Glass stood, reaching for his rifle. The winds again found a target and pounded with a vigor that nearly staggered him. He began to wade through the deep snow toward the Yellowstone. Hope I’m on the right side of the river.
* * *
Captain Henry was outraged at the loss of the cannon. Though the weapon had little utility in actual combat, its deterrent value was significant. Besides, a real fort had a cannon, and Henry wanted one for his.
With the notable exception of the captain, the loss of the cannon had not dampened spirits at the fort’s New Year’s celebration. To the contrary, the great explosion seemed to boost the level of revelry. The blizzard drove the men back inside, but the cramped bunkhouse pulsed with a relentless cacophony of unbridled chaos.
Then the cabin door blasted suddenly open—completely open—as if some great external force had built up outside before blowing the portal inward. The elements came in with the open door, frigid fingers grabbing at the men inside, ripping them from the snug comfort of the shelter and fire.
“Close the door, you bloody idiot!” yelled Stubby Bill without looking at the door. Then they all did look. The wind shrieked outside. Snow swirled around the looming presence in the doorway, making it appear to be part of the storm, disgorged in their midst like some rogue element of the wilderness itself.
Jim Bridger stared in horror at the specter. Driven snow was plastered against every surface of its body, encasing it in frozen white. On its face, ice clung to a haggard beard and hung down like crystal daggers from the folded brow of a wool cap. The apparition might have been carved wholly of winter—had not the crimson streaks of raking scars dominated its face, had not its eyes burned as fiery as molten lead. Bridger watched as the eyes scanned the interior of the cabin, deliberate and searching.
Stunned silence filled the room as the men struggled to comprehend the vision before them. Unlike the others, Bridger understood instantly. In his mind he had seen this vision before. His guilt swelled up, churning like a paddle wheel in his stomach. He wanted desperately to flee. How do you escape something that comes from inside? The revenant, he knew, searched for him.
Several instants passed before Black Harris finally said, “Jesus Christ. It’s Hugh Glass.”
Glass scanned the stunned faces before him. Disappointment flashed briefly as he failed to locate Fitzgerald among the men—but he did find Bridger. Their eyes would have met, except Bridger turned away. Just like before. He noticed the familiar knife that Bridger now wore at his waist. Glass lifted his rifle and cocked it.
The desire to shoot Bridger down nearly overwhelmed him. Having crawled toward this moment for a hundred days, the prospect of vengeance was now immediate, the power to consummate requiring no more than the gentle squeeze of a trigger. Yet a mere bullet seemed too intangible to express his rage, an abstraction at a moment craving the satisfaction of flesh against flesh. Like a starving man set before a feast, he could pause briefly to enjoy the last moment of an aching hunger about to be sated. Glass lowered the rifle and leaned it against the wall.
He walked slowly toward Bridger, the other men clearing a path as he approached. “Where’s my knife, Bridger?” Glass stood directly before him. Bridger turned his head to look up at Glass. He felt the familiar disconnect between his desire to explain and his inability to do so.
“Stand up,” said Glass. Bridger stood.
Glass’s first punch struck him full force in the face. Bridger offered no resistance. He saw the punch coming but did not turn his head or even wince. Glass could feel the cartilage snap in Bridger’s nose, saw the torrent of blood set loose. He had imagined the satisfaction of this moment a thousand times, and now it had arrived. He was glad he hadn’t shot him—glad that he hadn’t robbed himself of the full carnal pleasure of revenge.
Glass’s second blow caught Bridger under the chin, knocking him backward against the log wall of the cabin. Again Glass wallowed in the raw satisfaction of the contact. The wall kept Bridger from falling, holding him upright.
Glass closed in tight now, erupting in a spasm of punches against Bridger’s face. When the blood became so thick that his punches began to slide off ineffectively, he shifted his blows to Bridger’s stomach. Bridger crumpled as he lost his wind, finally falling to the floor. Glass began to kick him, and Bridger could not, or would not fight back. Bridger too had seen the approach of this day. It was his reckoning, and he felt no entitlement to resist.
Finally Pig stepped forward. Even through the haze of alcohol, Pig had pieced together the full implications of the violent event unfolding before him. Clearly, Bridger and Fitzgerald had lied about their time with Glass. Still, it seemed wrong to let Glass walk in and kill their friend and comrade. Pig reached to grab Glass from behind.
But someone grabbed him. Pig turned to find Captain Henry. Pig appealed to the captain: “You gonna let him kill Bridger?”
“I’m not gonna do anything,” said the Captain. Pig started to protest further, but Henry cut him off. “This is for Glass to decide.”
Glass delivered another brutal kick. Though he tried to contain it, Bridger groaned at the impact of the blow. Glass stood above the crumpled form at his feet, panting at the sheer exertion of the beating he had inflicted. He felt his heart pound in his temple as his eyes came to rest again on the knife in Bridger’s belt. In his mind he saw Bridger standing at the edge of the clearing on that day—catching the knife that Fitzgerald had thrown to him. My knife. He reached down and pulled the long blade from its sheath. The grip of the molded pommel was like the embrace of a familiar hand. He thought of the times he had needed that knife and his hate spiked again. The moment’s arrived.
How long had he nourished himself with the prospect of this moment?
And now it had arrived, a vengeance more perfect than even his imagination had conjured. He turned the blade in his hand, felt its weight, prepared to drive it home.
He looked down at Bridger, and something unexpected began to happen. The perfection of the moment began to evaporate. Bridger looked back at Glass, and in his eyes, Glass saw not malice, but fear; not resistance, but resignation. Fight back, damn you! One twitch of opposition to justify the final strike.
It never came. Glass continued to grip the knife, staring at the boy. A boy! As Glass looked down at him, new images suddenly competed with his memory of the stolen knife. He remembered the boy tending his wounds, arguing with Fitzgerald. He saw other images too, like the ashen face of La Vierge on the cut bank of the Missouri.