Every man there knew Hugh Glass was a gone 'coon.' They had only to look at what little the she-grizzly's 3-inch claws had left of the old trapper. At least what they could make out through the blood, which was everywhere. To look at his shredded scalp…face…chest…arm…hand. To see how she'd chewed into his shoulder and back. They had only to listen to the blood bubble from the rip in his throat with his every breath. What astonished them was that he breathed at all. Again. And yet again.

Tough as they'd found the old coon (a term mountain men used to describe themselves) to be that summer of 1823 as they challenged the Upper Missouri tribes to reach the beaver streams, Major Andrew Henry and his nine trappers would have been incredulous if they'd known how indestructible Glass and his story have proved to be. That he would become the subject of controversy would not have surprised them. That some men would call him a liar and accuse him of slandering a gallant comrade might have puzzled them. The notion that Hugh Glass was about to crawl into American legend, to become an epic hero of story and poem, would have made them laugh.

He was going to die. Any minute now. Any fool could see that.

Hostile natives had already finished off 17 of their brigade. Arikara (also known as Ree) Indians had killed 15 in a June 2 attack that forced them off their Missouri River keelboats and–that route to the mountains closed–set them trudging west up the Grand River valley. August was two-thirds gone, yet several of them still nursed scars from that battle, including Old Glass, who'd taken a ball in his thigh. That hadn't stopped him, but the grizzly had finally done him in.

He was old compared to most of his fellow mountain men. Nearing or in his early 40s, Glass was old enough to be the father of young men like Jim Bridger, who was beginning his second year as a trapper. But they called him 'old' with a measure of affection and respect. He was a loner, who often insisted on going his own way. His willful foray up the draw for ripe plums, which had ended in 'Old Ephraim's' embrace, was typical. But his skill and courage had served them all well. Tall and powerfully built, he wasn't a man to run from a fight.

One or two of the somber group that ringed his dying ground thought Glass deserved to lose this battle. He'd exposed them all to greater risk. The U.S. Army had made a sham of punishing the Arikara village for the devastating June attack. If a couple of frustrated trappers hadn't torched the Arikara village on their own, the Rees could have laughed in their faces. They were uncowed and on the prod. Henry had ordered his small crew to stick close together as they hurried cross-country toward his fur post on the Yellowstone River. He allowed only two designated hunters and wanted no unnecessary gunfire.

Yet even with those precautions, they'd lost two more men in a recent night attack. Two others suffered wounds. When the attacking warriors proved to be usually friendly Mandans, the trappers knew the Ree contempt was spreading–Assiniboines, Sioux and Hidatsas could well emulate the Blackfeet, who already considered any white man fair game. To draw attention could be to die. The gunshots needed to finish the grizzly and her two yearlings echoed through the gully. So, too, did the screams of Glass. They had to get their 18th fatality underground and move. Now!

But this corpse was still breathing.

Others, watching, remembered Glass' quick and effective response to the Arikara guns. Afterward, he'd nursed the wounded, especially young John Gardner. Knowing he was dying, Gardner had entrusted Glass with his last message to his family back in Virginia. Somewhere in his shadowy past, Glass had gained enough education to express himself clearly and gracefully in writing. He had proved more than equal to this sensitive task.

'My painful duty it is to tell you of the deth of y[ou]r son…,' Glass wrote the young man's father. 'He lived a short while after he was shot and asked me to inform you of his sad fate. We brought him to the ship where he soon died. Mr. Smith a young man of our company made a powerful prayer wh[ich] moved us all greatly and I am persuaded John died in peace….'

But the scribe himself would not oblige and follow. They tore strips from shirts and bound up his wounds as best they could, sure he'd be dead by morning. When the sun woke them, though, he still breathed.

The saga of Hugh Glass must be pieced together from accounts written by several of his contemporaries, each with varying details. Respected mountain man George C. Yount recorded in his memoirs that he talked with Glass directly, as well as with a trapper named Allen (Hiram Allen was one of Major Henry's 1823 brigade) and a later Glass cohort of record named Dutton.

Allen recalled that Major Henry ordered branches cut for a litter and that they carried the groaning, blood-wrapped man two days or more. Whatever distance, it was too little, too painful and it took too long. Near the forks of the Grand River (in present-day South Dakota), the trappers reached a grove of trees that sheltered a spring-fed stream, and Henry faced facts. He could lose all his men trying to prolong the life of one already as good as dead.

They'd leave Glass here to recover, if he could, or die in peace. But the major needed two volunteers to stay until the expected happened and give Hugh a decent burial. It couldn't be long. Then they could catch up. The company would pay each a bonus worth several month's wages. He waited. Neither trapper Allen nor the experienced Moses Harris found the bonus worth risking his scalp for. There was dead silence.

Finally a man spoke up and then another–John S. Fitzgerald and 19-year-old Jim Bridger. Although he was the youngest of them all, Bridger had to support both himself and his younger sister with his wages. Whether inspired by practicality, compassion, or youthful optimism born of inexperience, Bridger accepted the charge. Before either could change his mind, Henry and the other seven hurried away.

Fitzgerald and Bridger were alone, except for the blood-caked, wheezing apparition at their feet. They could do nothing for him except administer a few drops of water and wave off the flies. Dusk came, then dark, then dawn. Every hour increased their risk. They could do nothing for themselves except watch anxiously for Indian sign and dig the grave so all was ready. Another day, another night. Their odds of catching up with the others shrank.

Through yet another sunrise Hugh Glass' wispy breaths bound them to their dangerous camp as efficiently as a spider's silk bound captured flies. And as fatally. Fitzgerald began to argue for moving on. The man was in his death sweats, but it was taking him forever. They'd stayed far longer than Henry expected, risked far more. It was time to save themselves. No one would blame them.

Eventually the younger man agreed. Quickly they collected their gear. But as Fitzgerald packed up, he proved he was intent on saving something more than his life. He also wanted both the bonus and his reputation. That required they tell Henry that Old Glass was dead and buried. And in the grave, Glass had no use for a rifle. Or powder and shot. Or his knife. Or his possibles sack with flint and steel. If they didn't take all his fixins, someone was sure to ask why. In the mountains, you didn't waste valuable gear on a corpse.

If Bridger was repelled by applying such logic to a corpse that not only was warm but also still drew breath and moaned now and again, he failed to raise convincing arguments against it. They moved the invalid to within reach of water and, certain his days of needing anything more were done, walked away, carrying every tool Hugh Glass possessed.

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