Glass returned about an hour later. “There’s an outcropping in the base of that mesa,” he said. “It’s big enough to hold Pig.”
“In a cave?” said Red.
Chapman thought about it for a minute. “Well, I guess it’s kinda like a crypt.”
Glass looked at the two men and said, “It’s the best we can do. Put out the fire and let’s get on with it.”
There was no dignified way to move Pig. There were no materials to build a litter and he was too heavy to carry. In the end, they put him facedown on a blanket and dragged him toward the mesa. Two men took turns with Pig while the third carried the four rifles. They did their best, with mixed results, to steer around the cactus and yucca that littered the ground. Twice Pig dropped to the ground, his rigid body landing in a plaintive, ungainly lump.
It took more than half an hour to reach the mesa. They rolled Pig on his back and covered him with the blanket while they gathered stones, now abundant, to seal the makeshift crypt. Sandstone formed the outcropping. It hung over a space about five feet in length and two feet in height. Glass used the butt of Pig’s rifle to clear out the space inside. Some type of animal had nested in there, though there was no sign of recent occupation.
They piled up a great mound of loose sandstone, more than they needed, hesitant, it seemed, to move on to the final stage. Finally Glass threw a stone on the pile and said, “That’s enough.” He walked over to Pig’s body and the other men helped him pull the dead man to the opening of the makeshift crypt. They lay him there, all of them staring.
The task of saying something fell to Glass. He removed his hat and the other men quickly followed suit, as if embarrassed at needing a prompt. Glass tried to clear his throat. He searched for the words to the verse about the “valley of death,” but he couldn’t remember enough to make it appropriate. In the end, the best he could come up with was the Lord’s Prayer. He recited it in the strongest voice he could muster. It had been a long time since either Red or Chapman had said a prayer, but they mumbled along whenever a phrase evoked some distant memory.
When they were done, Glass said, “We’ll take turns carrying his rifle.”
Next he reached down and took the knife from Pig’s belt. “Red, you look like you could use his knife. Chapman, you can have his powder horn.”
Chapman accepted the horn solemnly. Red turned the knife in his hand. With a short smile and a brief flash of eagerness he said, “It’s a pretty good blade.”
Glass reached down and removed the small pouch that Pig wore around his throat. He dumped the contents onto the ground. A flint and steel tumbled out, along with several musket balls, patches—and a delicate pewter bracelet. It struck Glass as an odd possession for the giant man. What story connected the dainty trinket to Pig? A dead mother? A sweetheart left behind? They would never know, and the finality of the mystery filled Glass with melancholy thoughts of his own souvenirs.
Glass picked out the flint and steel, the balls and patches, transferring the items to his own possibles bag.
Sunlight gleamed off the bracelet. Red reached for it, but Glass caught his wrist.
Red’s eyes flashed defensively. “He don’t need that.”
“You don’t need it, either.” Glass returned the bracelet to Pig’s pouch, then lifted Pig’s massive head to replace the pouch round his neck.
It took another hour to finish their work. They had to bend Pig’s legs to make him fit. There was barely enough space between Pig and the walls of the outcropping to pull the blanket over his body. Glass did his best to tuck the fabric tightly over the dead man’s face. They piled the rocks to seal the crypt as best they could. Glass placed the last stone, gathered his rifle, and walked away. Red and Chapman stared for a moment at the stone wall they had built, then scampered after Glass.
* * *
They walked down the Powder River along the face of the mountains for two more days, until the river took a sharp turn west. They found a creek heading south and followed that until it petered out, swallowed in the alkali flats of the most wretched land they had crossed. They kept heading south toward a low mountain shaped flat on top like a table. In front of the mountain ran the wide, shallow water of the North Platte River.
The day after they reached the Platte a big wind picked up and the temperature began a rapid plunge. By late morning close clouds filled the air with big, puffy flakes. Glass’s memory of the blizzard on the Yellowstone remained vivid, and this time he vowed to take no chances. They stopped at the next stand of cottonwoods. Red and Chapman built a crude but solid lean-to while Glass shot and dressed a deer.
By late afternoon a full-fledged blizzard raged down the North Platte valley. The great cottonwoods creaked at the strain of the howling wind and wet snow piled up rapidly all around them, but their shelter held firm. They wrapped themselves in blankets and kept an enormous fire burning in front of the lean-to. Heat seeped from the great mound of crimson embers that accumulated as the night wore on. They roasted venison on the fire and the hot food warmed them from within. The wind began to subside about an hour before dawn, and by sunrise the storm had blown past. The sun rose on a world so uniformly white that it forced them to squint against its brilliant reflection.
Glass scouted downstream while Red and Chapman broke camp. Glass struggled to walk through the snow. A thin crust on the surface supported each step for an instant, but then his foot would break through and sink to the ground below. Some of the drifts measured more than three feet high. He guessed that the March sun would melt it all within a day or two, but in the meantime the snow would cripple their progress on foot. Glass cursed again the loss of their horses. He wondered whether they should wait, use the time to lay in a supply of jerky. A good supply of meat would relieve the need for daily foraging. And, of course, the faster they moved the better. A number of tribes considered the Platte their hunting ground—the Shoshone, the Cheyenne, the Pawnee, the Arapaho, the Sioux. Some of these Indians might be friendly, though Pig’s death certainly underscored the hazards.
Glass crested a butte and stopped dead in his tracks. A hundred yards in front of him, a small herd of fifty or so buffalo huddled together, holding a protective, circular formation from their own recent battle with the storm. The lead bull spotted him immediately. The animal pivoted into the herd and the great mass of animals began to move. They’re going to stampede.
Glass dropped to his knee and brought his rifle to his shoulder. He aimed at a fat cow and fired. He saw the cow stagger at the shot, but she held her feet. Not enough powder at this range. He doubled the charge, reloading in ten seconds. He sighted again on the cow and pulled the trigger. The cow pitched into the snow.