt a lurking trepidation about a people who could make such things, harnessing powers that he did not understand. And what about the stories of the whites’ great villages in the East, villages with people as numerous as the buffalo. He doubted these stories could be true, though each year the trickle of traders increased. Now came the fight with the Arikara and the soldiers. True, it was the Arikara that the whites sought to punish, a tribe for which he himself held no goodwill. And true, the white soldiers had been cowards and fools. He struggled to understand his unease. Taken bit by bit, none of his forebodings seemed overwhelming. Yet Yellow Horse sensed that these scattered strands came together somehow, braided in a warning that he could not yet fully perceive.