The blanket had been reduced, strip by strip, to a piece of cloth no more than one foot wide by two feet long. Glass used the razor to cut an opening in the middle of the cloth, large enough so that he could poke his head through. The resulting garment wasn’t big enough to call a capote, but at least it would cover his shoulders and keep the parfleche from digging against his skin.
There was a chill in the air again on that last night by the buttes. The last shreds of the slaughtered calf hung drying on the racks above the crimson coals. The fire cast a comforting glow on his camp, a tiny oasis of light amid the black of the moonless plain. Glass sucked the marrow from the last of the ribs. As he tossed the bone on the fire, he realized suddenly that he was not hungry. He savored the seeping warmth of the fire, a luxury he would not enjoy again in the foreseeable future.
Three days of food had worked to repair his wounded body. He bent his right leg to test it. The muscles were tight and sore, but functional. His shoulder too had improved. Strength had not returned to his arm, but some flexibility had. It still scared him to touch his throat. The remnants of the stitches protruded, although the skin had fused. He wondered if he should attempt to cut them away with the razor, but had been afraid to try. Aside from his effort to yell at the wolves, he had not tested his voice for days. He would not do so now. His voice had little to do with his survival in the coming weeks. If it were changed, so be it. He did appreciate the fact that he now could swallow with less pain.
Glass knew that the buffalo calf had turned his fortune. Still, it was easy to temper the assessment of where he stood. He had lived to fight another day. But he was alone and without weapons. Between him and Fort Brazeau lay three hundred miles of open prairie. Two Indian tribes—one possibly hostile and the other certainly so—followed the same river that he depended on to navigate the open space. And of course, as Glass knew painfully well, Indians were not the only hazard before him.
He knew he should sleep. With the new crutch, he hoped to make ten or even fifteen miles the next day. Still, something drew him to linger in the fleeting moment of contentment—sated, rested, and warm.
Glass reached into the possibles bag and pulled out the bear claw. He turned it slowly in the low light of the fire, fascinated again at the dried blood on the tip—his blood, he now realized. He began to carve at the thick base of the claw with the razor, etching a narrow groove that he carefully worked to deepen. From his bag he also removed the hawk’s-feet necklace. He wrapped the string of the necklace around the groove he had carved at the base of the claw, tying it into a tight knot. Finally, he tied the ends behind his neck.
He liked the idea that the claw that inflicted his wounds now hung, inanimate, around his neck. Lucky charm, he thought, then fell asleep.
ELEVEN
SEPTEMBER 16, 1823
GODDAMN IT! JOHN FITZGERALD STOOD staring at the river in front of him, or more accurately, at the bend in the river.
Jim Bridger walked up beside him. “What’s it doing, turning east?” Without warning, Fitzgerald backhanded the boy across the mouth. Bridger sprawled backward, landing on his backside with a stunned look on his face. “What’d you do that for?”
“You think I can’t see that the river turns east? When I need you to scout, I’ll ask you! Otherwise, keep your eyes open and your goddamned mouth shut!”
Bridger was right, of course. For more than a hundred miles, the river they followed had run predominantly north, the exact bearing they sought to follow. Fitzgerald wasn’t even sure of the river’s name, but he knew that everything flowed eventually into the Missouri. If the river had continued its northern course, Fitzgerald believed it might intersect within a day’s march of Fort Union. Fitzgerald even held out some hope that they were actually on the Yellowstone, though Bridger maintained that they were too far east.
In any event, Fitzgerald had hoped to stick to the river until they hit the Missouri. In truth, he had no instinct for the geography of the vast wasteland before him. There had been little feature to the land since they struck out from the headwaters of the Upper Grand. The horizon stretched out for miles in front of them, a sea of muted grass and swelling hills, each exactly like the last.
Sticking to the river made for straightforward navigation, and it assured an easy supply of water. Still, Fitzgerald had no desire to turn east—the new direction of the river for as far as their eyes could see. Time remained their enemy. The longer they wandered separate from Henry and the brigade, the greater the odds for calamity.
They stood there for several minutes while Fitzgerald stared and stewed.
Finally Bridger took a deep breath and said, “We should cut northwest.”
Fitzgerald started to rebuke him, except that he was utterly at a loss about what to do. He pointed to the dry grassland that stretched to the horizon. “I suppose you know where to find water out there?”
“Nope. But we don’t need much in this weather.” Bridger sensed Fitzgerald’s indecision, and felt a corresponding increase in the strength of his own opinion. Unlike Fitzgerald, he did have an instinct across open country. He always had, an internal compass that seemed to shepherd him in unmarked terrain. “I think we’re no more than two days from the Missouri—and maybe that close to the Fort.”
Fitzgerald fought back the urge to strike Bridger again. In fact, he thought again about killing the boy. He would have done it back on the Grand, had he not felt dependent upon the extra rifle. Two shooters weren’t many, but two were better than one alone.
“Listen, boy. You and I need to reach a little understanding before we join up with the others.” Bridger had anticipated this conversation ever since they abandoned Glass. He looked down, already ashamed of what he knew was coming.
“We did our best for old Glass, stayed with him longer than most would’ve. Seventy dollars isn’t enough to get scalped by the Rees,” Fitzgerald said, using the short name for the Arikara.
Bridger said nothing, so Fitzgerald continued. “Glass was dead from the minute that grizzly finished with him. Only thing we didn’t do was bury him.” Still Bridger looked away. Fitzgerald’s anger began to rise again.
“You know what, Bridger? I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you think about what we did. But I’ll tell you this—you spill your guts and I’ll carve your throat from ear to ear.”
TWELVE
SEPTEMBER 17, 1823
CAPTAIN ANDREW HENRY did not pause to appreciate the raw splendor of the valley spread before him. From his vantage point on a high bluff above the confluence of the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, Henry and his seven companions commanded a vast horizon demarcated by a blunt plateau. In front of the plateau flowed gentle buttes, spilling like flaxen waves between the steep bench and the Missouri. Though the near bank had been stripped of its timber, thick cottonwoods still held the far bank, fighting against autumn for temporary possession of their greenery.