Glass’s trail faded quickly in the thick brush across the back channel.
It would have been obvious in daylight. In his desperate flight, Glass paid no heed to the branches he broke or even the footprints trailing behind him. But now there remained no more than a faint glow of the day. The shadows themselves had disappeared, dissolving into uniform darkness.
Glass heard the scream of the downed rider behind him and stopped.
They’re on the ice. He guessed there was fifty yards of brush between them. In the growing darkness, he realized, the peril was not being seen, but being heard. A large cottonwood loomed beside him. He reached for a low branch and pulled himself up.
The tree’s main branches formed a broad crotch at a height of about eight feet. Glass hunkered low, struggling to quiet his heaving chest. He reached down to his belt, relieved to touch the pommel of his knife, still secure in its scabbard. There, too, was the sac au feu. Inside were his flint and steel. Though his rifle lay on the bottom of the Platte, his powder horn still hung round his neck. At least starting fires would pose no problems. The thought of fire made him suddenly aware of his sopping clothing and the bone-deep chill from the river. His body began to shiver uncontrollably and he fought to keep still.
A twig snapped. Glass peered into the clearing beneath him. A lanky warrior stood in the brush. His eyes scanned the clearing, searching the ground for sign of his quarry. He gripped a long trading musket and wore a hatchet on his belt. Glass held his breath as the Arikara stepped into the clearing. The warrior held his gun ready as he walked slowly toward the cottonwood. Even in the darkness, Glass could see clearly the white gleam of an elk-tooth necklace around his neck, the shiny brass of twin bracelets on his wrist. God, don’t let him look up. His heart hammered with such force that it seemed his chest could not contain its beating.
The Indian reached the base of the cottonwood and stopped. His head was no more than ten feet below Glass. The brave studied the ground again, then the surrounding brush. Glass’s first instinct was to hold perfectly still, hope that the warrior would pass. But as he stared down he began to calculate the odds of another course—killing the Indian and taking his gun. Glass reached slowly for his knife. He felt its reassuring grip and began to slide it slowly from its sheath.
Glass focused on the Indian’s throat. A swift cut across the jugular would not only kill him, but also prevent him from crying out. With excruciating slowness he raised his body, tensing for the pounce.
Glass heard an urgent whisper from the edge of the clearing. He looked up to see a second warrior step out of the brush, a stout lance in his hand. Glass froze. He had moved from the relative concealment of the tree’s crotch, poising himself to leap. From where he was now perched, only darkness concealed him from the two warriors hunting him.
The Indian below him turned, shaking his head and pointing to the ground, then motioning toward the thick brush. He whispered something in response. The Indian with the lance walked up to the cottonwood. Time seemed suspended as Glass struggled to maintain his composure. Hold tight. Finally the Indians settled on a course, and each disappeared into a separate gap in the brush.
Glass didn’t move from the cottonwood for more than two hours. He listened to the off-and-on sounds of his searchers as he plotted his next move. After an hour one of the Arikara cut back through the clearing, apparently on his way toward the river.
When Glass finally climbed down his joints felt like they had frozen in place. His foot had fallen asleep, and it took several minutes before he could walk normally.
He would survive the night, though Glass knew that the Arikara would return at dawn. He also knew that the brush would not conceal him or his tracks in the glaring light of day. He picked his way through the dark tangle, careful to stay parallel with the Platte. Clouds blocked the light of the moon, though they also kept the temperature above freezing. He could not shake the chill of his wet clothing, but at least the constant motion kept his blood pumping hard.
After three hours he reached a small spring creek. It was perfect. He waded into the water, careful to leave a few telltale tracks pointing up the stream—away from the Platte. He waded more than a hundred yards up the creek until he found the right terrain, a rocky shoreline that would conceal his tracks. He picked a path out of the water and across the rocks, working his way toward a grove of stumpy trees.
They were hawthorns, whose thorny branches made them favorites of nesting birds. Glass stopped, reaching for his knife. He cut a small, ragged patch from his red cotton shirt and stuck the cloth on one of the thorns. They won’t miss that. He turned then, picking his way back across the rocks to the creek, careful not to leave a trace. He waded to the middle of the creek and began to work his way back down.
The little creek meandered lazily across the plain before joining with the Platte. Glass tripped repeatedly on the slippery rocks of the dark creek bed. The dousings kept him wet and he tried not to think about the cold. He had no sensation in his feet by the time he reached the Platte. He stood shivering in the knee-deep water, dreading what he had to do next.
He peered across the river, trying to make out the contour of the opposite bank. There were willows and a few cottonwoods. Don’t make any tracks crawling out. He waded into the water, his breaths coming shorter and shorter as the water rose up to his waist. Darkness concealed a shelf beneath the water. Glass stepped off and found himself suddenly submerged to his neck. Gasping at the shock of the icy water on his chest, he swam hard for the opposite bank. When he could stand again he still stayed in the river, walking along the shoreline until he found a good spot to get out—a rocky jetty leading into willows.
Glass worked his way carefully through the willows and the cottonwoods behind them, mindful of every step. He hoped that the Arikara would fall for his ruse up the spring creek—they certainly wouldn’t expect him to come back across the Platte. Still, he left nothing to chance. Glass was defenseless if they picked up his trail, so he did everything in his power not to leave one.
A faint glow lit the eastern sky when he emerged from the cottonwoods. In the predawn light he saw the dark profile of a large plateau, a mile or two away. The plateau ran parallel to the river as far as he could see. He could lose himself there, find a sheltered draw or cave to hide, build a fire—dry out and get warm. When things settled down he could return to the Platte, continue his trek toward Fort Atkinson.
Glass walked toward the looming plateau in the growing glow of the coming day. He thought about Chapman and Red and felt a sudden stab of guilt. He pushed it from his mind. No time for that now.