Glass struggled to sight on the bouncing target of the sow’s head, unable to align a shot. At ten paces, the grizzly lifted herself to a standing position. She towered three feet over Glass as she pivoted for the raking swipe of her lethal claws. Point-blank, he aimed at the great bear’s heart and pulled the trigger.
The flint sparked the Anstadt’s pan, setting off the rifle and filling the air with the smoke and smell of exploding black powder. The grizzly roared as the ball entered her chest, but her attack did not slow. Glass dropped his rifle, useless now, and reached for the knife in the scabbard on his belt. The bear brought down her paw, and Glass felt the sickening sensation of the animal’s six-inch claws dredging deep into the flesh of his upper arm, shoulder, and throat. The blow threw him to his back. The knife dropped, and he pushed furiously against the earth with his feet, futilely seeking the cover of the willows.
The grizzly dropped to all fours and was on him. Glass rolled into a ball, desperate to protect his face and chest. She bit into the back of his neck and lifted him off the ground, shaking him so hard that Glass wondered if his spine might snap. He felt the crunch of her teeth striking the bone of his shoulder blade. Claws raked repeatedly through the flesh of his back and scalp. He screamed in agony. She dropped him, then sank her teeth deep into his thigh and shook him again, lifting him and throwing him to the ground with such force that he lay stunned—conscious, but unable to resist any further.
He lay on his back staring up. The grizzly stood before him on her hind legs. Terror and pain receded, replaced by a horrified fascination at the towering animal. She let out a final roar, which registered in Glass’s mind like an echo across a great distance. He was aware of enormous weight on top of him. The dank smell of her coat overwhelmed his other senses. What was it? His mind searched, then locked on the image of a yellow dog, licking a boy’s face on the plank porch of a cabin.
The sunlit sky above him faded to black.
* * *
Black Harris heard the shot, just ahead around a bend in the river, and hoped that Glass had shot a deer. He moved forward quickly but quietly, aware that a rifle shot could mean many things. Harris began to trot when he heard the roar of the bear. Then he heard Glass scream.
At the willows, Harris found the tracks of both the deer and Glass. He peered into the path cut by a beaver, listening intently. No sound rose above the hushed trickle of the river. Harris pointed the rifle from his hip, his thumb on the hammer and his forefinger near the trigger. He glanced briefly at the pistol on his belt, assuring himself it was primed. He stepped into the willows, carefully placing each moccasin as he peered ahead. The bawling of the cubs broke the silence.
At the edge of the clearing Black Harris stopped to absorb the scene before him. An enormous grizzly lay sprawled on her belly, eyes open but dead. One cub stood on hind legs, pressing against the sow with its nose, futilely seeking to evoke some sign of life. The other cub rooted at something, tugging with its teeth. Harris realized suddenly it was a man’s arm. Glass. He raised his rifle and shot the nearer of the two cubs. It fell limp. The sibling scampered for the cottonwoods and disappeared. Harris reloaded before walking forward.
Captain Henry and the men of the brigade heard the two shots and hurried upstream. The first shot didn’t worry the captain, but the second one did. The first shot was expected—Glass or Harris bringing down game as they had planned the night before. Two shots closely spaced also would be normal. Two men hunting together might come upon more than one target, or the first shooter might miss. But several minutes separated the two shots. The captain hoped that the hunters were working apart. Perhaps the first shooter had flushed game to the second. Or perhaps they had been lucky enough to come across buffalo. Buffalo would sometimes stand, unfazed by the clap of a rifle, allowing a hunter to reload and casually pick a second target. “Keep tight, men. And check your arms.”
For the third time in a hundred paces, Bridger checked the new rifle that Will Anderson had given to him. “My brother don’t need this no more,” was all he had said.
In the clearing, Black Harris looked down at the body of the bear. Only Glass’s arm protruded from underneath. Harris glanced around before setting his rifle on the ground, tugging at the bear’s foreleg in an attempt to move the carcass. Heaving, he pulled the animal far enough to see Glass’s head, a bloody tangle of hair and flesh. Jesus Christ! He worked urgently, fighting against the fear of what he would find.
Harris moved to the opposite side of the bear, climbing across the animal to grab its foreleg, then tugging, his knees pressed against the grizzly’s body for leverage. After several attempts, he managed to roll the front half of the bear so that the giant animal lay twisted at the midsection. Then he pulled several times at the rear leg. He gave a final heave, and the bear tumbled heavily onto her back. Glass’s body was free. On the sow’s chest, Black Harris noticed the matted blood where Glass’s shot had found its mark.
Black Harris knelt next to Glass, unsure of what to do. It was not through lack of experience with the wounded. He had removed arrows and bullets from three men, and twice had been shot himself.
But he had never seen human carnage like this, fresh in the wake of attack. Glass was shredded from head to foot. His scalp lay dangling to one side, and it took Harris an instant to recognize the components that made up his face. Worst was his throat. The grizzly’s claws had cut three deep and distinct tracks, beginning at the shoulder and passing straight across his neck. Another inch and the claws would have severed Glass’s jugular. As it was, they had laid open his throat, slicing through muscle and exposing his gullet. The claws had also cut the trachea, and Harris watched, horrified, as a large bubble formed in the blood that seeped from the wound. It was the first clear sign that Glass was alive.
Harris rolled Glass gently on his side to inspect his back. Nothing remained of his cotton shirt. Blood oozed from deep puncture wounds at his neck and shoulder. His right arm flopped unnaturally. From the middle of his back to his waist, the bear’s raking claws left deep, parallel cuts. It reminded Harris of tree trunks he had seen where bears mark their territory, only these marks were etched in flesh instead of wood. On the back of Glass’s thigh, blood seeped through his buckskin breeches.
Harris had no idea where to begin, and was almost relieved that the throat wound appeared so obviously mortal. He pulled Glass a few yards to a grassy, shaded spot and eased him to his back. Ignoring the bubbling throat, Harris focused on the head. Glass at least deserved the dignity of wearing his scalp. Harris poured water from his canteen, attempting to wash away as much of the dirt as possible. The skin was so loose that it was almost like replacing a fallen hat on a bald man. Harris pulled the scalp across Glass’s skull, pressing the loose skin against his forehead and tucking it behind his ear. They could stitch it later if Glass lasted that long.