The Song of Hugh Glass. John G. Neihardt

for ruth and shame—

      That Hugh so dallied.

      But the fourth dawn came

      And with it lulled the fight, as on a field

      Where broken armies sleep but will not yield.

      Or had one conquered? Was it Hugh or Death?

      The old man breathed with faintly fluttering breath,

      Nor did his body shudder as before.

      Jules triumphed sadly. ‘It would soon be o’er;

      So men grew quiet when they lost their grip

      And did not care. At sundown he would slip

      Into the deeper silence.’

      Jamie wept,

      Unwitting how a furtive gladness crept

      Into his heart that gained a stronger beat.

      So cities, long beleaguered, take defeat—

      Unto themselves half traitors.

      Jules began

      To dig a hole that might conceal a man;

      And, as his sheath knife broke the stubborn sod,

      He spoke in kindly vein of Life and God

      And Mutability and Rectitude.

      The immemorial funerary mood

      Brought tears, mute tribute to the mother-dust;

      And Jamie, seeing, felt each cutting thrust

      Less like a stab into the flesh of Hugh.

      The sun crept up and down the arc of blue

      And through the air a chill of evening ran;

      But, though the grave yawned, waiting for the man,

      The man seemed scarce yet ready for the grave.

      Now prompted by a coward or a knave

      That lurked in him, Le Bon began to hear

      Faint sounds that to the lad’s less cunning ear

      Were silence; more like tremors of the ground

      They were, Jules said, than any proper sound—

      Thus one detected horsemen miles away.

      For many moments big with fate, he lay,

      Ear pressed to earth; then rose and shook his head

      As one perplexed. “There’s something wrong,” he said.

      And—as at daybreak whiten winter skies,

      Agape and staring with a wild surmise—

      The lad’s face whitened at the other’s word.

      Jules could not quite interpret what he heard;

      A hundred horse might noise their whereabouts

      In just that fashion; yet he had his doubts.

      It could be bison moving, quite as well.

      But if ’twere Rees—there’d be a tale to tell

      That two men he might name should never hear.

      He reckoned scalps that Fall were selling dear,

      In keeping with the limited supply.

      Men, fit to live, were not afraid to die!

      Then, in that caution suits not courage ill,

      Jules saddled up and cantered to the hill,

      A white dam set against the twilight stream;

      And as a horseman riding in a dream

      The lad beheld him; watched him clamber up

      To where the dusk, as from a brimming cup,

      Ran over; saw him pause against the gloom,

      Portentous, huge—a brooder upon doom.

      What did he look upon?

      Some moments passed;

      Then suddenly it seemed as though a blast

      Of wind, keen-cutting with the whips of sleet,

      Smote horse and rider. Haunched on huddled feet,

      The steed shrank from the ridge, then, rearing, wheeled

      And took the rubbly incline fury-heeled.

      Those days and nights, like seasons creeping slow,

      Had told on Jamie. Better blow on blow

      Of evil hap, with doom seen clear ahead,

      Than that monotonous, abrasive dread,

      Blind gnawer at the soul-thews of the blind.

      Thin-worn, the last heart-string that held him kind;

      Strung taut, the final tie that kept him true

      Now snapped in Jamie, as he saw the two

      So goaded by some terrifying sight.

      Death riding with the vanguard of the Night,

      Life dwindling yonder with the rear of Day!

      What choice for one whom panic swept away

      From moorings in the sanity of will?

      Jules came and summed the vision of the hill

      In one hoarse cry that left no word to say:

      “Rees! Saddle up! We’ve got to get away!”

      Small wit had Jamie left to ferret guile,

      But fumblingly obeyed Le Bon; the while

      Jules knelt beside the man who could not flee:

      For big hearts lack not time for charity

      However thick the blows of fate may fall.

      Yet, in that Jules Le Bon was practical,

      He could not quite ignore a hunting knife,

      A flint, a gun, a blanket—gear of life

      Scarce suited to the customs of the dead!

      And Hugh slept soundly in his ample bed,

      Star-canopied and blanketed with night,

      Unwitting how Venality and Fright

      Made hot the westward trail of Henry’s men.