Charbonneau gave a triumphant sneer.
“But you listen, Charbonneau,” said Langevin. “There’s none of us that wears just one hat. We’re too few. You’ll take your turn with the dirty work just like everyone else. And you can start with the second watch tonight.”
It was La Vierge’s turn to sneer. Charbonneau stalked away from the fire, muttering something about the bitterroot as he laid out his bedroll under the bâtard.
“Who says he gets the bâtard tonight?” complained La Vierge. Langevin started to say something, but Dominique beat him to the punch. “Let it go.”
SEVENTEEN
DECEMBER 5, 1823
PROFESSEUR WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to two urgent sensations: He was cold, and he needed to piss. His thick wool blanket failed to cover his ankles, not even when he curled his long frame and lay on his side. He lifted his head so that his good eye could see, and found that frost had settled on the blanket in the night.
The first hint of a new day glowed faintly beneath the eastern horizon, but a bright half-moon still dominated the sky. All the men but Charbonneau lay sleeping, radiating like spokes around the last embers of the fire.
Professeur stood slowly, his legs stiff from the cold. At least the wind had died down. He threw a log on the fire and walked toward the willows. He had taken a dozen steps when he nearly tripped on a body. It was Charbonneau.
Professeur’s first thought was that Charbonneau was dead, killed on his watch. He started to yell an alarm when Charbonneu bolted upright, fumbling for his rifle, eyes wide as he struggled to orient himself. Asleep on watch, thought Professeur. Langevin won’t like that. Professeur’s pressing need became more urgent, and he hurried past Charbonneau toward the willows.
Like many of the things he encountered each day, Professeur was confused by what happened next. He felt an odd sensation and looked down to find the shaft of an arrow protruding from his stomach. For a moment he wondered if La Vierge had played some kind of joke. Then a second arrow appeared, then a third. Professeur stared in horrified fascination at the feathers on the slender shafts. Suddenly he could not feel his legs and he realized he was falling backward. He heard his body make heavy contact with the frozen ground. In the brief moments before he died, he wondered, Why doesn’t it hurt?
Charbonneau turned at the sound of Professeur falling. The big Scot lay flat on his back with three arrows in his chest. Charbonneau heard a hissing sound and felt a burning sensation as an arrow grazed his shoulder. “Merde!” He dropped instinctively to the ground and scanned the dark willows for the shooter. The move saved his life. Forty yards away, the flash of guns erupted in the inky predawn light.
For an instant, the shots revealed the positions of their attackers. Charbonneau guessed that there were eight guns at least, plus a number of Indians with bows. He cocked his rifle, drew a bead on the nearest target and fired. A dark form slumped. More arrows flew out of the willows. He spun around and broke for the camp, twenty yards behind him.
Charbonneau’s expletive woke the camp. The Arikara volley ignited chaos. Musket balls and arrows rained into the half-sleeping men like iron hailstones. Langevin cried out as a bullet ricocheted off his short rib. Dominique felt a shot rip the muscle of his calf. Glass opened his eyes in time to watch an arrow bury itself in the sand, five inches in front of his face.
The men scrambled for the paltry cover of the beached canoe as two Arikara braves broke from the willows. They hurtled toward the camp, their piercing war cries filling the air. Glass and La Vierge paused long enough to aim their rifles. They fired almost in sync at a range of no more than a dozen yards. With no time to coordinate or even to think, they had both aimed at the same target—a large Arikara with a buffalo horn helmet. He crashed to the ground as both shots penetrated his chest. The other brave ran full force toward La Vierge, the arc of his battle-ax descending toward the voyageur’s head. La Vierge brought his rifle up with both hands to block the blow.
The Indian’s ax locked with the barrel of La Vierge’s rifle, the force knocking both of them to the ground. The Arikara found his feet first. His back to Glass, he raised the ax to strike at La Vierge again. Glass used both hands to drive his rifle butt into the back of the Indian’s head. He felt the sickening sensation of breaking bone as the metal butt-plate connected. Stunned, the Arikara dropped to his knees in front of La Vierge, who by this time had scrambled to his feet. La Vierge swung his rifle like a club, catching the Indian full force across the side of his skull. The brave toppled sideways, and Glass and La Vierge tumbled behind the canoe.
Dominique raised himself long enough to fire toward the willows.
Langevin handed Glass his rifle, the other hand pressed against the bullet hole on his side. “You shoot—I’ll load.”
Glass raised to fire, finding and hitting his target with cool precision.
“How bad are you hit?” he asked Langevin.
“Not bad. Òu se trouve Professeur?”
“Dead by the willows,” said Charbonneau matter-of-factly as he rose to fire.
Shots continued to pour from the willows as they hunkered behind the canoe. The report of the guns mixed with the sound of the bullets and arrows smashing through the thin skin of the bâtard.
“You son of a bitch, Charbonneau!” screamed La Vierge. “You fell asleep, didn’t you?” Charbonneau ignored him, focused instead on pouring powder into the muzzle of his rifle.
“It doesn’t matter now!” said Dominique. “Let’s get the damn canoe in the water and get out of here!”
“Listen to me!” ordered Langevin. “Charbonneau, La Vierge, Dominique—the three of you carry the boat to the water. Take another shot first, then reload your rifle and lay it here.” He pointed to the ground between him and Glass. “Glass and I will cover you with a last round of shots, then join you. Cover us from the boat with your pistols.”
Glass understood most of what Langevin had said from context. He looked around the tense faces. No one had a better idea. They had to get off the beach. La Vierge popped above the lip of the canoe to fire his rifle, followed by Dominique and Charbonneau. Glass raised himself to take another shot as the others reloaded. By exposing themselves they prompted heavier fire from the Arikara. Bullet-size holes kept punching through the birch bark, but the voyageurs managed—at least for the moment—to deter an all-out rush.
Dominique tossed two paddles on the stack with the rifles. “Make sure you bring these!”