Red fired a shot and an Indian tumbled down the bank. “What’s happening?” yelled Chapman, struggling to see through his one clear eye.
Red started to say something when he felt a burning sensation in his belly. He looked down and saw blood oozing from a hole in his shirt. “Oh shit, Chapman, I’m shot!” He rose up in panic, ripping at his shirt to inspect the wound. Two more shots hit simultaneously, pitching him backward. His legs hooked the gunwale as he fell, tipping the rim of the bullboat into the rushing flow of the river. Water spilled across the gunwale and the boat flipped.
Half blind, Chapman found himself suddenly underwater. He felt the jarring chill of the river. For an instant, the wild rush seemed to slow, and Chapman struggled to process the lethal events surrounding him. Through his good eye he saw Red’s body floating downstream, his blood leaching into the river like black ink. He heard the watery echo of legs crashing toward him from the river’s edge. They’re coming for me! He desperately needed to breathe, yet he knew with terrible certainty what waited on the surface.
Finally he could stand it no more. His head broke the surface and he gasped to fill his lungs. He would never draw another breath. His eyes had not yet cleared, so Chapman never saw the swinging ax.
Glass leveled his rifle on the nearest Arikara and fired. He watched in horror as several Arikara waded into the river, hacking at Chapman when his head broke the surface. Red’s body floated forlornly downstream. Glass reached for Pig’s rifle as he heard a wild cry. An enormous Indian hurled a spear from the shoreline. Glass ducked instinctively. The spear cleanly penetrated the side of the boat, burying its tip in the ribbing on the opposite side. Glass raised above the gunwale and fired, killing the big Indian on the shore.
He saw a flash of motion and looked up on the bank. Three Arikara stood in a deadly gauntlet, barely twenty yards away. They can’t miss. He threw himself backward into the Platte as their trio of shots exploded.
For an instant he tried to hold on to the rifle. Just as quickly he let go.
He dismissed the idea of trying to make his escape by swimming downstream. He was already numb from the icy water. Besides, the Arikara would find their mounts in a few minutes—maybe they already had. A racing horse would easily outpace the meandering Platte. His only chance was to stay submerged as long as possible and get to the opposite bank. Put the river between him and them—then hope to find cover. He kicked furiously and used both arms to propel himself.
The channel ran deep in the middle of the river, deeper than a man’s head. A sudden streak cut the water in front of him and Glass realized it was an arrow. Bullets pierced the water too, like mini torpedoes, searching for him. They can see me! Glass struggled to go deeper below the surface, but already his chest constricted for lack of breath. What’s on the opposite bank? He hadn’t even managed to look before chaos erupted. Must breathe! He pushed himself toward the surface.
His head cleared the water and he heard the quick staccato of shots.
He grimaced as he drew a deep breath, expecting the crash of a ball against his skull. Musket balls and arrows splashed around him—but none hit. He scanned the north bank before diving back below the surface. What he saw gave him hope. The river ran for forty yards or so along a sandbar. No cover there; if he climbed out they would shoot him down. At the end of the sandbar, though, the water joined with a low, grassy bank. It was his only chance.
Glass dug deep and pulled hard against the water, the current aiding his stroke. He thought he could just make out the end of the sandbar through the murky water. Thirty yards. The musket balls and arrows stabbed at the water. Twenty yards. He veered toward the bank as his lungs screamed for air. Ten yards. His feet hit the rocks of the bottom but he stayed submerged, his desperation to breathe still less than his fear of the Arikara guns. When the water became too shallow to remain submerged, he stood up, sucking for air as he dove for the tall grass on the bank. He felt a sharp sting in the back of his leg and ignored it, scrambling into a thick stand of willows.
From the temporary cover of the willows he looked back. Four riders coaxed their horses down the steep bank across the river. A half dozen Indians stood at the water’s edge, pointing toward the willows. Something caught his eye farther upstream. Two Arikara were dragging Chapman’s body up the bank. Glass turned to flee, sharp pain shooting up his leg. He looked down to find an arrow protruding from his calf. It had not hit a bone. He reached down, wincing as he ripped the arrow backward in a single, swift motion. He threw it aside and crawled deeper into the willows.
Glass’s first lucky turn came in the form of an independent-minded filly, the first of the four horses to hit the water of the Platte. Aggressive quirting goaded her into the shallows, but the animal balked when the bottom disappeared and she was forced to swim. She whinnied and thrashed her head, ignoring the hard rein as she turned stubbornly back to shore. The other three horses had their own reservations about cold water and were happy to follow the filly’s lead. The balking animals bumped into each other, churning the Platte and dumping two of their riders into the river.
By the time the riders regained control and whipped their mounts back into the river, precious seconds had passed.
Glass crashed through the willows, emerging suddenly at a sandy embankment. He scrambled to the top and looked down at a narrow back channel. Shaded from the sun during most of the day, the still water of the channel lay frozen, a thin dusting of snow on its icy surface. Across the channel, another steep embankment led to a thick mass of willows and trees. There.
Glass slid down the slope and leapt onto the frozen surface of the channel. The thin layer of snow gave way to the ice beneath. His moccasins gained no traction and he flipped backward, landing flat on his back. For an instant he lay stunned, staring up at the fading light of the evening sky. He rolled to his side, shaking his head to clear it. He heard the whinny of a horse and pushed himself to his feet. Gingerly this time, he picked his way across the narrow channel and clambered up the opposite bank. He heard the crash of horses behind him as he scrambled into the brush.
The four Arikara riders crested the embankment, peering down. Even in the dim light, the tracks on the surface of the channel were clear. The lead rider kicked his pony. The pony hit the ice and fared no better than Glass. Worse, in fact, as the animal’s flat hooves found nothing to grip. Its four legs flailed spastically as it crashed to its side, crushing its rider’s leg in the process. The rider cried out in pain. Heeding the clear lesson, the three other horsemen quickly dismounted, continuing their pursuit on foot.