Glass looked over his shoulder to find three mounted Indians emerging from the cottonwoods, a quarter mile back. Even at that distance, Glass could make out the spiked hairstyle worn by Arikara braves. He could see the Indians pointing as they kicked their horses and galloped toward him.
He desperately looked around him for any source of cover. The closest trees stood more than two hundred yards in front of him. He would never cover the ground in time. Nor could he make it to the river—he was cut off. He could stand and shoot, but even if he hit his target, he could never reload in time to hit all three riders, probably not even two. In desperation he ran for the distant trees, ignoring the pain that shot up his leg.
Glass had barely covered thirty yards when he pulled up in dread—another mounted Indian stepped from the cover of the cottonwoods in front of him. He looked back. The charging Arikara had covered half the distance between them. He looked again toward the new rider—now aiming down the barrel of his gun. The new rider fired. Glass winced in anticipation of the shot, but it flew high over his head. He turned back toward the Arikara. One of their horses was down! The Indian in front of him had shot at the other three! Now the shooter galloped toward him, as Glass realized he was Mandan.
Glass had no idea why, but the Mandan appeared to be coming to his aid. Glass spun to face his attackers. The two remaining Arikara had closed to within a hundred and fifty yards. Glass cocked his rifle and aimed. At first he tried to line his sights on one of the riders, but both Arikara hunched low behind their ponies’ heads. He moved his aim to one of the horses, picking the hollow spot just below the neck.
He squeezed the trigger and the rifle spit forth his shot. The horse screamed and its legs seemed to fold in front of it. Dust flew as it ploughed to an abrupt stop, its rider flying over the dead animal’s head.
Glass heard the pounding of hooves and looked up at the Mandan, who motioned him to jump on the horse. He leapt up, looking back to see the remaining Arikara rider rein his mount, firing a shot that missed. The Mandan kicked his horse and they broke for the trees. He turned the horse when they reached the cottonwoods. Both men dismounted to reload their rifles.
“Rees,” said the Indian, pointing in their direction. “No good.”
Glass nodded as he rammed a new charge home.
“Mandan,” said the Indian, pointing to himself. “Good friendly.” Glass aimed at the Arikara, but the sole remaining rider had retreated out of range. The two mountless Indians flanked him on either side. The loss of two horses had stolen their appetite for pursuit.
The Mandan called himself Mandeh-Pahchu. He had been tracking the elk when he had stumbled across Glass and the Arikara. Mandeh-Pahchu had a good idea where the scarred white man came from. Only the day before, the translator Charbonneau had arrived in the Mandan village. Well known to the Mandans from his time with Lewis and Clark, Charbonneau related the story of the Arikara attack on the voyageurs. Mato-Tope, a Mandan chief, had been furious with Elk Tongue and his renegade band. Like the trader Kiowa Brazeau, Chief Mato-Tope wanted the Missouri open for business. Though he understood Elk Tongue’s anger, clearly the voyageurs meant no harm. In fact, according to Charbonneau, they had come bearing gifts and an offer of peace.
Mato-Tope had feared exactly this type of incident when the Arikara came seeking a new home. The Mandan relied increasingly on commerce with the white man. There had been no traffic from the south since Leavenworth’s attack on the Arikara. Now word of this newest incident would keep the river closed.
Word of Chief Mato-Tope’s anger spread quickly through the Mandan village. The young Mandeh-Pahchu saw the rescue of Glass as an opportunity to gain favor with the chief. Mato-Tope had a beautiful daughter for whose affection Mandeh-Pahchu had been competing. He pictured himself parading through the village with his new trophy, delivering the white man to Mato-Tope, the entire village looking on as he recounted his tale. The white man, though, seemed to suspect the detour. He doggedly repeated a single phrase: “Fort Talbot.”
From his vantage point on the back of his horse, Glass regarded Mandeh-Pahchu with keen interest. Though he had heard many stories, he had never seen a Mandan in the flesh. The young brave wore his hair like a crown—a preening mane to which he obviously devoted considerable attention. A long ponytail wrapped in strips of rabbit skin trailed down his back. On the top of his head his hair hung loose, flowing like water over the sides, plastered down with grease and cut bluntly at the jaw line. In the center of his forehead a forelock had also been greased and combed. There were other gaudy adornments. Large pewter earrings tugged at three gaping holes where his right ear had been pierced. A choker of white beads contrasted sharply against the copper skin of his neck.
Reluctantly, Mandeh-Pahchu decided to take the white man to Fort Talbot. It was close, barely three hours’ ride. Besides, perhaps he could learn something at the fort. There had been rumors of an incident with the Arikara at Fort Talbot. Perhaps the fort would want to pass a message to Mato-Tope. It was a big responsibility, passing messages. Between the story about the white man and the important message he would no doubt be carrying, Mato-Tope would be pleased. His daughter could not help but be impressed.
It was almost midnight when the onyx profile of Fort Talbot loomed up suddenly against the featureless night. The fort cast no light onto the plain, and Glass was surprised to find himself only a hundred yards from the log ramparts.
They saw a flash of fire and at the same instant heard the sharp crack of a rifle from the fort. A musket ball whined inches above their heads.
The horse jumped and Mandeh-Pahchu struggled to control it. Glass mustered his voice, calling out angrily, “Hold your fire! We’re friendly!”
A voice answered suspiciously from the blockhouse. “Who are you?”
Glass saw a glimmer of light off the barrel of a rifle and the dark form of a man’s head and shoulders.
“I’m Hugh Glass with the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.” He wished that he could still project strength with his voice. As it was, he could barely make himself heard across even this short distance.
“Who’s the savage?”
“He’s a Mandan—he just saved me from three Arikara warriors.” The man on the tower yelled something and Glass heard fragments of a conversation. Three more men with rifles appeared on the blockhouse. Glass heard noise behind the heavy gate. A small wicket opened and they felt themselves again under scrutiny. From the wicket a gruff new voice demanded, “Ride up where we can see you better.”