TWENTY-SEVEN
APRIL 28, 1824
GLASS AWOKE IN MUSTY DARKNESS with a throbbing headache. He lay facedown on a rough-hewn floor. He rolled slowly to his side, bumping against a wall. Above his head he saw light, streaming through a narrow slot in a heavy door. Fort Atkinson’s guardhouse consisted of a large holding pen, for drunks and other common truants, and two wooden cells. From what Glass could hear, three or four men occupied the pen outside his cell.
The space seemed to shrink as he lay there, closing in like the sides of a casket. It reminded him suddenly of the dank hold of a ship, of the stifling life at sea that he had come to hate. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and his breath came in short, sporadic spurts. He struggled to control himself, to replace the image of imprisonment with that of the open plain, a waving sea of grass, unbroken but for a mountain on a horizon far away.
He measured the passage of days by the daily routine of the guardhouse: change of guard at dawn; delivery of bread and water around noon; change of guard at dusk; then night. Two weeks had passed when he heard the creak of the outside door opening and felt the suction of fresh air. “Stay back you stinking idiots or I’ll smash your skulls,” said a smoky voice that walked deliberately toward his cell. Glass heard the jangling of keys, then the play of a key in the lock. A bolt turned and his door swung open.
He squinted at the light. A sergeant with yellow chevrons and gray muttonchops stood in the doorway. “Major Constable issued an order. You can go. Actually, you have to go. Off the post by noon tomorrow or you’ll be tried for stealing a pistol and for using it to poke a hole in Private Fitzgerald.”
The light outside was blinding after two weeks in the dark cell. When someone said, “Bonjour, Monsieur Glass,” it took Glass a minute to focus on the fat, bespeckled face of Kiowa Brazeau.
“What are you doing here, Kiowa?”
“On my way back from St. Louis with a keelboat of supplies.”
“You spring me loose?”
“Yes. I’m on good terms with Major Constable. You, on the other hand, seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble.”
“Only trouble is that my pistol didn’t shoot straight.”
“As I understand it, it wasn’t your pistol. This, though, I think belongs to you.” Kiowa handed Glass a rifle as Glass finally focused enough to see.
The Anstadt. He gripped the gun at the wrist and the barrel, remembering the sturdy weight. He examined the trigger works, which were in need of fresh grease. Several new abrasions marred the dark stock, and Glass noticed a small bit of carving near the buttplate—“JF.”
Anger flooded over him. “What happened to Fitzgerald?”
“Major Constable is returning him to his duties.”
“No punishment?”
“He has to forfeit two months’ pay.”
“Two months’ pay!”
“Well, he’s also got a hole in his shoulder where there didn’t used to be one—and you get your rifle back.”
Kiowa stared at Glass, easily reading his face. “In case you’re getting any ideas—I’d avoid using the Anstadt on the premises of this fort. Major Constable fancies his judicial responsibilities and he’s eager to try you for attempted murder. He only relented because I convinced him you’re a protégé of Monsieur Ashley.”
They walked together across the parade ground. A flagpole stood there, its support ropes straining to hold firm against a stiff spring breeze. The flag itself snapped in the wind, its edges frayed by the constant beating.
Kiowa turned to Glass: “You’re thinking stupid thoughts, my friend.”
Glass stopped and looked directly at the Frenchman.
Kiowa said, “I’m sorry that you never had a proper rendezvous with Fitzgerald. But you should have figured out by now that things aren’t always so tidy.”
They stood there for a while, with no sound but the flapping of the flag.
“It’s not that simple, Kiowa.”
“Of course it’s not simple. Who said it was simple? But you know what? Lots of loose ends don’t ever get tied up. Play the hand you’re dealt. Move on.”
Kiowa pressed on. “Come with me to Fort Brazeau. If it works out, I’ll bring you in as a partner.”
Glass slowly shook his head. “That’s a generous offer, Kiowa, but I don’t think I could stay planted in one spot.”
“So what then? What’s your plan?”
“I have a message to deliver to Ashley in St. Louis. From there, I don’t know yet.” Glass paused a minute before adding, “And I still have business here.”
Glass said nothing more. Kiowa too was silent for a long time. Finally he said quietly, “Il n’est pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre. Do you know what that means?”
Glass shook his head.
“It means there are none so deaf as those that will not hear. Why did you come to the frontier?” demanded Kiowa. “To track down a common thief? To revel in a moment’s revenge? I thought there was more to you than that.”
Still Glass said nothing. Finally Kiowa said, “If you want to die in the guardhouse, that’s for you to decide.” The Frenchman turned and walked across the parade ground. Glass hesitated a moment, then followed behind.
“Let’s go drink whiskey,” yelled Kiowa over his shoulder. “I want to hear about the Powder and the Platte.”
* * *
Kiowa loaned Glass the money for a few supplies and a night’s lodging at Fort Atkinson’s equivalent of an inn—a row of pallets in the sutler’s attic. Whiskey usually made Glass drowsy, but that night it did not. Nor did it clarify the jumble of thoughts in his head. He struggled to think clearly. What was the answer to Kiowa’s question?
Glass took the Anstadt and walked outside into the crisp air of the parade ground. The night was perfectly clear with no moon, reserving the sky for a billion stars, piercing pinpricks of light. He climbed crude steps to the narrow palisade that circled the wall of the fort. The view from the top was commanding.
Glass looked behind him into the confines of the fort. Across the parade ground lay the barracks. He’s there. How many hundreds of miles had he traversed to find Fitzgerald? And now his quarry lay sleeping, a handful of steps away. He felt the cold metal of the Anstadt in his hand. How can I walk away now?
He turned his back, looking across the ramparts of the fort toward the Missouri River.
Stars danced on the dark water, their reflection like a marker of the heavens against the earth. Glass searched the sky for his beacons. He found the sloping tails of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the steady comfort of the North Star. Where’s Orion? Where’s the hunter with his vengeful sword?