They left the next morning, Glass in one boat with their supplies, Red and Chapman in the other. It took a few miles to get the feel for their clumsy craft, pushing with cottonwood poles along the banks of the Platte, but the boats were sturdy.
A week had passed since the blizzard, a long time to sit in one place. But Fort Atkinson was a straight shot now, five hundred miles down the Platte. They would more than make up the time on the boats, floating all the way. Twenty-five miles a day? They could be there in three weeks if the weather held.
Fitzgerald must have passed through Fort Atkinson, thought Glass.
Glass pictured him, sauntering into the fort with the Anstadt. What lies had he invented to explain his presence? One thing was certain: Fitzgerald would not go unnoticed. Not many white men coming down the Missouri in winter. Glass pictured Fitzgerald’s fishhook scar. Man like that makes an impression. With the confidence of a relentless predator, Glass knew that his quarry lay somewhere before him, nearer and nearer with each passing hour. Glass would find Fitzgerald, because he would never rest until he did.
Glass planted his long pole against the bottom of the Platte and pushed.
TWENTY-FIVE
MARCH 28, 1824
THE PLATTE CARRIED GLASS and his companions steadily downstream. For two days the river flowed due east along the buckskin foothills of low mountains. On the third day the river took a sharp turn south. A snowcapped peak rose above the others like a head on broad shoulders. For a while it seemed they were headed straight toward the peak, until the Platte veered again, settling finally on a southeastern course.
They made good time. Occasional headwinds slowed their progress, but more common was a stiff western breeze at their tail. Their supply of buffalo jerky eliminated the need to hunt. When they camped, the upside-down bullboats made good shelter. It took an hour every morning to recaulk the bullboats’ seams with the supply they’d carried with them, but otherwise they could spend almost every daylight hour on the water, drifting toward Fort Atkinson with minimal exertion. Glass was grateful to let the river do their work.
It was the morning of the fifth day on the boats. Glass was spreading caulk when Red came tumbling back into camp. “There’s an Indian over the rise! A brave on a horse!”
“Did he see you?”
Red shook his head vigorously. “Don’t think so. There’s a creek—looked like he was checking a trap line.”
“You make out the tribe?” asked Glass.
“Looked like a Ree.”
“Shit!” said Chapman. “What’re Rees doing on the Platte?”
Glass questioned the reliability of Red’s report. He doubted Arikara would wander this far from the Missouri. More likely Red had seen a Cheyenne or a Pawnee. “Let’s go take a look.” For Red’s benefit he added, “Nobody shoots unless I do.”
They moved forward on hands and knees as they approached the crest of the butte, their rifles in the crooks of their arms. The snow had long since melted, so they picked their way through clumps of sage and dry stalks of buffalo grass.
From the top of the hill they saw the rider, or rather his back, as he rode down the Platte at a distance of a half mile. They could barely make out the horse, a piebald. There was no way to know his tribe, only that Indians were close.
“Now what do we do?” asked Red. “He ain’t alone. And you know they must be camped on the river.”
Glass shot an irritated glance at Red, who had an uncanny knack for spotting problems and an utter inability for crafting solutions. That said, he was probably right. The few creeks they’d passed had been small. Any Indians in the area would hug tight to the Platte, directly in their path. But what choice do we have?
“Not much we can do,” said Glass. “We’ll put someone up on the bank to scout when we hit an open stretch.”
Red started to mutter something and Glass cut him off. “I can pole my own boat. You men are free to go where you want—but I intend to float down this river.” He turned and walked back toward the bullboats. Chapman and Red took a long look at the fading rider, then turned to follow Glass.
After two more good days in the boats, Glass guessed they had covered a hundred and fifty miles. It was nearly dusk when they approached a tricky bend in the Platte. Glass thought about stopping for the night, waiting to navigate the stretch in better light, but there was no good spot to put ashore.
Bookend hills forced the river to narrow, which deepened the water and sped the current. On the north bank, a cottonwood had fallen partway across the river, trapping a wild tangle of debris behind it. Glass’s boat led the other by ten yards. The current carried him straight toward the downed tree. He sunk his pole to steer around. No bottom.
The current accelerated, and the protruding branches of the cottonwood appeared suddenly like spears. One good poke and the bullboat would sink. Glass raised himself on one knee and braced the other foot against the boat’s ribbing. He lifted his pole and searched for a place to plant it. He saw a flat surface on the trunk and thrust his pole forward. The pole caught. Glass used all his strength to heave the clumsy craft against the current. He heard the rush of water against the boat as the current lifted its backside, pivoting the craft around the tree.
Glass faced backward now, giving him a direct view of Red and Chapman. Both braced for impact, rocking the boat precariously. When Red raised his pole he nearly bashed Chapman in the face. “Watch out, you idiot!” Chapman pushed his pole against the cottonwood as the current pressed hard from behind. Red finally extricated his pole and planted it loosely on the debris.
Both men heaved against the river, then ducked low as the current pushed them through the top of the half-submerged tree. Red’s shirt caught a branch, bending it sharply back. The shirt ripped and the branch whipped backward, catching Chapman squarely in the eye. He cried out at the stinging pain, dropping his pole as he pressed his hands to his face.
Glass continued to stare backward as the current pushed both boats around the hill and toward the southern bank. Chapman stood on his knees in the bottom of their bullboat, facedown with his palm still pressed to his eye. Red looked downstream, past Glass and his boat. Glass watched as a terrified look captured Red’s face. Red dropped his pole, desperately reaching for his rifle. Glass spun around.
Two dozen teepees stood on the south bank of the Platte, less than fifty yards in front of them. A handful of children played near the water. They spotted the bullboats and erupted in screams. Glass watched as two braves by a campfire jumped to their feet. Red had been right, he realized too late. Arikara! The current drove both boats directly toward the camp. Glass heard a shot as he watched the men in the camp grab weapons and rush toward the high bank along the river. Glass gave a final push with his pole and grabbed his gun.