Hugh Glass - Bruce Bradley

by Bruce Bradley

  ***

  Hugh Glass awoke to the sound of gunshots. Rolling out from under his blanket, he set out at a run in the direction of Henry's camp, carrying the Hawken and ready to fire at any enemy that rose out of the darkness before him.

  No enemy appeared, and by the time Hugh reached the camp the excitement was over. Two men--James Anderson and Augie Neill--were dead. Two others were wounded. Indians had attacked in the dead of night. They had struck quickly, then fled at the first resistance from the whites.

  Henry's men had fired only two shots, but it left one dead indian.

  "Damn Leavenworth!" Henry swore. "Damn him! This is a direct result of his monumental incompetence! He let the Arikaras go, and now two more men are dead! Damn him to Hell!"

  The rising of the sun showed the situation to be even worse than Major Andrew Henry had thought. The dead indian was not Arikara after all, but Mandan. Of all the tribes, the Mandans were the friendliest toward the whites. In fact, there was no record of the Mandans ever attacking white men.

  Until now.

  If the Mandans were attacking the whites, it could mean only one thing--that word of Leavenworth's incredibly inept handling of the Arikara siege had gotten around to all the tribes. As far as every indian west of the Missouri River would be concerned, it was open season on white men.

  As the small group of men moved out, no one spoke. Each of them knew how grave the situation had become. Each man kept his weapons loaded and ready.

  ***

  For the next two days the party moved silently along the river, winding their way northward in an effort to get back to Fort Henry without further incident. The men, for the most part, were nervous to the point of being edgy. After all, if a peace-loving tribe like the Mandans were attacking, what might the more warlike tribes--the Cheyenne, the Sioux, the Pawnees, or the Arikaras--do if they were encountered? Those tribes were ready to fight under the best of circumstances, and any of them were likely to cross paths with the trappers at any time.

  Only two men seemed to be immune to the hysteria that was brewing in the other men. One was a man called Black Harris. The other was Hugh Glass.

  Hugh didn't feel that this was bravery on his part. There had been too many instances in his life when he had known he was about to die--and hadn't. Although he knew that one day it actually would happen, he found it hard to take his own death too seriously.

  ***

  On the third morning after the attack by the Mandans, Hugh woke up feeling uncomfortable and out of sorts. He had slept wrong, and he'd had some unsettling dreams about Little Feather. He couldn't remember the dreams, only that she had been in them. It left him in a somber mood.

  He reached the camp in time for coffee and a biscuit. While he was eating, young Jim Bridger approached him. Hugh liked Bridger. The young man talked very little, but he handled himself better than most men who were ten years older. What Hugh really wanted right now, though, was to be left alone.

  "Mr. Glass...?" Bridger said tentatively.

  "Mornin' Jim," Hugh said. "What can I do for you?"

  Bridger looked around awkwardly. He wanted something from Hugh, but he hated to ask.

  "Mr. Glass, is it true you know how to read sign, the way the indians do?"

  "Yes," Hugh told him. "I can read sign."

  "Well ...I was wonderin'... Could you, maybe, teach me? I-I can pay. I'll pay you. I don't expect nothin' for free."

  Hugh immediately thought of Big Axe. His mood softened somewhat. He smiled. "You don't have to pay me," he said. "I'll be happy to teach you, as soon as we get to Fort Henry."

  "Is there some ...some secret to it? I mean, I can tell what tracks are, when I can see 'em. Trouble is, they always disappear."

  Hugh scratched the back of his neck. Looking up at Bridger, he said, "Yeah, there is a secret. You have to learn to soften your eyes."

  Bridger looked puzzled. It made him look even younger than he was. It made Hugh think of his own sons, whom he had not seen in more than six years and who, he knew, he would almost certainly never see again.

  Hugh threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire.

  "Come on," he told the younger man. "We have a few minutes. I can show you enough to get you started."

  He led Bridger over to a spot just past the edge of the camp, to a stand of cottonwoods. Casting about for only a moment, Hugh pointed at a pile of leaves. "What do you see there?" he asked Jim.

  "Leaves," Jim said. "Just leaves."

  Getting down on one knee, Hugh looked at the pile.

  "I see three different sets of tracks," he told Jim. "Over here-" He pointed to a spot just to his left. "-you can see where a fox followed a rabbit, probably yesterday. He wasn't chasing the rabbit yet, just following. Then, over here on the right, you can see where a prairie chicken walked through, scratching around, lookin' for his dinner."

  "But how...?"

  "You have to teach yourself to focus on the outside edges of your vision--it's called peripheral vision, like seeing something out of the corner of your eye. When you do that the vision in the middle, which you normally use to look at things, softens. That allows you to see the things that aren't obvious. Takes practice. Indians learn to do it when ihey're young, which is why they're so good at it."

  Jim Bridger, Hugh could tell, wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.

  "Just practice it whenever you get the chance and it'll happen. When it does, it'll seem so obvious you'll wonder how you never saw the tracks before."

  "That," he added, "I can promise."

  ***

  As he had tried to do in the past, Henry insisted that Hugh remain with the others in the party.

  "Especially now," Henry told him, "with the danger of attack from every known tribe imminent, we have to stay together." He wanted a tight, compact group, with no strays or stragglers.

  "I'm sorry, Major," Hugh told him. "Can't do it. Don't worry--I'll stay within earshot. If anything happens, I'll come running."

  "And what if something happens to you?" Major Henry shot back.

  "I'll take my chances."

  Disgusted, Henry moved off.

  Hugh was not about to change his mind. Too many times in the past, he had trusted his welfare to others. Too many times, that had almost proved to be his undoing. After spending nearly four years with the Pawnees, he found the movements of the whites to be clumsy and loud. Their lack of harmony in the wilderness spread out from them in all directions, like the ripples that were created when you threw a stone into a pond. The unnatural movements of birds and animals would telegraph the coming of the white men for anyone with eyes to see, just as the movements of the grass told of the coming of the wind. If anyone was in danger of detection here, it was they, and not Hugh Glass.

  Besides that, he needed to be by himself today. His dreams had gotten him thinking about Little Feather again, and he wanted to be alone with her in his thoughts.

  And that's exactly where he was when the grizzly attacked.

  It was late in the day. Hugh was about two hundred yards to the left of the group, between them and the river. Several times during the day, he had walked over to within sight of them, although they were never aware that he was there. Almost automatically, he stayed parallel to their position. In his mind, though, he was a thousand miles away, thinking of Little Feather. She had been the one bright spot in the last six, miserable years. Being with her had been the only time in his life that he could remember being really, truly happy. Now she was gone.

  He spotted a large clump of berry bushes and decided to pick some. It would make a nice change from the constant diet of fresh meat, and bringing some back to the others might go a long way in softening Henry's attitude toward him.

  The wind was against him. Hugh's first indication that he wasn't alone was an all too-familiar cough. And when she stood up, the grizzly was only ten feet away.

  It wasn't the largest grizzly he had ever seen--only about seven feet tall--but it was a fem
ale. She-grizzlies were far worse to encounter than the males, especially if they had cubs. This one had cubs.

  Raising the Hawken, Hugh fired at her at point-blank range. The bullet seemed to have no effect. In a moment she was upon him.

  Hugh knew that a grizzly was capable of breaking the neck of a small horse with one good swipe of its paw. At first he tried to get in close so that she couldn't use those paws. He managed to get his knife out and began stabbing at her, desperately hoping that the bullet and knife wounds would take effect. He could feel the weight of the bear as it raked his back again and again with three-inch claws, tearing away his shirt and destroying the flesh underneath. He felt it's hot breath as it's teeth bit deep into his skull. Screaming in pain, he raised his left arm to try to protect himself, while continuing to stab at it with the knife in his right. The bear seemed not to notice, but began biting at Hugh's left arm while it continued to rend his back with it's claws.

  Pulling away in agony, Hugh tried to run for a nearby tree. He was nearly blind from his own blood running into his eyes. He made it to the tree, but found that his left arm was now nearly useless to him. Dropping the knife, he attempted to pull himself up, using only his right hand.

  Too slow. The bear, taking Hugh by the right leg, pulled him out of the tree. With Hugh's leg still in it's mouth, the bear began to shake it's head angrily from side to side. Hugh heard and felt the leg snap. An intolerable wave of agony roared through him.

  That was all he knew

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  IT SEEMED he was back with the Pawnees again. He was being pulled along on a travois. Something had happened ... he was in incredible pain. Every part of him cried out in agony.

  The trappers were there too.. .where was Little Feather?

  The pain ...oh God, it hurt! Why didn't they do something to stop it? Why didn't they just shoot him? What had happened?

  He remembered. The bear... Had he died? Was this what it was like to be in Hell?

  He tried to move, but couldn't. It was as though he had a body, but it only existed in order to bring him unendurable agony.

  Mercifully, he passed out again.

  ***

  Through lapses in consciousness, he was aware of the passage of time. Pain followed him everywhere, even into his dreams. Awake or asleep, his awareness only lasted for a short while. The blackness would take over and the pain would go away for awhile.. .only to return again later.

  After awhile, the movement stopped, but the pain continued. It was daytime, hut they weren't moving.

  Two men were there. Once in a while one of them would check on him. He Couldn't remember their names.

  Hastings ... one of them was Clint Hastings. Clint!

  No. Not Clint, Bridger. Jim Bridger. Young Fella. Capable. It made Hugh glad to know he was there. Bridger would take care of him.

  God, it hurt!

  The name of the other man finally came to him. Fitzgerald. John Fitzgerald. Hugh didn't really know him. This didn't make any sense. He knew why Bridger was there--Hugh had promised to teach him to track. Why was Fitzgerald here? Where were the others?

  ***

  He felt as though he were on fire. It hurt to breathe. Everything hurt. He tried calling to Clint, tried to warn him. He tried to apologize to Clint for letting the Pawnees kill him.

  "I tried," he cried out. "I really tried!"

  It hurt to talk. Anyway, he was wrong. It wasn't Clint. It was Bridger.

  Sometimes he would wake up and lay there, listening, waiting for the blackness to come and take him back to where it didn't hurt.

  Bridger didn't talk much. Fitzgerald did. Fitzgerald was worried about the indians coming. Christ, let them come! They would kill him and put an end to this agony!

  How long it continued like this, he had no idea. Time could not be measured by hours or minutes, not even in light or dark. Half the time he was out of his head. The rest of the time he was unconcious.

  Later, much later, he would remember snatches of conversations: "What's taking so long--why doesn't he die?"

  "He can't last much longer..."

  "The indians, they're gettin' closer..."

  "I tell you, kid, I keep seein' signs..."

  "Why doesn't he die?"

  "I tell you...we're not gonna do him any good if we all get killed-"

  "We can't leave him!"

  "What's taking so long?"

  "Damnit! He's gonna get us killed, too!"

  "We promised to stay and bury him..."

  "Damnit! Why doesn't he die?"

  "We promised..."

  "Damnit!"

  "Promised..."

  "Kid, they're just on the other side of that ridge. If we're gonna get out alive it's got to be now!"

  "...Now!"

  "Now!"

  "Promised..."

  ***

  God, it hurt!

  It was quiet. No movement from the two men. No smoke or crackling of the fire, only the hot wind blowing over him.

  Bridger and Fitzgerald must have gone off to hunt. Maybe they were asleep. No.

  They had left him.

  It took awhile for it to sink in--he'd been abandoned. When the realization finally took hold, it alarmed and frightened him. The two men who had been charged with his care were gone. No one was going to feed him. No one would bring him water.

  They expected him to die.

  It was a sobering thought. They expected him to die. When he hadn't done it quick enough, they up and left him. Let the bastard bury himself. Better yet, let the wolves have him.

  Not quite yet.

  He had too much pain and too little strength to be very angry about it. That would come later--if he lived.

  He had to find out exactly how bad off he was. He was nearly paralyzed. His left arm and right leg were useless. Trying to move or use either of them sent shockwaves of pain through him.

  He passed out again.

  He awoke with an incredible thirst, this time fully aware of the situation he was in. Using his right hand, he began to probe, gingerely, checking his wounds. He remembered little about the actual attack. He remembered seeing the bear rise up on its hind legs and rush toward him, remembered getting off one shot at it with his rifle...

  His rifle--where was that?

  He tried to turn his head to look around, causing splinters of pain to shoot through his neck and scalp.

  When that pain subsided, Hugh felt those areas to assess the damage. What he felt were stitches. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to sew him back together. The stitches stretched along half his neck and most of his scalp. What had the beast done? Ripped his head off?

  That still didn't answer the question about his rifle. Through enormous effort, he managed to roll over, nearly passing out once more in agony. There seemed to be no part of him that the bear had left untouched.

  When the pain subsided enough he opened his eyes. What he saw startled him. It was a grave, open and waiting for him. Hugh Shivered. Then he gave a small, mirthless laugh.

  All you got to do, he thought, is crawl in and cover yourself up. Simple as pie.

  He looked for his rifle, but could find no indication that it had been left behind. Nor could he find his tomahawk or his knife. Not only had Bridger and Fitzgerald abandoned him, they had robbed his grave before he was even in it. A man, even a healthy man with two good arms and two good legs, needed those tools to survive in this country. Chances of surviving without them were slim, indeed.

  His next immediate concern was water. God only knew how long he had been lying there before he realized that those two had left him. His mouth and throat were dry, both from summer heat and from fever. He had to have water, and soon.

  Rolling onto his stomach seemed a monumental task, which seemed to take all of his will and his strength. After he had done it, Hugh lay for several minutes, eye closed, waiting for the roar of pain to subside. Then he listened. From his low vantage point he could see very little, but with his eyes clo
sed he could tell that the rushing water sound was coming from his right. Moving in that direction, he began to crawl.

  He didn't get very far. His left arm and right leg were useless to him. Before he had gotten ten feet, Hugh passed out.

  He wasn't out for very long. Almost as soon as he was out he was awake again. By late that afternoon--after hours of struggling--Hugh made it to the river.

  ***

  He had no illusions about his predicament. He knew that he could not long remain where he was. He needed food, and he needed tools if he was to survive. There would be no honor in his death for any indians that discovered him, but on the other hand, a scalp was a scalp. If the scalp of a woman or a child were worth taking--and they were--then Hugh's would be worth taking as well.

  I'll just have to not let them find me, he thought. But that would be easier said than done.

  Major Henry and the others were somewhere off to the northwest. Their trail would be cold long before Hugh was in any shape to pick it up. Behind him, east and then south, the nearest white settlement was Fort Kiowa. Lying in the dark, Hugh calculated the distance at about three hundred miles.

  He would go there.

  The following morning he set out, using his right arm and left leg to push himself along. As it had been the previous day, the pain of movement and exertion was too much for him. He traveled only a short distance before unconciousness again overtook him.

  Whenever he awoke, he would continue onward, staying close to the water, sometimes crawling into the water, to relieve himself and let the river wash some of the stink and decay away from him.

  By the end of the first day he make it to the top of a small rise, where he decided to stop for the night. Looking back, he could still see the camp, where he had awoke the day before, along with the grave that the two men had dug for him.

  It wasn't that far behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  'I'HERE ARE times in a man's life when he has to follow his instincts, no matter how much logic, or other people, might tell him otherwise. If he doesn't, he will have regrets. Those regrets may be small, or they may be enormous. They may even follow him for the rest of his days.