Glass piled his fuel next to the downed tree, then dug furiously to create a sheltered depression for the fire. He removed his mittens to handle the tinder, but his frozen fingers barely functioned. He cupped his hands against his mouth and blew into them. His breath created a brief tingle of warmth which faded instantly against the onslaught of frigid air. He felt a new blast of bitter wind on his back and neck, penetrating to his skin and then, it seemed, deeper still. Is the wind shifting? He paused for an instant, wondering whether he should move to the other side of the cottonwood. The wind receded, and he decided to stay put.
He spread his tinder in the shallow depression, then dug into his sac au feu for the flint and steel. On his first attempt to strike the steel, his flint nicked the knuckle on his thumb. The sting extended all the way up his arm like the vibration of a tuning fork. He tried to ignore the pain as he struck again at the steel. Finally a spark landed in the tinder and began to burn. He dropped over the tiny flame, sheltering it with his body while blowing, desperate to breathe his own life into the fire. Suddenly he felt a great swirling rush of wind and his face filled with sand and smoke from the depression. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes and when he could open them, the flame was gone. Damn it!
He pounded the flint against the steel. Sparks showered down, but too much of the tinder had already burned. The backs of his hands ached from the exposure. His fingers, meanwhile, had lost all sensation. Use the powder.
He arranged the remaining tinder as best he could, this time adding larger pieces of wood. From his horn he poured gunpowder, cursing as it gushed into the depression. He situated his body again to block as much wind as possible, then struck at the steel with his flint.
A flash arose from the depression, burning his hands and singeing his face. He barely noticed the pain, so desperate was he to nurture the flames that now jumped up and down with the swirling wind. He crouched over the fire, spreading his capote to create a greater windbreak. Most of the tinder already had disappeared, but he saw with relief that some of the larger chunks were burning. He added more fuel, and in a few minutes was confident that the fire would continue to burn on its own.
He had just settled back against the downed tree when another great blast of wind nearly extinguished his fire. Again he threw himself over the flames, spreading his capote to block the wind while he blew against the glowing embers. Sheltered again, the flames sprang back to life.
Glass stayed in that position, hunched over the fire with his arms spread wide to hold the capote, for almost half an hour. Snow piled around him, several more inches in the short time he guarded the flames. He could feel the weight of the drifting snow where the capote dragged the ground. He felt something else, and his stomach sank at the realization. It’s shifted. The wind beat against his back, no longer swirling, but with constant, relentless pressure. The cottonwood provided no shelter. Worse still, it caught the wind and turned it—back against him and into the fire.
He fought against a growing sense of panic, a vicious circle of conflicting fears. The starting point was clear—without a fire he would freeze to death. At the same time, he could not continue to hold his current position, stooped over the flames, arms spread wide, the blizzard beating at his back. He was exhausted, and the storm could easily rage for hours or even days. He needed shelter, however crude. The wind’s direction now seemed consistent enough to bet on the other side of the tree. It couldn’t be worse, but Glass doubted he could move without losing the fire. Could he start another fire from scratch? In the dark? With no tinder? He saw no choice but to try.
He set upon a plan. He would rush to the other side of the downed cottonwood, scoop a new depression for the fire, then seek to transfer the flames.
No sense waiting. He grabbed his rifle and as much of his fuel as he could carry. The wind seemed to sense the presence of a new target, blasting him with renewed fury. He ducked his head and waded around the giant roots, cursing as he felt more snow pour into his moccasins.
The opposite side did seem better sheltered from the wind, though the snow was piled just as deep. He dropped his rifle and wood and began to scoop. It took five minutes to scrape an area large enough for a fire. He rushed back to the other side, retracing his footprints in the snow. The clouds made it almost completely dark, and he hoped for the glow of his fire as he came around the base of the tree. No light—no fire.
The only sign of his fire was a faint depression in a mound of drifted snow. Glass dug down, foolishly hoping that somehow an ember might have survived. He found nothing, though the heat from the fire had turned the snow into a slushy mix. It soaked his woolen mittens. He felt the frigid chill of moisture on his hands, then an odd mixture of pains that seemed to burn and freeze, all at the same time.
He retreated quickly to the more sheltered side of the tree. The wind seemed to have settled on a course, but also intensified. His face ached and his hands again lost all dexterity. He ignored his feet, which was easy since he felt no sensation below his ankles. With the more consistent direction of the wind, the cottonwood at least created a windbreak. The temperature continued to drop, though, and without a fire, Glass again thought he would die.
There was no time to hunt for tinder, even if there had been enough light to see. He decided to cut kindling with his hatchet, then hope that another shot of gunpowder would be enough to start the blaze. For an instant he worried about conserving his powder. Least of my problems. He drove the hatchet into the end of a short log to seat the blade, then pounded up and down to split the wood.
The sound of his own work almost obscured another sound—a dull clap like distant thunder. He froze, his neck craning in search of the source. A rifle shot? No—too big. Glass had heard thunder before during snowstorms, but never in temperatures this cold.
He waited several minutes, listening intently. No sound competed with the screaming winds, and Glass became aware again of the excruciating pain in his hands. To wander in the storm on some quest for a strange sound seemed like folly. Start the damn fire. He planted the hatchet’s blade in the top of another log.
When he had cut a sufficient amount, Glass arranged the kindling in a pile and reached for his powder horn. It scared him how little powder remained. As he poured he wondered if he should conserve some powder for a second attempt. He fumbled, barely able to calibrate the actions of his frozen hands. No—this is it. He emptied the powder horn, then reached again for his flint and steel.
He raised his flint to strike the steel, but before he could do so, an enormous roar rolled down the valley of the Yellowstone. This time he knew. The unmistakable blast of a cannon. Henry!