Yellow Horse stood when Glass walked into the camp, a low fire illuminating their faces. Glass had thought about trying to pay the Sioux for their care, but something told him that Yellow Horse would take offense. He thought about some small gift—a pigtail of tobacco or a knife. Such trifles seemed inadequate expressions of his gratitude. Instead he walked up to Yellow Horse, removed his bear-claw necklace, and placed it around the Indian’s neck.
Yellow Horse stared at him for a moment. Glass stared back, nodded his head, then turned and walked back toward the cabin.
When Glass climbed again to the sleeping loft, he found two voyageurs already asleep on the large straw tick. In a corner under the eaves, a ratty hide had been spread in the cramped space. Glass eased himself down and found sleep almost instantly.
A loud conversation in French woke Glass the next morning, rising to the loft from the open room below. Jolly laughter interspersed the discussion, and Glass noticed he was alone in the loft. He lay there for a while, enjoying the luxury of shelter and warmth. He rolled from his stomach to his back.
The medicine man’s brutal treatment had worked. If his back was not yet fully healed, the wounds at least had been purged of their vile infection. He stretched his limbs one by one, as if examining the complex components of a newly purchased machine. His leg could bear the full weight of his body, although he still walked with a pronounced limp. And though his strength had not returned, his arm and shoulder could function normally. He assumed that the recoil of a rifle would cause sharp pain, but he was confident in his ability to handle a gun.
A gun. He appreciated Kiowa’s willingness to equip him. What he wanted, though, was his gun. His gun and a reckoning from the men who stole it. Reaching Fort Brazeau seemed markedly anticlimactic. True, it was a milestone. Yet for Glass the fort did not mark a finish line to cross with elation, but rather a starting line to cross with resolve. With new equipment and his increasingly healthy body, he now had advantages that he had lacked in the past six weeks. Still, his goal lay far away.
As he lay on his back in the loft, he noticed a bucket of water on a table. The door opened below and a cracked mirror on the wall caught the morning light. Glass rose from the floor and walked slowly to the mirror.
He wasn’t exactly shocked at the image staring back at him. He expected to look different. Still, it was strange finally to see the wounds that for weeks he could only imagine. Three parallel claw marks cut deep lines through the heavy beard on his cheek. They reminded Glass of war paint. No wonder the Sioux had been respectful. Pinkish scar tissue ringed his scalp line, and several gashes marked the top of his head. Where hair did grow, he noticed that gray now mixed with the brown he knew before—particularly in his beard. He paid particular attention to his throat. Again, parallel swaths marked the path of the claws. Knobby scars marked the points where the sutures had been tied.
Glass lifted his doeskin blouse in an effort to look at his back, but the dark mirror showed little more than the outline of the long wounds. The mental image of the maggots still haunted him. Glass left the mirror and climbed down from the loft.
A dozen men gathered in the room below, crowding the long table and spilling beyond. The conversation stopped as Glass descended the ladder from the loft.
Kiowa greeted him, switching easily to English. The Frenchman’s facility with language was an asset for a trader amid the frontier Babel.
“Good morning, Monsieur Glass. We were just talking about you.” Glass nodded his head in acknowledgment but said nothing.
“You’re in luck,” continued Kiowa. “I may have found you a ride upriver.” Glass’s interest was immediate.
“Meet Antoine Langevin.” A short man with a long mustache stood up formally from the table, reaching to shake Glass’s hand. Glass was surprised by the power of the small man’s grip.
“Langevin arrived last night from upriver. Like you, Monsieur Glass, he arrived with something of a story to tell. Monsieur Langevin came all the way from the Mandan villages. He tells me that our wandering tribe, the Arikara, has established a new village on land only a mile south of the Mandans.”
Langevin said something in French that Glass did not understand. “I’m getting to that, Langevin,” said Kiowa, irritated at the interruption.
“I thought our friend might appreciate a bit of historical context.” Kiowa continued with his explanation. “As you can imagine, our friends the Mandans are nervous that their new neighbors are bringing trouble with them. As a condition of occupying Mandan territory, the Mandans have exacted a promise that the Arikara will cease their attacks on whites.”
Kiowa removed his spectacles, wiping the lenses with his long shirttail before returning them to the perch on his ruddy nose. “Which brings me to my own circumstances. My little fort depends on river traffic. I need trappers and traders like yourself moving up and down the Missouri. I appreciated the lengthy visit by Monsieur Ashley and his men, but this fighting with the Arikara will drive me out of business.
“I’ve asked Langevin to lead a deputation up the Missouri. They’ll take gifts and reestablish ties with the Arikara. If they succeed, we’ll send word to St. Louis that the Missouri is open for business.
“There’s room for six men and supplies on Langevin’s bâtard. This is Toussaint Charbonneau.” Kiowa pointed to another man at the table. Glass knew the name, and stared with interest at the husband of Sacagewea. “Toussaint translated for Lewis and Clark. He speaks Mandan, Arikara, and anything else you might need on the way.”
“And I speak English,” said Charbonneau, which sounded like, end ah speek eegleesh. Kiowa’s English was almost without accent, but Charbonneau’s carried the thick melody of his native tongue. Glass reached for Charbonneau’s hand.
Kiowa continued with the introductions. “This is Andrew MacDonald.” He pointed to the one-eyed Scot from the day before. Glass noticed that in addition to the missing eye, the Scot was missing a significant portion from the tip of his nose. “There’s a good chance he’s the dumbest man I ever met,” said Kiowa. “But he can paddle all day without stopping. We call him ‘Professeur.’” Professeur cocked his head to bring Kiowa within range of his good eye, which squinted in dim recognition at the mention of his name, although the irony clearly eluded him.
“Finally—there is Dominique Cattoire.” Kiowa pointed to a voyageur smoking a thin clay pipe. Dominique rose, shook Glass’s hand and said, “Enchanté.”