The Long Crawl of Hugh Glass Roger Zelazny Amazing people have been accomplishing superhuman feats throughout history. It is possible, as in the factual case of Hugh Glass, that the most astounding power is the will to survive. In 1823 an injured hunter named Hugh Glass crawled aver 100 miles through the wilderness from the Grand Valley to the Missouri River. Hugh Glass had one chance to kill the bear, and whether his shot struck it or went completely astray, he never knew. It charged him, brushing aside the rifle before he could club with it as its paw fell upon his face, smashing his nose, tearing through the skin of his brow. Then its great forelimbs came about him, its breath awful, fetid of ripe flesh and the musky smell of skunk, overlaid with a sweetness of berries and honey that made him think of a waiting, perfumed corpse, too long aboveground while distant mourners hurried for the viewing. His spirit seemed to turn slowly within his head and breast, a white and gray eddy of dissolving perceptions, as his blood ran into his eyes and traced trails down his seamed face into his frosted beard. A large man, bearlike himself in the eyes of his fellows, he did not cry out, did not know fear; a great gasp had wrung much of the air from him, leaving him voiceless, and the attack had come so quickly that there had been no time to be afraid. Now, what he felt seemed familiar; for he was a hunter, providing game for eighty men, dealing daily death as a business of life. And it was suddenly his turn. It would have been good to say farewell to Jamie, but there are always things undone. The cracking of his ribs was not such a terrible thing through the failing white and the gray; the sound from his thigh might have been a snapping branch in some distant forest. He was no longer there to feel the ground as he crashed against it. Riding, echoes of his mount's hoofbeats off the hills about him, Jamie saw the shadows flow and merge as he sought downhill for his friend, sky of blood and flame and roses to his left whenever he topped a rise. He could smell the Grand River ahead and to his right. The old man hunted these breaks, was probably camping near here tonight. "Hugh?" he called. "Hugh?" And a part of his voice rolled back to him. He continued into the northwest toward the fork, calling periodically. At the top of another hill the horse stopped short, neighing briefly. For a great distance toward evening the flatlands stretched before him. Below, on either hand, the Grand forked, sparkling, crooked, through haze. He rose in the stirrups, staring, brushed a hand through his sun-gilt hair. Nothing stirred but the river, and then a rising as of ashes far ahead, with a cawing. A single star was lit above the sunset. A faint breeze came to him from the direction of the water. He called again. The horse made another sound, took a little prancing step. Jamie touched his mount's sides lightly and headed down the hill, the horse's hoofs clattering in the shale. Level again, on firmer ground, he hurried. "Camping…" he said softly, and after a time he called again. There came the boom of a rifle from somewhere ahead, and he smiled. "… Heard me," he said, and he shook the reins, laughing. His mount hurried and Jamie hummed a tune to the sound of the hoof-beats. And there, in the grassy area ahead, a figure rose, arms spread. Waving… ? The horse snorted and reared, tried to turn. It wasn't a man. Too big, too… His mount wheeled, but not before Jamie had spied the broken heap upon the ground, recognized the shaggy totem shape—beast that walks like a man—that swayed above it. His hand fell to the rifle boot even as the horse bolted. Cursing, he drew back hard upon the reins but there was no response. At his back, he heard a crashing of brush as the great beast fell to pursuit. Then he drew again upon the bit and sank his spur into the horse's side. This time it swerved, obedient, to the right. The bear rushed by, passing behind him; and Jamie headed for the water, striking sand, then raising a shower of spray as he entered. The stream was not wide here. Scrambling, scrabbling, the horse protested the rocky bottom, but a growl from the rear seemed to add impetus to its flight. Shortly, they were rising, dripping, from the water, mounting the farther bank. Looking back, Jamie saw that the bear had halted at the water's edge. His hand went to the buckle on the rifle case, and he turned his mount as he drew the weapon. Still dry. He swung it through an arc, cross-body, rested it a moment on his forearm, squeezed the trigger. Through the smoke-spume, he saw the bear lurch forward, fall into the stream, tossing. He watched its death throes, recalling Hugh's instruction on the placing of shots. Immediately, his eyes were clouded for the man who'd raised him like a son. Shortly, he was back in the water, crossing. He rode to the fallen man and dismounted. "Hugh," he said, "I'm sorry," and he knelt beside him. He turned his friend's head then to look upon his face, and he gasped at the mass of blood and torn flesh he beheld, nose smashed flat, brows shredded. "Hugh…" How long he watched he was not certain. Then there came a soft moan. He leaned forward, not sure of what he had heard. There followed a terrible stillness. Then came a catching of breath, another moan, a slow movement. "Hugh? It's Jamie here," he' said. "Can you hear me?" The man made a small noise deep in his throat, lay still again. Jamie looked about. Hugh had made his camp near a spring, its trickling sounds half-noticed till now. A pile of sticks and branches lay near at hand. "I'm going to make you a fire, Hugh. Got to keep you warm. You just rest easy now. I'll go do that." Drawing his knife, he split wood. He built a heap of shavings and twigs near the still form, brought it to a flame, fed it, dragged over the larger branches, added more fuel. The sun had fallen over the world's edge by then, and the stars came on like a city in the sky. Jamie hunkered by his fallen companion, the older man's face even more ghastly and masklike by firelight. "Oh, my," he said. "Next thing we'd better do is get you cleaned up some." He made his way to the spring, dipped his kerchief into the water, wrung it out. Returning, he sponged and blotted Hugh's face. "I remember the day you saved my ass in that fight with the Ree," he muttered. "What was I—fourteen? Folks dead, I rode right out into it. You came after. Killed a few and brought me back. Whaled me later for not knowing enough to be afraid. God—Hugh! Don't die on me!" Hugh Glass lay very still. "It's me—Jamie!" he cried, catching up a still hand and clasping it to his breast. But he felt no life in the hand, and he laid it back down gently. He returned to the spring and rinsed his kerchief. He tried trickling water into Hugh's mouth, but it just ran down his face into his beard. "… Jamie," he said, listening for a heartbeat. Was that it? Soft as an underground stream? He washed the face again. He added kindling to the fire. Later, the moon came up. In the distance, a wolf howled. Hugh gasped and moaned. Jamie touched his hand again, began speaking softly, of their days on the trail, places they'd been, things they'd seen and done. After a time, his eyes closed. Shortly, his words ceased and he moved in dreams. … Riding the keelboats with Major Henry's men, trading for horses in the Ree villages. He saw again the Leavenworth campaign amid flashes of fire. Spring thaws and winter freezes. … Dressing game with Hugh… Sleeping on the trail, smell of horses, smell of earth… And storms, and the passing of bison… In the distance, his parents' faces… The neighing of a horse. His head jerked and he realized that his back and shoulders were sore, his neck… He sprawled, dozing again, dreaming or dreamed of the vast prairie in its moods. … And Hugh's dreams were pain-shot archipelagos of darkness and fire, though it seemed he was not alone in his hurting. He felt he had talked to another, though he was not certain his tongue and lips had really worked. It seemed he had grown roots, extending deep down into the earth, and like a stubborn shrub he held himself to it against a turmoil of weathers, drawing nourishment up into his damaged limbs. … And a horse neighed, and the ground shook. Jamie opened his eyes and the world was full of morning light. His horse stood nearby. In the earth, he felt the vibrations of horses' hoofs. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, sat up. Memories returned as he ran his fingers through his hair. He regarded Hugh, whose head now lolled to one side and whose chest moved very slowly. The hoofbeats were audible now. Hoping it was not a party of Rickaree, he rose to his feet, turning in the direction of the sound. No, it wasn't the Ree, but rather Major Henry and his men, come riding into the valley from out of the east. They called and waved when they saw him there, grew still as they approached and looked upon the fallen form of Hugh. "Jamie, what happened?" Major Henry called out, dismounting and coming near. "Hugh got mauled by a bear," Jamie replied. "He's in poor shape." "Damn!" the major said, kneeling and placing his hand on Hugh's chest. "Looks a sight, too." The others came down from their mounts and moved near. "We should take him back to the camp, get him more comfortable," one of the scouts said. "… And get some medicine into him," said another. "Bring up that bay packhorse," the major called out. "I'm not sure Hugh should be moved," Jamie said. "We owe the man every chance we can give him," came the reply. As the bay was brought up and its pack removed, Frank and Will—the red-haired brothers from St. Louis—stooped at Hugh's head and feet, taking hold of his shoulders and ankles. They commenced raising him, slowly, from the earth. Hugh moaned then—an awful, bleating, animal-like sound. Frank and Will lowered him again. "Ain't no way we're going to move that man 'thout killing him," Frank stated. "I think he's bound to die, anyway," Will said. "No reason to add to his misery." "Poor Hugh ain't got long," Frank agreed. "Let's let him be." Major Henry shook his head and put his arm around Jamie's shoulders. "I think the men are right," he said softly. Jamie nodded. "We'll wait a time," the major told him. "In case it happens soon." And Hugh lay like a corpse, save for a periodic sigh, a groan, as the day warmed. The men made tea and, seated in circles on the ground, conversed more softly than was their custom, of the trails they followed toward the Big Horn, of the recent campaign against the Ree, of Indian activity in the area. Some went off to seek the remains of the bear, to butcher it for its meat. And Hugh's face darkened and lightened, in token of the struggle in which there can be no ally. His hands twitched as if seeking to grapple; and for a time he breathed deeply, a glassy mask of sweat upon his features. Jamie bathed his face again. "Soon, lad. Soon, I fear," the major told him; and Jamie nodded, sat, and watched. And birds sang, and the day continued to warm as the sun rose higher in the heavens. Still Hugh gasped, and saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth; his fingers dug furrows in the earth. When the sun stood in high heaven, Major Henry moved to study the fallen man. He stared for a long while, then turned to Jamie. "It could take longer'n we figured," he said. "He's a tough one, Jamie." "I know," Jamie replied. "The men are getting a little restless, what with the Ree on a war trail just now." "I understand," Jamie said. "So we'd be better off heading to the camp west of here, before moving on. You know the trail we were going to take." "I do." "So what I figure is to get a man to stay here with you and help keep the wolves away till it's—over. The rest of us'd move on, and you'd catch up with us farther along." Jamie nodded. Major Henry clasped his shoulder. "I'm sorry about Hugh, Jamie. I know what he meant to you," he said. "I'll call for a volunteer now, and we'll be about it." "Very good, sir." … The bear approached Hugh again, and he could not run from it. It was as if his feet had grown roots. The bear walked upright, its face flowing like dark water. He saw his father there, and the faces of men he had had to kill. Dark birds flew out of the bear, flapping their wings in his face. He smelled the cloying sweetness and the fetor, the rottenness… Then it clasped him and squeezed him again, and he was coughing. He tasted blood with each aching spasm. It seemed that there were voices—many of them—talking softly in the dark distance. The sounds of hoofbeats came and went. He saw the bear dead, skinned, its hide somehow wrapping about him, its face become his own, bleeding, smiling without humor. Closer was it wrapped, becoming part of him, his arms and aching legs shaggy, his mouth foul. Still was he rooted; still the power came up into him out of the earth. Almost a dark, flowing song… The hat went round and coins clicked in it, one by one, till Jules Le Bon felt the stirring of compassion and volunteered to sit with Jamie by his friend. A short, wiry man, missing a tooth leftside of his grin, he bade the others good day, stood waiting till they had ridden off. Then he moved to sit by Jamie, clinking as he walked, sighed, and stared at Hugh. "Amazing strong, that man," he said, after a time. Jamie nodded. "Where'd he come from?" Jamie shrugged. "So there's nobody you know about—anywhere—to write to?" Jamie shook his head. "Shame," said Le Bon. "He was a hell of a hunter. Still, I suppose this is the way he'd want to go—while he was about his business, out on the trail… Buried in one of the places he'd hunted." Jamie looked away. Le Bon grew still. After a while Le Bon rose and made his way to a fire the men had left where a tin of water was still warm. "Want a cup of tea?" he called. "No, thanks." He made himself a cup and returned with it. Later, he smoked his pipe, drank more tea. The day wore on. Hugh muttered occasionally, grew still again. Le Bon shook his head and looked into the distance. As shadows slid eastward Le Bon cocked his head. "Do you hear hoofbeats?" he asked. "No," Jamie answered. Le Bon lowered himself to the ground, placed an ear against it. For a long time, he was still. "Hear anything?" Jamie said. "No. I was mistaken." He rose again. "Little worried about the Ree," he said. "Had me hearing things." He laughed and seized a handful of his hair and tugged it about. "Hate to part company with this stuff, is all." Later, as they made their dinner of the supplies the major had left them, Le Bon relived his part in the recent campaign. Jamie nodded periodically, watching Hugh. Later still, as the night came on, he covered Hugh with a blanket. "Amazing strong," Le Bon repeated. "Sad, to have your strength working against you. When there's no hope." Jamie's dreams were a jumble, of Hugh and the bear and the Indians, of Major Henry and the men, riding, riding, into the distance. He woke unrested in the morning, letting Le Bon sleep as he broke his fast on crackers and tea. Hugh's condition seemed unchanged. Still he struggled—perhaps, as Le Bon had said, against his own strength—moving occasionally, but never speaking, face drawn, gray, fingers at times still ascrabble. How long did it take a man to die? Later, Le Bon shook his head. "Looks a lot worse," he said. "Today or tonight will do for him." "You're probably right," Jamie responded. "I hope so," Le Bon said. "Not just for our sake—though Lord knows I've seen what those Ree can do to a man—but for him, struggling on that way to no account. It's indecent what dying does to a man, by way of suffering. How old are you, anyhow, Jamie?" "Sixteen," Jamie said. "Pretty near." "So you've got your whole life to go yet, lessen it's cut short. Just hope your end doesn't drag out like poor Hugh's." "Yes," Jamie said, and sipped his tea gone cold. By afternoon's light, Hugh looked as if he were made of wax, face half-melted. There were times when Jamie thought it was over for him. But always there came a small twitch, a low noise, a bit of bubbling breath. Le Bon raised ladders of smoke, puffing, and watched. Birds passed, to and from the river, uttering shrill notes and bits of softer music. The sky clouded over and there came a rumbling from within it, but no rain fell. A wind rose up and the day grew cooler. "Wonder how far along the major and the men have gotten?" Le Bon said. "Hard to say." "They must feel a lot safer to be on the trail now, heading away from the Ree." "I suppose." "We couldn't even hear their hoofbeats for all that thunder, if they were coming up on us now." Jamie shivered against the cold. "Guess so." Le Bon rose and stretched and went off to relieve himself in the bushes. Hugh did not move. They raised a lean-to of branches for themselves and Hugh, hung a sheet of canvas over it. The rainfall that night was light, drumming. The sound became war drums in Jamie's sleep, and hoofbeats of mounted parties… The morning came gray and damp, and still Hugh lingered. "I dreamed a party of them passed us in the night," Le Bon observed. "Maybe they did." "Then we're lucky." "So far. My! He looks poorly." "Same as yesterday, I'd judge." "Still breathing, though. Who'd've thought any man could hold on so long?" "Hugh ain't like other folks," Jamie said. "He always knew what to do. He was always strong enough to do it." Le Bon shook his head. "I believe you," he told him. "It ain't natural to keep living when you've been tore up the way he has. I've seen a lot of folks a-dying, but none of 'em to hold on like this. You know it's got to be soon, don't you?" "Seems so." "Be a shame, the two of us to die for someone who could go any minute." Jamie went to the spring to rinse the kerchief to wash Hugh's face again. As they rolled into their blankets that evening, Le Bon said, "This'll be it, boy. I know it. I'm sorry, 'cause I know you're all the family each other's got. Say some prayers, if you know any. I'll do the same, before I sleep." And the sun shone upon him in the morning. And Jamie's first thoughts were of Hugh. Turning, rising, he stared. Had it happened during the night? No. The pallor remained, but now a small fluttering breath had begun, unlike the man's earlier gasps and long silent spells. His chest moved slightly, with a more rapid, shallow breathing. "I've seen men like this before," he heard Le Bon say. "Soon it will be over, lad. Likely with God's blessing." Jamie wept silently. It was wrong to want it to happen, he knew. "I just want him to stop hurting," he finally said. "And soon he will, Jamie. Soon he will." Le Bon sounded sad. "There's few as could fight it the way he did. But soon his trials will be over. You can see it." Jamie nodded, rubbing his cheeks dry against his shoulders. After breakfast, Le Bon stared for perhaps an hour at the man who lay before him. Finally, he spoke: "I've been thinking," he said, "about the Ree again. You know I'm scared. I know you are, too. Now, meaning no disrespect, and knowing Hugh'll be gone soon, it takes a time to bury a man— especially when we've only our knives to dig with. All that extra time we'll be running risk they'll find us, when we could be riding away." "That's true." "Being practical now—and like I said, with no disrespect—I thought we might dig it now and have it ready. We're just sitting here, anyhow, and whether it gets dug before or after won't mean a thing to him. It's the spirit that counts, that his friends mean to do right by him. It can't hurt him none to make it ready. But it could make a difference for our safety—afterwards." "Yes," Jamie said. "I guess he'd understand that." So, drawing his knife, Le Bon rose and moved about to Hugh's far side. He traced long lines in the earth with its point, measuring the man's great length and width with his eye as he did so. Then he plunged the blade into the ground and outlined the first piece of sod to be removed. " 'Dust to dust,' " he said, "like the Good Book tells us. We'll do fair by him, Jamie. Proper size and deep enough to protect him from weather and the critters. We'll do it right. I know how much you care about him." After a time, Jamie rose and moved to the plot's farther end. He hesitated a moment, and then began to cut. They dug all that day, using their hands where it was soft, their blades where the earth resisted intrusion. They removed stones, roots, and a goodly amount of soil. They excavated to a considerable depth, then cleaned their blades in the grass and washed themselves at the spring, before they returned to Hugh's side. Still that fluttering breath continued. They ate their meal, and the day's last light touched Hugh's face with color. They watched him till the stars came out, then muttered good-nights and found their blankets. In all their dreams, Hugh was a part of the earth. * * * … Hugh dreamt he lay broken beside his grave, his friends riding away into the west. He had heard them speak of going, been powerless to respond. Now he heard only hoofbeats as they went away from him. Felt them within the earth, heard a momentary exchange of their distant voices. Vaguely, aware of light, he listened to the sounds. The words died away. A tired moon hung above him. He stared at it through a haze. Dawn had leaked a slight light upon strands of mist. There was no wind to stir it. The hoofbeats seemed to grow louder again. He remembered the taste of blood, the breath of the bear. And crawling... He was awake atop his bluff, and the sounds of hoofbeats were real. He turned and peered downward. Passing through the fog, three Indian horsemen rode on the trail of the buffalo. Almost, Hugh called out to them, for they could well be Sioux, with whom he was on good terms. Yet, they could also be Ree, and he had not come all this way to deliver himself into the hands of his enemies. He lay still and watched them ride by to vanish westward into the mist. They could well be the outriders for an entire tribe on the trail of the buffalo. He would wait a time and see what followed. With a larger group, slower in passing, he should be able to tell whether they were friend or foe. And then—If they were Sioux, he would be fed, cared for, his wounds tended. He would tell them tales at their fires, paying them in the coin of stories from his wanderings. Then he would walk again, be about his hunt. He waited as the fog turned to gold, listening, watching. The sun drifted slowly out of the east, over the course of perhaps an hour. Abruptly, a flock of dark birds rose downstream, cawing and flapping, to move westward, settling in a stand of cottonwoods. Then he heard the barking of dogs and the neighing of horses. A little later a band of mounted warriors came into sight out of the brush, to pass the base of his bluff upon that westward trail. He watched, suddenly aware of his heartbeat. Mounted on a piebald stallion, the lead warrior was an older man, face hard and craggy, hair streaked with white; and Hugh recognized him. It was Elk Tongue, the war chief of the Ree, and more and more of his people came into view behind him, rounding the bluff, continuing into the west. As Hugh watched he saw old men and women, children, the ill as well as the hale, in the procession. This looked to be more than a hunt, for it might be forty lodges that followed behind Elk Tongue, and they bore all their possessions, not just those of the hunt. The Sioux must finally have succeeded in dislodging them from their eastern encampment. They were in retreat now, ponies dragging travois bearing furs, pots, drums, baskets of food, a few metal implements, small children riding atop the heaped household goods; the forms of those too ill to walk or ride were strapped onto other carriers. Nursing squaws passed by, babies at their backs. All of them looked haggard. Hugh could almost smell their burning cornfields. They would follow the herd, to feed, then continue to the home of their Pawnee relatives on the Platte. Hugh snorted. "Ree" was short for "Arikara." They had attacked peaceful traders several times, which led to the Leavenworth campaign, in which the Sioux had allied themselves with the whites, for they, too, had known unreasoned violence at the hands of these people. The Rees' cousins the Pawnees were more tolerant, less prone to battle and ambush without good reason. Having been a Pawnee, Hugh spoke their language fluently, the Rees' dialect as well, though he was certain that the Rees would not recognize his blood-tie with their kin. Not that the Pawnees were exactly easygoing… As the tribe passed he let his thoughts drift back over the years. Where did it all begin? Beyond the Pennsylvania valley of his birth, what had brought him to this point? Chance, he supposed. Chance, and human meanness—the meanness of a white man, a Frenchman, as cussed as any he had met on the plains, white or Indian. No race, nation, or tribe had a monopoly on cussedness; it just seemed a part of being human. He remembered the sea. After that war in 1812 he'd gone to sea, working on traders in the Caribbean. Never had any real desire to see the mountains or roam the plains. He'd known tropic ports, drunk his share of rum, survived fierce storms and damaged vessels. He had enjoyed the sea and its smells and moods, liked the bright birds and flowers and girls of his ports of call, liked the taste of their rich foods, their wines. He would likely be there still, save for the doings of one afternoon on the Gulf. When the sleek vessel carrying a lot of sail had first been sighted, no one had been particularly alarmed until she struck her true colors and fired a warning shot. The captain tried to run, but this was a mistake. The pirate vessel overtook them readily. He tried fighting back then, but this, too, was a mistake. He was outmaneuvered, outgunned, outmanned. Actually, there was nothing he could have done that would have been right, Hugh reflected. Simple surrender at that first warning shot would also have been a mistake. Hugh was to learn all of this later, firsthand, though it was mainly confirmation of rumors he had been hearing for years. The captain could not have saved them from Jean Laffite, who was not of a humor to leave any witnesses to his business that day. Hugh saw the captain and the other officers cut down. The seamen were treated the same way. This decided him against any attempt to surrender, and he determined to sell his life as dearly as possible. Standing back to back then with seaman Tom Dickens, cutlass in one hand, belaying pin in the other, he killed everyone who came at him, gutting them, clubbing them, hacking at limbs and faces. The deck grew slippery with gore about him, and he bled himself from a collection of wounds. After a time, the attacks slowed; it seemed that the pirate crewmen were holding back, loath to rush in and close with him. Finally, he became aware of a tall individual who stood watching the slaughter. Eventually, the man spoke: "Let up!" he ordered. "I'll talk to them." Hugh heard the French accent and realized this to be the captain of whom he had heard stories. "You two," the captain said, as soon as the attacks ceased. "Do you wish to live?" "A foolish question," Hugh replied. "Would we be fighting so, were it otherwise?" The Frenchman smiled. "I can have my men wear you down, or I can send for firearms and take you at a distance," he said. "Or you can join my crew and keep your lives. I find myself undermanned again, partly because of yourselves. I can use a pair of good fighters." "Druther live," Tom said. "All right," said Hugh. "I'll do it." "Then put up your weapons—you can keep them—and help transfer the cargo to my ship. If you've any personal effects you care about, better get them, too. We'll be scuttling this scow when we're done here." "Aye, sir," said Hugh, lowering his blade and slipping the club behind his belt. Jean Larnte's current headquarters were on Galveston Island. There Hugh and Tom were given quarters. While he made no friends, Hugh became acquainted with all of the pirate crew. There was some resentment of the newcomers at first, and while memory of their display on the decks of the doomed vessel prevented all but two from carrying this beyond words, those two were thick-armed, heavy-shouldered fellows with the battered faces of brawlers. The burly Hugh outwrestled his man and bashed him a few times till he lapsed into unconsciousness. Tom boxed with his opponent, and though his own nose was broken in the encounter he laid the man out. After that, the two shipmates met with no further violence at the hands of the crew and found themselves on speaking terms with all of them. While no real amiability developed, the men were not particularly amiable to begin with, save when drunk, and then it only took the form of songs, gallows humor, bawdy yarns, and practical jokes. Hugh did not trust himself to get drunk with them, for they were inclined to the setting afire of beards and to the removing of a fellow's trousers and painting his bum with tar. Hugh and Tom sailed with Laffite. There were bloody encounters with merchantmen, for it became apparent that Laffite's policy involved leaving no eyewitnesses ever to testify against him. Hugh fought in the boarding of vessels and he fought to defend himself, but he took what small pride he might in the fact that he never executed prisoners. This changed one spring day when they took a British trader. Three able-bodied prisoners were taken that day. Laffite faced them—a tall, graceful figure, elegantly clad, one hand upon his hip—and stared into each man's eyes until they fell. Then, as before, he spoke: "Gentlemen," he said, "I find myself somewhat understaffed at the moment. The exigencies of this work do take their toll in manpower. So I've a proposition for you. Join my crew. You'll have a snug berth, all you want in the way of food and drink, and a share of the booty. There will be occasional shore leave in safe ports to enjoy it. It is a dangerous life, but a high one. Think hard, think quickly, and answer me now." Two of them agreed immediately. The third, however, asked, "And if my answer is no?" Laffite stroked his beard. "Consider it a matter of life or death, sir," he replied, "as you make your decision." "All my life I've done what I had to and tried to be honest while I was about it," the seaman answered, "though God knows I've had my lapses. Cast me adrift or leave me on some isle if you would. I'd rather that than join your crew." Laffite raised his eyes and caught Hugh's gaze. "Deal with him," he said. Hugh looked away. Laffite stared a moment longer. Then, "Now," he added. Hugh looked back, meeting his captain's dark gaze again. "No, sir," he replied. "You refuse my order?" "I won't kill a defenseless man," he said. Laffite drew a pistol from his sash and fired it. The man toppled, the side of his head gone red. "Pitch him over the side," Laffite said to another crewman, who moved immediately to comply. "Hugh, I'm unhappy with you," Lafftte stated, stowing his pistol and turning away. Hugh departed and helped to transfer the cargo. Later, when they had returned to their base, Tom said to him, "Word's going around you made the captain unhappy." "I wouldn't doubt it," Hugh replied. "I didn't kill a man he told me to." "I heard things like that have happened in the past, before our time." "Oh?" "Old Jean, he's a real stickler for discipline. They say that nobody as refused a direct order from him has lived too long afterwards." "How'd he do 'em?" "Sometimes he holds a sort of court and makes an example of 'em. Other times he just lets it be known to a few he trusts that he wants that man dead. Someone always obliges and puts a knife in him then—when he's sleepin', or some other time he's not on his guard." "You heard he usually gets rid of them pretty soon after something like this happens?" "That's what they say." "Thanks, Tom. Maybe you shouldn't be talking to me much now." "What're you going to do?" "I've been thinking for some time about leaving. Now's as good a time to try quitting this business as any." "You can't steal a boat, Hugh. They watch 'em too careful." Hugh shook his head. "Think I'll wait till after dark and swim for shore." "That's a pretty far piece." "I'm a pretty good swimmer." "The water's sometimes sharky." "Well, that's a maybe, and staying's a for sure." "What'll you do when you get to shore?" "Start walking for New Orleans." "I'm coming with you. I don't much like it here myself. Sooner or later he's going to ask me to do something like that, and the same thing'll happen." "Make a little bundle of your valuables then. I'll let you know when I'm going." Hugh waited till the others had started their evening drinking before he nodded to Tom and said, "Gonna take a walk." They met on the isle's northern shore, lit by a partial moon and floods of stars. Small waves danced in their light as Hugh and Tom stared out over the waters. "Looks like a long haul," Tom said, "but I'm still game. How long you figure before they guess what we did?" "Morning, if we're lucky. Sooner, if tonight's the night someone comes by to get me. Even then, they can't do much till tomorrow, and we'll either be drowned, et, or too far gone by then." Tom nodded. "I'm ready any time you are." "Let's be about it then." So they stripped, bundled their clothes about their possessions, tied their packs to their backs, and entered the water. It felt cooler than the night's air, but their strokes were strong and after a time the exertion seemed to push the chill away. They swam steadily landward, and Hugh thought back over the previous month's piracies. He'd wanted to leave before this, but the danger had held him back. Now he wished he'd left sooner. Stealing, killing, drinking too much every day, and being a prisoner much of the time made him think again of the world's meanness. There was too much of it, everywhere he turned. He wanted to be alone in a big place, away from his fellows, free. He wondered whether the man he'd refused to kill had had a family. He wasn't sure he ever wanted one himself. Another way to be a prisoner, maybe. Crawling through the water, he lost track of time. There was the monotony of the waves, Tom's steady splashing nearby, and the sameness of the night all around. The two shores were dreams, the crawling was all. One must go on. At some point, he remembered coining to shore. Now the waters of Galveston Bay seemed the dream, the land they waded toward the reality. He remembered laughing and hearing Tom's laughter. Then they threw themselves flat, breathing heavily, the tingling of ceased motion dancing over their skins. After a while, they slept. … Lying there, still as a stone, he watched the latter end of the procession in its passing, through a haze of fog and trail dust—the lame and the aged walking with sticks, leaning on companions, more squaws with children and packs of supplies. They did take care of their own, he reflected, and he could almost feel a touch of sympathy at their flight from the Sioux, though it was their own cussedness had brought them to this pass. He and Tom had been captured by the Ree on their trek through Texas, but had managed to escape. They were wary after that because of the treatment they had received. But all the wariness in the world didn't amount to much for two men afoot on a plain when they were spotted again by a mounted party. They tried hiding in the scrub, but the warriors knew they were there and flushed them quickly. Hugh tried the few words of Ree he had learned during their brief captivity, and his new captors showed understanding of them as well as of his raised open hands and his sign gestures. They made it obvious, however, that they were prisoners by taking their knives and conducting them to be confined in their camp. They were tied and guarded that night, and while they were given water to drink they were not fed, though they were allowed to dine from their own meagre supply of fruit and roots they had obtained on departing from the Rees. The following day they were not molested, though they remained confined, and they spent the second night under guard, also. A considerable babble of discussion emerged from a nearby tent late into both evenings. The next day they were brought food and treated with some kindness. They were given fresh garments and led about the camp. As the day wore on, Hugh attempted to communicate with their captors, hoping to win their release, but the only responses he received seemed to indicate that they would be permitted to join in a feast that evening. The day wore on, and at sunset they were conducted to a gathering of the entire tribe in whose company they were seated. Fires burned at every hand, and the smells of roasting buffalo, venison, and fowls came to them. They sampled every dish, as their hosts insisted that they try everything, that they gorge themselves on their favorite fare. They were infected by the tribe's seeming good humor, and began to relax and try to make jokes themselves. Finally, sated and a little drowsy, they began looking forward to the feast's end, to retiring to a night's rest. Abruptly then, they were seized from behind by several braves and bound hand and foot with strips of rawhide. "Hey!" Hugh shouted, then added the word he'd learned for "friend." Nobody answered him. Instead, Tom was taken to a tall, upright stake and tied to it. Squaws cut away his garments, stripping him, and heaped kindling about his feet. "Let the boy go!" Hugh called. "Friend! Friend!" They paid him no heed, and the women went to work on Tom with knives, cutting away strips of his skin. "Stop! Stop it, for God's sake!" Hugh screamed, his cries half-drowned by Tom's own shrieks. The women continued about their business, taking their time, removing patch after patch of skin, occasionally poking and prodding with the points of their weapons. Hugh became acutely aware of the second stake which had been raised, not too far behind the first. He closed his eyes against the sight, gritted his teeth, and tried to blank out Tom's cries. It did no good. Not seeing was in some ways worse than seeing, leaving even more to his imagination. The ordeal went on for a long while, till Tom finally pleaded with them to kill him. Even later, they started a fire at his feet and heaped more kindling upon it. Hugh had shouted at them to no avail and had used up his tears early. Now he just watched as his friend writhed within the consuming flames. He tried not to, but his gaze kept returning to the spectacle. Soon it would be over. Then, of course, it would be his turn. He remembered a small container of vermillion dye which he had borne with him from Galveston Island, as it had some commercial value and he'd hoped to sell it on reaching civilization. He hated to see it burned up, wasted, and it would make fine body paint, a thing his captors seemed to favor. What the hell, he decided. Maybe it could do even more for him here. He groped with bound hands at the place where he carried it at his belt. Painfully, he unfastened its ties. When it came free and he had a grip on it, he raised himself. Casting the bundle at the chief, he cried, "Here's a present for you! Hate to see it go to waste!" The chief stared at the parcel, then extended a hand and picked it up. He removed it from the leather pouch and examined it closely, until he had discovered the manner in which the tin might be opened. When it had been uncovered his eyes widened. Tentatively, he touched the substance with a fingertip, raised it to study it, drew a line with it upon his forearm. A pair of braves was already headed for Hugh by then, but the chief raised a hand and said something Hugh did not understand. The warriors halted. The chief advanced then and addressed Hugh, but Hugh shook his head and said, "Present. It's a gift. I do not understand what you are saying." The chief continued to speak, however, finally calling something back over his shoulder. Presently, a brave approached, drawing a knife as he advanced upon Hugh. Hugh gritted his teeth as the blade's point passed near his abdomen, but the man used it only to cut his bonds. The brave helped him to his feet, and the chief came forward and assisted him. They guided him back to his quarters, where he sank upon his sleeping skins. The chief said something else then, smiling as he said it, and went away. The man who had freed him remained on guard outside. He did not think he would sleep easily that night, yet he did. The evening's events returned in his dreams, and in the morning he recalled awakening several times to the sound of his own voice calling Tom's name. After a while a woman brought him breakfast, and he was surprised at his appetite. He finished everything and when she brought him more he ate that, too. The day wore on and he waited. He was fed again at about noontime. No one approached him other than the woman with the food. He made no attempt to venture beyond his confines. He sat and thought, about Tom, about Laffite, the Caribbean, ships, sailing on a bright day, Pennsylvania summers. Later they came for him and escorted him back to the site of the previous night's feasting. He surveyed the area hastily, but this time there were no stakes in sight. He moved to settle into the position he had occupied before but was halted by his companion and taken forward, where it was indicated that he should sit beside the chief. This dinner was different from the previous one in that it was preceded by a speech from the chief and a ritual of sorts where he placed his hands upon Hugh's shoulders and head several times, struck him lightly with bundles of twigs, bound his hair with a beaded cloth, and finally draped a small skin over his shoulders. Then the feasting proceeded in a jovial spirit with others of the tribe passing by to clasp Hugh or lay hands upon him. Gradually, he came to understand that the chief had adopted him, that he had become a member of the tribe, that he was now a Pawnee. In the months that followed he learned the language, the customs, discovered that he had a knack for tracking, became a deadly marksman with bow and arrow, took him a Pawnee wife, became one of the tribe's better hunters. He learned, too, that the life of the trail appealed to him more than the life of the sea, with its cramped quarters. The plains held all the freedom of the vast and changing sea, without the confining drawbacks. He did not know exactly when he resolved to spend his days on the frontier. The realization grew in him slowly. Before the first winter had passed, however, he knew that he had finished forever with a sailor's life. Yes, he had enjoyed it. But reflecting upon it now, as the Pawnees' less reputable relatives vanished into the west leaving a cloud of golden dust behind them, he saw that meanness again, on the night the Pawnee women had tortured Tom. True, they'd had grievances against the whites, but a bullet in the brain or a quick knife-thrust would as easily satisfy a need for a death. It was nothing special against the Pawnees, though, who had been good to him during his stay in their midst. Rather, he felt, they had their cussedness because they were members of the same race as all the other tribes of the earth. He rubbed dust from his eyes then, and licked his lips. Time to crawl down and get himself a drink, see what he could find to eat. Slowly, he descended and made his way to the river, where he drank and washed his face, hands, and neck. The area about him was too trampled to retain edible roots or berries. He crawled then to the carcass where he had fed the previous evening. It had been picked clean, however, its bones cracked and scattered or carried off. Back in the direction of the bluff where he had spent the night, beyond the trees, Hugh saw a movement. He lay perfectly still and watched. Some final straggler of the migrant Rees. He crawled ahead then, among the trees, through the brush, short-cutting a bend in the trail to bring him to a waiting place ahead of the shuffling figure. An old woman clad in buckskins moved carefully along, bearing her small bundle of possessions. He licked his lips and checked behind and ahead. No one else had come into sight to the rear, and the rest of the tribe was gone from view, far ahead. There was sure to be some food in her pack, and the others would hardly soon miss someone they hadn't even bothered to wait for. Flint, steel, a knife… Even in his condition it would be no problem to take them from her. Her cries would not be heard above the noise of the van. He watched her move. Ironic, if she'd been one of the ones who'd done for Tom that long-gone day. She shuffled nearer, and he wondered at her life. How many babies had she carried? How many were living now? Just an old woman… He watched as she passed, remained still till she was out of sight beyond a clump of trees. "Fool!" he muttered, to have let her go by, mother of Rees. It was not the same as when he'd refused to kill a helpless seaman. This was the enemy. He shook his head. "Fool," he said softly. Sometimes he was a fool. Growling, he turned away, heading back toward the river. He followed the water's course, down along the trail the Ree had come. It was easy traveling, though the dirt irritated his nose, and he halted to wash his face several times. Berry bushes beside the trail had been stripped, as had the lower branches of fruit trees he passed. He dug a few roots when he was beside the river, washed them, broke his fast with them. Before long all of the fog had burned away, and the dust had settled. During the next hour he made good progress. The sun spilled some warmth through the yellow and green of the tree limbs, and there was a fresh strength in him today. Topping a small rise, he halted and sniffed the air. Smoke. The breeze brought him a hint of smoke. Beginning of a brush fire, or its residuum? Or might someone be camping nearby? The breeze shifted and the smell vanished. Had it really been there, to begin with? He crawled forward again, sniffing the air regularly. Nothing now. Still… It was several minutes before it came again. It was still faint, and a breeze's vagary took it away once more. But now he was certain. He had smelled woodsmoke. It was impossible to determine its direction, so he continued along the trail. Another hundred feet and it came to him clearly. The trail, then, did seem the proper course. He wondered again at what it might represent. Aid? Or an enemy? He moved off the trail and continued to advance, with more difficulty now, among the trees, brush, and rocks that paralleled its course. It seemed prudent to have a look at any campers without being seen himself. The campfire smell grew stronger. He slowed when he felt he was nearing its vicinity. Finally, he halted and lay still for a long while, listening for voices. There were none, though he thought he heard the growling of one or more dogs. Finally, he began to move again, deliberately, soundlessly. After a time, he drew near the periphery of a cleared area. He parted the stems of a shrub and peered through at it. It had obviously been used as a campsite recently. There were no people in sight, but several dogs prowled it now, whining, scavenging. Studying the grounds, where a great number of people had probably passed the night, he realized that this must have been the Ree's latest encampment. They had proceeded from here past his aerie. He watched a little longer, until he was satisfied that the place had been completely abandoned. He moved forward then and entered the area. No telling what might have been lost or left behind by a fleeing tribe. Their fires were normally extinguished completely, but with the Sioux at their heels they were moving fast. It would be worth a quick survey. He shouted at the dogs in Pawnee, and they slunk away from him. He advanced upon the one fire which still smoldered, then halted and lay staring at it. How long had it been since he had seen a fire, sign of humanity? How long since he had been able to kindle one himself? He thought of many he had sat beside—campfires, hearth-fires—and he suddenly felt that he had indeed come a great distance, that he had come back to something. He chuckled in realizing that he lay prostrate before it. His life was wilderness, yet many things set him apart from the beasts. No bear could feel exactly as he did in returning to such a sign of a former existence. He patted the earth beside it, then moved on. His tracker's eye caught all of the camp signs clearly—the places where the campers had eaten, the places where they had slept, their trails to water and latrine. Even without having seen them go by, he could roughly estimate their number, could separate the tracks of the aged and the children from those in between. The dogs studied him as he explored, but seemed afraid to draw near this man-scented thing of low profile and bestial movement. With a stick, he stirred the ashes of their fires, where all of their trash seemed to have found its place. All of these others were cold now, and while some of the trash—bits of cloth, leather, wood— had not been completely incinerated, it seemed that nothing of any value lay within. Until the fifth… Poking within the soft gray heap at the center of a circle of stones, he almost missed the tiny flash. But he did not even pause as it registered. Immediately, he moved the stick again, to knock free its outline and clear its surface. A slim, worn length of whetted steel, its point broken off, haft charred, lay before him in the dust. He dropped the stick and snatched it up. Steel, serviceable steel… He wiped it on his pant leg, held it up for closer scrutiny. He tested its edge. A bit dull, but easily honed. And he could wrap the handle with some cloth torn from his shirt. Then, turn up a piece of flint and he could strike a fire whenever he needed it. He smiled. He could carve a crutch. The hip and leg were feeling somewhat better. It was possible, had he something to lean on, that he might be able to hobble along in an upright position now. He studied the rocks that ringed the burned-out fires, seeming to recall a small, flat one that just might serve as a whetstone. Yes. Over to the right… He fetched the stone and began honing the blade. He found himself wanting to whistle as he did it, but refrained. Later, with a satisfactory edge upon the blade and the jagged point somewhat blunted, he cast about among the trees for a limb suitable for his crutch. It was the better part of an hour, spent crawling among trees, before he located an appropriate branch, at a height to which he could drag himself by holding first to the trunk, then grasping a lower limb, the knife clasped in his teeth. After notching it and whittling it free, it took him another hour—sitting, back to the tree trunk— to trim it properly, find and adjust to the right length through repeated testing, and to carve a comfortable armrest upon it. He held it across his lap and regarded it. A knife and a crutch in one morning… If he could use the latter as well as the former, this was a very important day. Hand against the tree trunk, pulling, left leg straightening, he drew himself up to his full height and then leaned as he fitted the rest to his right armpit. Still holding to the tree with his left hand, he shifted weight onto the crutch. It bore him. He allowed his right foot to touch lightly upon the ground. He took a step with his left foot, shifted his weight, moved the crutch a small distance, shifted again. He let his left hand fall from the tree. Another step with the left foot. Shift. Move the crutch. Shift. To be upright again—albeit with aid—not to be crawling—yes, it was an important day. He smiled. He made his way about the campsite. The dogs watched him, but kept their distance, tails sinking when he turned his attention upon them. He thought of killing one for food, but they were wary of him. Yes, he really was human, they must have decided. And a stranger, and odd. Now. Now, then. Now. Time to search out a piece of flint. A canvassing of the immediate area did not turn up a chunk of that stone. So he decided to continue on his way, scanning all rocky deposits as he went. Upright. It did not take long to get into the rhythm of the trail with his new gait. He sprawled periodically to rest his left leg, and his right shoulder. It was difficult to determine whether he was covering ground more rapidly in this fashion or when crawling at his best. Yet he was certain that with increasing familiarity, usage, and strength, this means of progress would soon outstrip the earlier. He swung along his way into the afternoon till thirst drove him from the trail down among the cottonwoods by the river. And it was there he found his flint. Almost singing, he made his way to the water's edge. When his shadow fell upon it, he saw a darting of forms. Fish had been browsing in the shallows. After he drank his fill, he used his blade to fashion a spear from a straight stick. Waiting then in such a position that his shadow did not impinge upon his chosen stretch of water, he tried for half an hour before obtaining two catfish. With some threads from his sleeve and a pile of wood shavings, he was able to start a fire with his new tools. He fed it slowly, and while it strengthened to the consumption of larger sticks, he cleaned his fish on a flat rock and washed them in the river. He grilled them on willow wands, trying the while to calculate how long it had been since he had eaten food that had been cooked. He had to give up, however, as he soon realized he had lost track of the days during his crawl. After he had eaten he stripped and bathed in the river, remembering that bitter pool near the beginning of his journey. Here, he could tilt his head and drink whenever he wished. And amid his buoyancy and movements he felt that he was coming back together again. He washed his tattered garments then and donned them wet. He was tempted to loaf the day away, letting them dry on a bush, but he felt uncomfortable this near the Ree. He doubted any would be doubling back to check after pursuit, but it was possible, if the Sioux had indeed pursued them for a time. And though it seemed unlikely there would be any stragglers this far back, some mishap might have slowed someone who was even now hurrying to catch up. So he remained alert as he swung along, ready to depart the trail in an instant at the first sign of humanity. The afternoon wore on, however, with only the sounds of the birds and a few splashes from the sunken river to keep company to the small thumps of his crutch. A few yellowed leaves came loose and dropped about him. His armpit and shoulder grew sore, but his leg was feeling better, even when he touched it down in occasional testing. His scalp, forehead, and nose were feeling better, also, some of the scabbing having come away as he had bathed. He could not recall when the headaches had ceased. There were no fruits or berries to be had along his way. The Ree had stripped the bushes and trees as they had gone by. Hugh decided that it would be fish again for his dinner, if they were to be had. He stumped along, realizing, for the first time in a long while, that he was enjoying the day. He thought back as he hiked, to the time he had spent with the Pawnees, his earlier reverie having breathed fresh life into those memories. He recalled their leader's decision to journey to St. Louis, where a meeting involving large-scale trapping was to be held. It had been decided that it might be a good thing to send a peace mission, to let the fur company know that the Pawnees were a dependable, friendly people, who might be counted upon to provide guides, messengers, labor, in their enterprise. It might benefit the tribe by promoting a preferred status when it came to trading, particularly for metal goods, firearms, ammunition, horses. It certainly seemed worth the effort. It felt strange, entering the city, being there, back among his own kind—or were they? He had changed, he realized then. It only took a few days, in rooms and on busy streets, before a feeling of confinement came over him. Reading a newspaper was a pleasure he had all but forgotten, though, over a morning cup of coffee. It was there that he saw an ad, in the Missouri Republican, which tied in with the Pawnees' journey, and which got him to thinking again of things that had passed through his mind more casually during the past couple of days. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company was looking for men to supplement this year-old trapping company's crew at its Ft. Henry trading post. Major Andrew Henry, after whom the post was named, needed hunters as well as trappers, and especially people with knowledge of Indian languages and ways. He was later to learn that the fort, near the mouth of the Yellowstone River, had lost both horses and men to raiding Assiniboine and Blackfoot warriors. Yes, it sounded like the sort of enterprise which might meet his fancy, and for which he doubtless was qualified. He had grown tired of the tribal life of the Pawnees. But this—All that movement, and new lands to see… He smiled as he finished his coffee. He would have to go for an interview and learn all of the details. So he had gone, talked, and been offered employment. His experiences seemed to impress the interviewer strongly, and he had signed him on for the work. In the days that remained in St. Louis, Hugh met a number of men who had lived in the wilderness—some of them attracted by the fur company's hiring, others just passing through, in both directions. One of these had been that strange man, John Colter, who had actually traveled to the far ocean with Lewis and Clark. There was an odd light in his eye, which Hugh at first took as a touch of lunacy but later decided was… something else—something like the look of a medicine man who had been long in the dream-time. Colter did not recite his tales with the braggadocio of the seasoned yarner but with a conviction Hugh found vaguely unsettling. He came away from their talks of travels and adventures with a belief in the man's absolute sincerity, and he was to wonder about him for years afterwards… … Later, as the evening came on, he caught his fish, grilled them, and dined. Then he washed up, massaged his leg, shoulder, and arm for a time, and removed himself a good distance from the trail to make his camp. He fell to sleep with a feeling of satisfaction. In the morning he dined on berries and water from the river. A few days of steady travel and he'd be accustomed to swinging along with the crutch, he felt. There was a rhythm to it which he was beginning to pick up, and he knew that he was making better time upright, and with less effort. Each stride took him farther from the Ree and nearer to Sioux country. They called them Dakotas up here. Same thing, though. They'd trust him all right. Henry's boys had always gotten on well with the Sioux. The closer he got to the Cheyenne River and the farther from the Moreau the better he felt. Hard to judge how many days it would take to really be into their country. If it were a few weeks later, with less foliage on the trees, he'd have a better view westward. Could catch a glimpse of the Black Hills then, to know better where he was. At least he knew where he was headed. He'd come a good distance toward Ft. Kiowa, and while it was still a long way off he'd come into a much more congenial piece of countryside. And his strength was beginning to return. Already, long stretches of his inchworm progress had taken on the fragmented quality of dreaming… He tried to think about meanness—from Laffite and the Pawnee women to Jamie—but his spirits were too high. So he just set his mind to rising and falling with the swells like a ship at anchor, and the day passed through, along with pieces of Pennsylvania, the West Indies, and the mountains, most of them involving days such as this. He slept deeply that night and did not remember any dreams. In the morning, though, as he headed to the river to bathe and seek after berries and roots, he found a succession of stripped berry bushes, bear tracks and bear scat about the area. This upset him for a long while. That night, after a good day's travel, he dreamed again of the bear, crushing him, breathing into him, with a certain feeling of urgency, as if it were trying to pull him back, to that time, that place, to do it all again, this time not to let him get away. He awoke sweating and shaking. He sought the shadows and sniffed the air, but he was alone in the night. Later, he slept again. There was no bear sign the next day, and several times it rained causing him to take refuge among the trees. The going was slower because of the mud this produced, and his fear of falling. He was unable to take any fish and dined entirely on roots. The following day the land began to rise about him, assuming rougher, more hilly features. Eventually, he moved among bluffs and the river was inconveniently low to his left. Still, he crossed the streams and creeks which fed it, and he speared fish, bathed, and drank from these. It seemed to his recollection that this terrain marked the edges of the valley of the Cheyenne. A day or so here and it would be an easy, downhill walk into the safety of that place. … And the pain in his hip was better than it had been since the bear. Even the leg was beginning to feel a little stronger. Every time he inadvertently put weight on it there had been twinges, but none of the terrible pains of a break. Even these had eased during the past few days, so that he began to wonder whether it might have healed to the point where it could bear his weight for a few paces. Gingerly, he began to experiment. A little weight… Not bad. A little more. Still all right. Bit of a twinge there. Try again. The next morning, as he took his way down a slope, he heard the sound of horses. Immediately he headed for cover. Two mounted Indians rounded the bend and, from an exclamation one of them uttered, he knew he had been seen. A moment later, two pack horses made the turn, and it sounded as if more were coming behind them. Hugh halted and turned as the foremost reached for his rifle. He faced them, raising his left hand, open palm facing them. Two more riders rounded the bend, also leading horses loaded with baskets and bags. These riders also reached for their weapons. As they approached, Hugh grew certain they were Sioux. Thinking again of human cussedness, he waited until they drew near and halted, rifles still upon him. Then he said, "Hugh Glass," and added "friend" in their language.