The Road to Amber (21 page)

H
ugh 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 ofhis 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 out of 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 hoofbeats.

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 ofspray 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.

Bur 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 mourh, 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?”