backed army let them bastards off. So even them Mandans was willing to jump white men now that them Rees gone scot-free for what they done to Ashley’s outfit. Damn, but that sours my milk!”
“Them Mandans skip off with what you had left for horses?”
“Shit! Them Mandans didn’t have much the stomach to make a real fight of it—so we run them warriors off pretty quick, arter givin’ ’em a good thrashin’. Ye see, Henry was bound that the word go out: don’t none of them tribes dare poke a stick in his hive or they’d get stung. An’ stung bad.”
Bass stuffed a second length of spring steel into the fire to heat. “So you kept on heading along the Grand?”
“That’s the way of it. Puttin’ out hunters an’ keepin’ a eye on the skyline fer more red niggers wanna jump our leetle bunch. Now, that Glass feller what was along, he’d spent him some time with the Pawnee—so was no green-horn like some of them boys. I could see that, first off.”
“This the same Glass you told me of?”
“One an’ the same—Hugh Glass. Me an’ him struck it up—like I said: he had him some bark on him, that one. Not the sort to cow down an’ do all what Henry ordered him to.” Washburn spit a long brown stream into a small mound of hay mucked off to the side, wagging his head.
“Shame of it is, Titus—that Glass bein’ such a ornery one likely got him in the biggest fix of his hull life, way I lays my sights to it. He had him a’purpose to be off huntin’ that day—wasn’t his duty that mornin’. But thar’ he went, off to work the kentry way out ahead of us. Son of a bitch was nothin’ if he weren’t ornery, that he was, for sure an’ for certain.”
“What trouble he get hisself into?”
“I be comin’ to that now, Titus. You yest tend to makin’ your beaver traps, an’ I’ll tend to makin’ my story.” He cleared his throat dramatically before continuing. “We wasn’t far up the Grand—maybe no more’n a week or so. That mornin’ that ol’ hunter’s off by his lonesome when he gets hisself chewed up something fierce by a grizz. Shit, Titus—Glass was just healin’ up from the arrer wound he took in the Ree fight. He’d come down to take a drink of water at the riverbank, an’ looks up to find hisself right smack a’tween a sow grizz an’ her two cubs. Nothin’ makes a mama grizz madder’n that, I’ll tell you.”
“She kill him, kill ol’ Glass, I mean?”
“She liked to—believe me! Clawin’ him up, ripping chunks o’ meat outta his shoulder an’ his backside afore some of the other hunters heard the shouts an’ come runnin’. We all put a shitload of lead in that grizz afore she fell dead: right on top of ol’ Glass. Man, when we gone an’ rolled that b’ar off’n him, wasn’t a one of us didn’t figger the ol’ man for nothin’ but dead. Henry put his head down on Glass’s chest—listened real keerful—then tol’t us he was still alive! Can you beat that for stink? Glass was still alive arter that turrible maulin’!”
“I can’t figure he lasted for long, did he?”
“No man don’t last long arter wrasslin’ with a grizz, Titus,” Isaac explained. “But then—I was to find out that Hugh Glass wasn’t yer usual feller either. The major ordered us all to make camp right there by the river, an’ we all had bear steaks that night for supper. Next morning Henry was fixin’ to bury Glass—they had his grave all ready for the man, cut down in the sand right aside Hugh. But that ornery cuss was still breathin’!”
“Now you’re pulling my leg, you son of a bitch!” Bass roared. “He damned well couldn’t still be alive!”
Washburn held a right hand up as if taking a solemn oath. “May I be struck dead with a bolt of the Lord’s terrible thunder if I’m stretchin’ the truth.”
Bass cocked his head to the side, his eyes rolling heavenward, wary—expecting a sudden flash of lightning to come streaking through the roof over their heads.
“With the ol’ man still breathin’—that give the hull bunch of us fits. Thar’ we was in kentry the Rees loved to roam, an’ we all knew them red niggers was still worked up and feeling like big cocks arter drivin’ Americans back down the river. ’Sides, we needed to push on quick before the first snow flied. An’ that was bound to be slow going if’n we hauled a dyin’ man along with us.”
“You didn’t just leave him, did you?”
“Didn’t figger on it at fust.” Then with a wag of his head, Isaac replied, “We all waited ’nother day—when Henry growed tired of lollygagging. So he asked fer volunteers to stay with ol’ Glass till the dyin’ man breathed his last, then bury him and hurry on to catch up with the rest of us so Henry could get on fer the beaver kentry. Offered good money to them that stayed.”
“Did you?”
“Naw. Wasn’t one to wanna leave my ha’r in that kentry. Two did say they would stay behin’t: fella named Fitzgerald, an’ that young’un Jim Bridger. Next morning the rest of us pulled out, walkin’ away from that camp— them two, an’ Ol’ Hugh Glass.”
“He was still breathin’?”
“Damn if he weren’t!” Then Washburn shuddered. “The way them flies smelled blood, Titus—it were a awful sight to behol’t: seein’ how the flies blackened ever’ one of the ol’ man’s wounds like a swarm of crawlin’ peppercorns.”
Titus shuddered too. “What become of him, he up an’ die on them two?”
Scratching his chin whiskers, Washburn continued. “Henry led us on to the beaver kentry, an’ we made ready for the winter. Fitzgerald and that Bridger lad come in with the ol’ man’s plunder an’ fixin’s. Said they’d buried him proper whar’ he was. But as that snake-eyed Fitz tol’t the tale of it, I watched the boy. Bridger never looked much at any of us. Couldn’t hol’t a man’s eye. Somethin’ ’bout it yest never sat right in my craw. I s’pose I guessed the wrong of it right then an’ thar’. Man cain’t look you in the eye, Titus—he’s got him something to hide from you. That’s the sort you cain’t count on watching yer backside neither. Still, something in my gut tol’t me that flim-flam Fitz was the big gator in that shit-hole. I had me a feelin’ he cowed the boy someway, slick-talked Bridger into doin’ the wrong they done. Right then I had me no idea what they done—but I was damned certain some such smelled bad. We yest all of us went on with the fall hunt. Bridger didn’t talk all that much into the fall neither. Keepin’ off to hisself. Then winter finally come down on us, hard—like the slap of a man’s hand right across’t your cheek—”
It surprised Bass when Washburn slapped himself on the face, the sharp crack like the snap of a hickory wiping stick in that warm livery.
“One cold night not long arter the snow got serious—thar comes a poundin’ at the gate,” Isaac continued. “An’ who you s’pose comes walkin’ into our post, draggin’ a bunged leg, lamed-up-like, got him a ol’t buffler robe snagged round his shoulder, snow froze to his ha’r an’ beard—Lordee! Lookin’ ever’ bit like a ghost, he was!”
“G-glass?” Bass swallowed, letting the hammer slide from his fingers onto the anvil with a resounding clunk.
“The ol’ man hisself!”
Titus gulped. “H-he come back from the dead?”
“Nawww!” Washburn growled. “I yest said it was the ol’ man hisself! Not no ghost!”
Shaking his head in confusion, Bass started to mumble, but Isaac leaped right in to explain.
“He never died. Them two yest left him fer dead.”
“An’ he come lookin’ for ’em, didn’t he?” Titus roared, snapping his fingers with certainty.
“He surely did—come for them that run off with his gun, his knife, an’ possibles. Leavin’ him lie beside his own shaller grave. Bad part of it, only one of them two was still thar’, Major Henry tol’t Glass. Over to the corner huddled up young Bridger—his face gone white as the sheet on a good folks’ bed. Knowin’ what he done in leavin’ the man fer dead—’thout nary a one of his possibles.”
“Isaac—you figger he had the right to kill them two what left him in a fix like that?”
“Aye, I do, Titus. The rest of us figgered it that way too. That were mountain justice. Well, now—the place fell quiet as Ol’ Glass’s grave was to be, while’st outside the blizzard was howlin’. Glass pulled out his pistol, walked over to young Bridger in the corner, an’ put the gun to the boy’s head. He stayed it there for a long time, starin’ down at Bridger’s face while the boy owned up to what he done afore all of us. Bridger didn’t blink—’stead he yest kept his own eyes right there lookin’ at that ol’ grizz-bait, now that he was shet of what he’d done wrong. Henry an’ me tol’t Glass it were Fitz carried most of the blame, that he talked Bridger into it. But right is right, an’ Glass had him the right to blow out the boy’s candle then an’ there—if he was of a mind to.”
“Just put that ball through the young’un’s brain?”
Washburn spit, swiped the back of his hands across his stained chin whiskers, and waited a dramatic moment as he slowly formed his hand into the shape of a pistol. Gradually he lowered his thumb. “Arter a while, Glass eased down that hammer.”
