The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) (37 page)

Equally quietly, as though his two words were explaining everything, he said, “An
obo.
”

That sure was one hell of an answer, and I was sorely tempted to mention how grateful I was to him for letting me in on all that priceless information. But he suddenly waved the two of us to a stop. Then he lunged his black ahead fifty yards or so through the deep grass to lean down and pick up something that was stuck on a brambly kind of a bush. Finally he raised his arm, signaling that it was alright for us to come on.

When we pulled up near Rostov, he held out his hand for Bruk to see what he’d found. It was nothing but a few long red
threads that looked like they’d been torn from a piece of red cloth on the brambles, hardly enough of it altogether to sew a button on a shirt.

Bruk nodded thoughtfully, studying the ground around us, and Rostov said, “They were here before the rains, at least a month ago.”

For some reason or other they both were relieved at finding those threads of cloth, but I was getting more curious and puzzled every minute. So finally I blurted out the first of a number of questions bothering me. “What the goddamn hell, sir, is an
obo
?”

Rostov glanced at me with a brief, impatient frown, as though I should have somehow known or guessed the answer. “It’s a Tartar religious symbol.” And then he rode on ahead a short distance, still looking carefully at both the nearby ground and the far distances on each side of us and before us.

More relaxed now, as we walked our horses on across the wide plain, Bruk reached for his long-stemmed clay pipe and started to fill it.

“Damn it,” I muttered, my pride unaccountably hurt because of my ignorance, “how the hell am I supposed t’ know what a goddamned
obo
is?”

Lighting his pipe, Bruk gave me a quick, keen look. “What would you have guessed it to be?”

“Hell, just t’ look at—a landmark?”

He nodded quietly, as though agreeing with me, but when he spoke he said, “No. If you really look, Levi, every ridge and mountain in our sight can serve as its own landmark. That
obo
was built as a sacred offering from the Tartars to whatever gods there may be in this area.”

Funny, Bruk talking that way about “really looking.” It reminded me, somehow, of Old Keats telling me way back there on that boat that a man had to see with more than just his eyes. The similar way those two old fellas were in a lot of ways sort of forced a fella to stop and think sometimes.

By now we were halfway across the wide plain. The sun was sinking lower in the west. And the
obo
ahead of us seemed to grow larger and spookier at about the same slow rate of speed that the sun was sinking.

“How can you an’ the captain be so sure there ain’t no Tartars waitin’ for us up there?” I asked uneasily.

“The birds, even the most timid ones, are flying and landing over there without fear.”

That answer was so simple that I didn’t even dare ask how the threads on that thorny bush meant the Tartars had gone through here a month ago, before the rain. Probably, when it was raining, the goddamned bush sank clear into the ground, or something.

As we got still closer to the ridge with that great pile of rocks on top of it, I just hoped I didn’t sound too much on edge and said, “Dumb bastards! All that work t’ git in good with a bunch a’ gods that ain’t even there!”

Bruk pulled slowly on his pipe. “The Tartars see spirits and gods in every tree and rock, in the sky and earth, even in the stars and the wind. There’s a certain beauty in such a belief.”

The quiet and surprisingly respectful way he said that kind thing about his deadly enemies reminded me so much again of how Old Keats might feel that it almost made me forget about being nervous for a minute. “You damnere sound like ya’
like
’em.”

“No. But I certainly respect them.” He shrugged. “How can you not respect men whose very name means ‘brave’? Or who claim, as a race, to be the descendants of a great, mythical blue wolf?” He paused. “A Tartar warrior pierces his horse’s hind hoof at night for a few drops of blood and mixes that blood with a handful of rice for his day’s food.”

“Ugh,” I said.

“And with only that handful of rice and blood, he can outlast, outride and outfight any other mounted warrior in the world.” Bruk turned his weather-beaten old face toward me, and a faint hint of humor came into his eyes. “Except a cossack, of course.”

Before I had time to defend us cowboys with some kind of a witty response, we heard hoofbeats coming up fast. Shad and Old Keats, with Igor right on their tails, were barreling toward us across the wide plain.

Rostov trotted his black over as the other three galloped to us and pulled up.

Shad squinted at the huge, square pile of rocks looming darkly above and said, “Puttin’ that thing up took a lot a’ men.”

Rostov nodded. “From the size of the structure, it had to be Genghis Kharlagawl.”

“Scary bastard, ain’t it?” I said with what I hoped was a fearless grin.

Bruk said, “I’ve seen many of them.” And then I realized that he’d been sticking with me, trying to bolster me up, as he added, “But that one—it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, and it becomes more and more frightening when you approach it. As though it’s been dedicated to the gods of death.”

Shad turned his big Red slightly. “Rocks’re rocks. It’s what lies behind ’em that counts.”

With Shad and Rostov leading off, the six of us rode up the slanting incline toward the crest of the ridge high above and the
obo
, which by now looked almost as gigantic as the darkening sky behind it.

And damned soon it seemed to me that whatever local gods the magic of that Tartar
obo
had drawn about it had to be the meanest, blackest, ungodly demons to ever get a leave of absence out of hell.

Struggling up that incline, which was suddenly a whole lot steeper than it had looked from below, the ground shifted and slipped beneath our horses’ hooves. And it started to get darker quicker than any normal, mortal day ought to get dark. On top of that, a cold blasting wind came screeching out of nowhere with enough slamming force to almost tear a man out of the saddle or even knock both a horse and rider down.

When we finally managed to scramble to the top and rode over to the twenty-foot-high monster, Shad reached out from
the saddle into the shrieking wind and touched one of the boulders in the
obo.
And being this close up to it, I was so spooked by now that I swear to God when he touched it I fully expected the entire mountain of rock to come avalanching down and bury all six of us.

But it was as though that simple touch of Shad’s hand had instantly chased away the whole gathering of fierce demons. That snarling banshee wind suddenly broke and faded and then disappeared, for all the world like a crying, spoiled kid who’s been whacked on the butt and sent running home.

Within a moment, the demons of darkness and cold followed as fast as they could, leaving a sun that was not too far from setting, but was at least a regular sun putting out normal late-afternoon warmth and light.

Even the rocks must have had bad spirits in them because with the appearance of the sun their ugly darkness changed to a lighter, warmer tone that was as cheerful as the front of the First Baptist Church at Butte.

“You frightened the spirits off!” Igor said to Shad, only half joking in his own nervous fear.

Catching my breath and not even half joking, I muttered, “Sure as
hell
!”

Shad glanced at us and then squinted briefly up at the sky. “You two dumb bastards sure would make easy converts. That ugly weather was nothin’ but a fast north wind carryin’ some clouds on it.”

“Well, damnit, Shad,” I said defensively, “ya’ gotta admit that you just reachin’ out an’ touchin’ that goddamn thing, an’ then the whole world changin’ like that was sure as hell downright spooky timin’!”

Igor nodded. “Yes!”

That rare, dust-dry humor of Bruk’s came into his eyes once more. “Perhaps we should do something to placate these fearful gods.”

Reading Bruk’s mind, Old Keats picked up instantly on his friend’s words and said wryly, “Maybe, Levi, you an’ Igor’d like t’ offer up a human sacrifice ’r somethin’.”

Igor and I exchanged frowning, slightly embarrassed looks before I grumbled, “That’s very hilarious, Keats. You sure as hell ought t’ consider vaudeville.”

Then Shad and Rostov led off again, and we rode on over to the far edge of the top of the hill.

From here we first saw the grim meadow below. And we also saw that more than enough human sacrifices had already been made.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

L
ESS THAN
half a mile from us, down in a richly fertile, green meadow, there was a large, beautiful stand of white birch, and within the surrounding trees four small cabins had been built around a small clearing.

It must have been a kind of pretty sight at one time. But no longer. Two of the cabins had been burned completely to the ground, leaving only their two stone fireplaces standing like tall, blackened tombstones over the ashes. The other two had been gutted by fire, but there were parts of the walls still remaining.

From where we were, I could make out several small, grayish-white outlines scattered on the ground near the cabins. A moment later, a sudden wave of sickness came over me as I realized that those scattered outlines were skeletons of the people who had once lived there.

Slowly, and with no word spoken, the six of us rode down the far side of the hill and across the grassy meadow toward the trees and what was left of the homes within them.

As we entered the small, tragic circle of ruined cabins, Buck almost stepped on the bones of a single torn-off human arm that was lying all by itself, half-buried in the ground. I just happened to see what the grisly thing was at the last minute, and I jerked the reins so hard that the bit hurt Buck’s mouth and he reared slightly, snorting resentment at my unexpected roughness.

Then I walked him on, looking the hideous place over with stunned, maybe even partly glazed eyes. For the unbelievable horror all around was just about too damn much to take.

Before I finally gave it up, I silently counted to myself nineteen skeletons. Two of them had been tied to charred stakes and
were almost part of the fallen ashes where they must have been burned. Some of them were mingled together, forming jumbled, ghastly jigsaw puzzles of decaying bones. Others were sprawled singly in such grotesque shapes that their backs and other bones must have been broken before they were dead. A few, but not many, had strips of cloth on or near them that might have been strips of clothing. But boots and belts, and any weapons they might have had, were gone.

I’d counted to nineteen because I was right on the edge of plain cracking up, and I had an idea that the counting might help me keep some kind of a grip on myself. But then I realized numbly that I was starting to go crazy anyway, so I quit.

Near the center of the clearing between the cabins was a well, which was about the only thing there that hadn’t been destroyed. A small protective wall of rocks was still around it, and the rope and bucket had been left intact.

After a while, the six of us joined each other, still in complete silence, and dismounted near the well, though to tell the truth my mind was still so wobbly I don’t recall riding over to the well or even getting off Buck.

It was Rostov’s low, strong voice that finally brought me back to myself a little, his quiet words starting to nail my staggered, loosened-up mind more firmly in place once again.

“They were a brave group,” he said. “They fought well.”

His eyes grim, Bruk nodded. “At least eight dead Tartars are there among them.”

Old Keats looked at Bruk thoughtfully. “They don’t even bury their own dead?”

“They have a saying,” Bruk said quietly, “that the vultures are their flying gravediggers.”

“One of the Tartars who died here was relatively important,” Rostov said.

Igor, who’d been having his own problems hanging on to himself, now at last managed to say in a husky, strained voice, “How do you know that, sir?”

That was a pretty good question, because sure as hell none of those pathetic piles of bones was wearing any insignia.

“Come.” Rostov stepped toward the partly remaining wall of the nearest cabin.

Igor, Shad and I followed him while Old Keats and Bruk stayed near the horses. And as we moved off, the two older men started to lower the bucket to get some water from the well.

Near the base of the cabin wall there was one skeleton all by itself, but as we approached it I noticed for the first time that there were two skulls there.

Finally finding my own voice, and sounding a lot like Igor had just before, I said, “Tartar leaders’r two-headed?”

I’d said it innocently, hardly even paying attention to my words, but it came out funny, and this wasn’t a time or a place for fun. The other three looked at me, and I had to grit my teeth hard against laughing. Because I knew if I started to laugh, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

Rostov leaned down and picked up the skull that wasn’t attached to the skeleton’s backbone. Handing it to Shad he said, “This man was a high-ranking warrior or they wouldn’t have left this with him.”

Igor and I both stared at the ugly object, and I now saw that this skull was much older than the other bones. The top of it had been neatly cut off and in its place a flat sheet of rawhide had been tightly stretched.

“It’s a
damaru
,” Rostov said.

We glanced at him questioningly and he added, “A small ritualistic drum.”

Shad handed it toward Igor and me to examine, but neither one of us wanted to hold it, so he dropped it back on the ground where it had been. “Nice t’ know,” he said grimly, “that they’re music lovers.”

We turned and started back toward Old Keats and Bruk at the well. Bruk, his back to us, had finished drinking from the first bucket. Quite a bit of the water must have spilled, for Keats
had leaned over to lower the bucket for a refill, and now he was hauling it up again.