The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) (20 page)

Looking around the table, I saw one encouraging thing. As Slim leaned across to fill Igor’s glass, I noticed tears, or at least a lot of very suspicious moisture, in Igor’s eyes. He looked at me at the same time, and both of us, without words, knew that neither one of us was alone in his agony.

And then, as Slim finally filled his own glass, emptying the bottle, the pretty, tablecloth girl, as smiling as ever, came back carrying a tray with four brand-new bottles of vodka on it.

Igor and I gave each other a second pain-filled glance as she spoke to Rostov in a cheerful voice, placing the bottles before us.

As she left the table, Rostov turned to Shad. “We sent two bottles, so—”

“Yeah,” Shad broke in. “I gathered.”

Rostov said, “It’s those two big men who spoke to us as we came in.”

Old Keats grinned. “Shall we send ’em back eight bottles?”

It didn’t take a genius at arithmetic to figure out what was going on. “Jesus
Christ
, boss!” I said. “They’ll send us back
sixteen
!”

Slim turned to give the two men a short, friendly look. “Tell the truth, I can’t help but kinda admire their style.”

Shad said nothing, but his face was set in a hard half-angry frown.

Looking at Shad now, Slim saw deeper, beyond the frown. And when he spoke it was in a quiet, easy voice. “I know it’s a sorta dumb spot t’ be put in, boss. But in Montana it’d be easy. Back there we’d either invite them fellas over t’ join us, or send the booze back, which’d sure be askin’ for trouble.”

Rostov said flatly, “It won’t be sent back.”

Slim nodded and spoke for all of us to Rostov, though he was speaking mostly for Shad. “We just hate somehow t’ give less than we get. T’ ever be beholden t’ anybody. It ain’t in our nature. An’ this white whiskey thing’s gettin’ sorta foolish an’ outta hand. In some kind of a good way, how can we come out fair an’ even with them fellas?”

“Very easily,” Rostov said quietly, knowing our minds were all on Shad. “Simply by thanking them.”

Old Keats muttered, “Hell!” Then he shook his head slightly and said, half to himself, “The easiest and yet the most difficult thing of all.”

It looked to me like Rostov was about to get up and go to the far table where the two men were when Shad suddenly spoke in a low, gruff voice. “What’s a good word?”

If Rostov felt as startled as the rest of us, he didn’t show it. He said, “You might try
vostrovia.
”

“What’s it mean?”

“To your health.”

Shad grabbed his glass and stood up from the table, glaring at the two men across the room. Raising his glass high he roared “
Vostrovia
!” so powerfully that it seemed like the whole room damnere shook.

That was probably the hardest thing he ever did in his life.

But it sure worked.

The two big men stood up with their glasses raised and shouted “
Vostrovia
!” back at him.

There was something a whole lot more than simple “good health” in the air, and whatever it was, it was so exciting and contagious that all of us at our table and most everyone else in the room suddenly started rearing up with glasses held high, yelling deafening “
Vostrovia
s!” all over the place.

And then, as the thunder of voices subsided, we all drank.

Carried along, even I drank again, and the second glass wasn’t as hard on my already numb throat as the first one had been
.

As they finished their drinks, the two big men suddenly and swiftly threw their glasses as hard as hell to the floor, shattering each glass into maybe a million pieces. Shad’s and Rostov’s empty glasses were the next to slam explosively down against the floor. And then, with glassware now being shattered all over the room, I got to the end of my drink and threw it down as hard as I could.

It was the strangest thing, but in the instant my glass crashed to the floor, I somehow understood with great clearness two things I hadn’t known before. One of them was that all these people throwing their glasses down had a pretty good idea of what Rostov and his free cossacks stood for and this was their way of wordlessly wishing them good luck.

And the second thing I realized in that instant was the actual reason for smashing the glasses. It had to do with the human mind and spirit, as if it were a way of showing that the idea within that last drink was so damned true and important that the glass had to be destroyed and never used again. And in never being used again, the truth and importance of the idea it held could never ever drain away like the casual drink the glass held. The drink would be forgotten soon. But the shattered glass and the idea behind it would be remembered forever.

After all that noisy breakage, there was a long, warm moment of silence as the other men in the room stood facing us, the good feeling so thick in the air that you could almost breathe it in
.

Then, as if everything that needed saying had been said, everybody started sitting back down, talking and laughing once
more between themselves. At the same time some of the girls working there started sweeping up the broken bits of glass all over the floor, while the others quickly began bringing out trays of new glasses to set at the tables. They not only didn’t seem miffed at what had happened, but I got the idea they were actually pleased about it. For that matter a couple of them, including the tablecloth girl, had clapped their hands delightedly as we were demolishing our glasses. She came up with a trayload of new ones as we settled back into our chairs. Putting eight of them down for us, she said something to Rostov, and then she was gone.

As Old Keats and Bruk each took a bottle and started pouring refills around, Rostov said, “Her name is Irenia. She just said that in her heart she drank and broke a glass with us.”

Slim, like me, was still deeply impressed with what had happened. “Does that crazy kinda thing go on all the time?”

Rostov shook his head. “No.”

“Only,” Bruk said slowly, “when it’s something special.”

Slim nodded thoughtfully. “All the same, special or not, back in Montana any barkeep I know sure’d take a dim view a’ the custom.” He pulled his drink toward him. “Just outta idle curiosity, in a saloon like this who gets stuck with payin’ for all them glasses?”

Rostov glanced at Shad. “Traditionally, the man who proposed the toast.”

I think Shad himself was still in a small state of shock, both for having forced himself to thank some Russians for something and also for being moved by their magnificent reaction to it. “Good,” he said, quietly studying the refilled glass in front of him, “that’s exactly as it ought t’ be.”

The noise in the rest of the room, though it wasn’t all that loud, suddenly became lower, voices going down and laughter either stopping or easing off. It was as though somebody might have been playing one of those new Magic Talking Machines I’d heard about and a nasty neighbor had complained so they’d
turned it down so far that the good time wasn’t really any fun anymore. The whole place suddenly had a cold, different feeling in it
.

We swung around a little in our chairs and saw the reason, which wasn’t hard to figure out. A bunch of Imperial Cossacks, ten or twelve of them, were coming in. They looked around the room with hard eyes, paying particular attention to us. Then they took a couple of tables near one of the front windows, and I had the thought that they probably didn’t even know, or certainly care, that they’d just ruined a fine, warm Magic Talking Machine time.

For that matter, a great many people in the room now began to quietly finish their drinks and leave. The two big men were among the first to go.

Saddened, and even more angered by all this, though I could almost swear I wasn’t feeling the vodka, I raised my glass and said to Rostov, “It’s my turn! What’s the opposite of
vostrovia
? How do ya’ wish somebody
bad
health?”

“Nurse your drink,” Shad said quietly. “I’m not all that anxious t’ get you out of a riot, or carry ya’ home.”

Rostov spoke to Igor in almost the same voice. “You will drink everything in your glass—but gradually.”

So the rest of them continued their regular drinking, while Igor and I tried to look indignant about being cut down but were secretly grateful as hell.

Shad downed his drink in the Russian one-raise-of-the-wrist fashion and then frowned at the Tzar’s cossacks near the window. “Seein’ us relaxin’ here, they know we’re either awful strong or awful stupid.”

Slim swallowed his vodka neat and said, “That’s one major advantage we got over ’em. They ain’t yet picked up no inklin’ a’ how stupid we
really
are.”

The others emptied their glasses and Rostov said, “Verushki has already sent night patrols out, of course.” He leaned forward to speak quietly. “Let’s look at it from Verushki’s point of view.
We camp on the broken flats two miles outside of town. We will not bother him, and he is not to bother us. No more than a few of our men are to come into town together at any time. As soon as we can cross the Amur, we’ll go.”

Slim put down another charge of vodka. “That’s about the simple right of it.”

Rostov looked at Shad, who was listening quietly, turning his now empty glass between his thumb and forefinger on the tabletop, making little circles of water on the wood. As Nick filled the empty glasses, Rostov went on. “It’s supposed to be a gentlemen’s agreement that he won’t spy on us, but he will. He’ll do everything he can to collect Shad’s little finger and everything that goes with it.”

“Sure he will,” Shad put in. “That’s why we’ll be way out on those broken flats. With our men and cattle movin’ in and out of those far-off breaks, they’ll never be able to figure out for sure that there ain’t too many of us.”

Bruk put away another glass of vodka as though it was clear spring water and said grimly, “If Verushki had any idea how few of us there are, or if he finds out—”

“
If
this an’
if
that!” Shad said in a low, impatient voice. “The whole
point
a’ showdown is t’ out-if the other fella! We’re sittin’ here because Verushki
ain’t
got no idea our last card is a deuce!”

Rostov had been studying Shad thoughtfully. “In one strange way, Northshield, showdown and chess are the same game.”

“The hell you say.” Shad frowned. “Plain old showdown got us this far.”

“In chess one sometimes mounts a seeming show of strength where there is no intention or real ability of attacking at all. It’s usually referred to as a diversionary tactic.”

Genuinely puzzled, Slim said, “Huh?”

“Let’s
show
Verushki our last card. But we’ll make our deuce look to him like an ace.”

I expected almost any reaction from Shad except the one he finally had. He said quietly, “Tell me about makin’ an ace.”

“Verushki would massacre the thirty of us, the deuce.”

Taking another sip of vodka I muttered, “Thirty-one,” wanting to keep the count as high as possible.

“But he’s afraid of sixty of us.” Rostov paused and then went on. “So let’s show him that ace. All sixty of us.”

The others at the table just looked at each other, wondering if Rostov was quite right in his head.

Except for Shad. Once again his reaction was thoughtful and quiet. “My fellas would raise a lotta hell over that.”

Rostov nodded. “So would mine.”

Even with the vodka not helping me much, it was then that I first started to realize that Rostov and Shad were each slowly beginning, somehow, to damnere be able to know, or at least guess, what the other one had on his mind. Maybe, even seeming so different, they were that much alike. In any case, right now they were already talking back and forth about something that hadn’t even been said out loud yet.

Frowning, Bruk spoke for the rest of us. “Just what is it that we would all raise hell over?”

“Verushki’s men,” Rostov explained, “will be watching us from a great distance, and on broken terrain. Therefore, aside from our normal movements, from time to time we will all put on American clothes and deliberately show ourselves all at once against the skyline. At other times, we’ll all wear cossack uniforms and do the same thing. That way there will sometimes seem to be thirty cowboys. And at other times, thirty cossacks.”

“Rostov’s chess ain’t too bad,” Shad said. “When Verushki’s already been buffaloed up front, thirty an’ thirty sure add up fast t’ sixty.”

Slim started pouring again, glancing off toward the Imperial Cossacks. “Them two games do have one thing in common.”

“What?” I asked.

Slim shrugged. “T’ play either one like a real champion, looks like ya’ got t’ be slightly crazy.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
T WAS
a good while later before the Imperial Cossacks finally got up to leave. We’d already decided not to take off until after they did. We were bound and determined to be more relaxed than they were if it killed us.

As they gave us hard looks and started to go out, Old Keats and Nick were pouring from our last two bottles, which were both getting fairly empty by now. There weren’t many people left in the place, and the girls were sort of straightening things and cleaning up in general.

The Tzar’s men went through the door and Shad said, “We’ll give them a couple of minutes, then bust out.”

Bruk said, “They’re probably waiting to follow us.”

Nick nodded strongly. “Yes. They follow.”

“Won’t matter.” Shad looked at Rostov. “It’s too dark t’ count anything tonight, and we’ll move ourselves an’ the herd out t’ the flats b’fore daylight.”

Again they were understanding each other’s thoughts without words. Rostov just looked at Shad, silently agreeing, and then turned and called out in Russian, obviously asking for the bill.

We started to get up and the tablecloth girl, Irenia, came over and said something that was nice, in a low, happy voice, smiling all the while at Rostov. And after all that niceness of hers, she was no more prepared for Rostov’s sudden anger than I was. If a man could ever speak quietly and yet carry a lion’s roar at the same time, Rostov did it then. Whatever it sounded like to her, she rushed away, frightened half to death.