The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) (45 page)

He looked at me for a quiet moment, and then he said, “Okay, Levi. You c’n come, but only partway.”

So it was that the four of them, Shad, Rostov, Nick and Chakko, started up the slope as silent as death, and I followed right behind, making as little sound as possible. Luck was with us, for some clouds began to drift across the face of the moon, giving us more dark to move within.

At the far top of the slope the five of us lay flattened out against the ground and looked over on to the flats beyond. There were a few mounted Tartars scattered out on guard not far away, but it’s doubtful they really expected any visits from our small group in the hollow. And a distance beyond the guards, strung far out on the flats, were fifty or sixty small fires, each one with a handful of men bunched around it. Toward the center of all those fires was a bigger fire near a large kind of round and flattish-topped tent. Several men were gathered around that fire, but it was too far away to be sure in the dark if Kharlagawl was among them. Next to that fire was the big hanging drum that was twice as tall as the fella who was slowly pounding on it.

Shad whispered, “This is as far as you go, Levi. Try t’ keep ’em off us durin’ the retreat. But don’t hang around forever.”

I readied my rifle and the other four moved as soundlessly and hard to see as shadows out onto the flats and toward the Tartar camp.

In no time at all, no matter how hard I strained my eyes, they were invisible off there in the dark. I found out later that they’d split up just outside the camp. They figured that way, sooner or later, somebody would get a shot at Kharlagawl.

Then, after what seemed a hundred years or so, I saw a big man stand up by that central fire and tent. Just from his size I guessed it might be Kharlagawl. Then there was the sound of a distant rifle shot and the big man fell down.

All hell broke loose instantly down there, and at that moment a large dark cloud completely blotted out the moon, making the night as dark as a bat’s wing. From out there on the flats there were the mingled sounds of men screaming, guns going off, and running hooves thudding against the ground. The only sound that stopped was the beating of the drum.

Finally I saw a deeper shadow materialize on the dark flats and realized it was a man running swiftly toward me. When he was about fifty feet away I knew from his size and shape that it was Nick, and racing after him was a Tartar on horseback. Just guessing more than aiming, I pointed my rifle and fired and the Tartar disappeared off the suddenly rearing horse. A moment later I stood up as Nick got to me.

There were some other dim, running figures farther along at the top of the slope and then the sounds of many horses galloping toward us.

“Back!” Nick said.

I hesitated, straining to see in the dark, but as the charging horses came nearer, Nick grabbed my elbow and spun me back and down on the slope.

“Now!”

And we ran like hell.

Going downhill, especially in the dark, my speed tended to get out of control. I almost went sprawling down half a dozen times, and then the cloud passed away from the bright moon, which helped a little. From below, now able to see, our men started shooting to discourage the Tartars behind us on the slope.

My lungs bursting, I sped down to the edge of the breastwork, and I was going so fast there was no way in the world to put on any brakes. So I just lunged on over and went rolling down into the hollow.

Nick landed right-side up, but the jar of it damnere broke both of his legs. When I got up and we stepped back to the breastwork Chakko was just leaping down, and even that tireless Indian was out of breath.

Looking up the moonlit slope, Slim said, “Cover ’im!”

Another shadowy figure was running down toward us, a bunch of Tartar horsemen behind him. Slim and the others put some rounds into the Tartars. Two of them went down and the others backed off.

The man racing down the hill was almost to us, and from his size and build, and that flowing, cougar grace, I knew it was Shad.

But for just that minute, I’d forgotten how much alike Shad and Rostov were.

And it was the captain.

Rostov leaped down beside us and I said, “Where’s Shad?”

He frowned at me, and then we all looked back up the slope, but there was nothing moving on it.

“Likely,” Slim said, “he’s just layin’ low out there somewheres.”

“No.” Chakko said finally and quietly. “He shot Kharlagawl.” Chakko was having real trouble going on. “The sound a’ his gun brought ’em to ’im.”

“You saw?” I said.

Chakko nodded.

“An’ ya’ didn’t go t’
help
’im?”

Chakko shook his head. There was no fear in his face, or guilt. Just common sense and sorrow. Then, slowly, he turned and walked away.

That left the rest of us just standing there silently, looking off at nothing, or maybe looking at the ground. Looking at anything but each other.

And then the drum started again.

Finally Rostov said, “Levi?”

I just looked at him. I didn’t yet feel quite up to saying “What?”

“Would you like every man here to mount up and charge the Tartar camp, on the possibility that we may still be able to help Shad?”

He meant it, and it was the hardest question anybody ever asked me. But after a long time I managed to say, “No.”

And Slim said in a low, gruff voice, “If them Tartars didn’t kill us, Shad would.”

Looking far up the slope now, Nick muttered something in Russian to Rostov.

At the distant top of the slope some Tartars were doing something, but even with the bright moonlight it was too far away to tell what.

Watching them, and listening to the boom of the Tartar drum, Slim muttered, “One thing. Losin’ their boss don’t seem to’ve slowed ’em down much.”

Rostov’s face became very hard, and he started to do a strange thing. He took two cartridges out of his belt, and for the second time that I knew of, he bit on a lead slug and pulled it out of its brass cartridge case. And then, similarly, he took the slug out of the other one.

Either he knew damn well, or he’d guessed damn well what the Tartars at the top of the slope were up to. For now a fire was lighted up there. The fire was all around a big post stuck in the ground, and Shad was tied onto the post.

Without even thinking about it, I started charging up over the breastwork to get to him. And then, for the only time in his life, Slim hit me. His big fist caught me alongside the head, and
damn
he could hit. I was flat on my back and still groggy as Slim leaned down to give me a hand back up again.

“You can’t help ’im, Levi,” he said in a toneless voice. “He’d be burned b’fore ya’ could get up there to ’im.”

And then, as my head got itself more together, I realized what Rostov was doing.

He was overloading one cartridge case, putting additional powder into it from the second one. That’s one way of making a real long shot, if you know what you’re doing.

Then, as the flames grew rapidly around Shad, the distant drum stopped and there was complete silence.

Nick said flatly, “They are quiet. So we hear his screams.”

In a low voice that was almost a whisper Old Keats said, “That’ll be the day.”

God knows what they’d already done to him by then, but Shad was still awake and aware enough to know everything that was going on. And from where he was, on that high post, he could pretty much see all around. Then, as the flames were halfway up around his body, he didn’t scream, but he sure as hell yelled, his roaring voice carrying all the way down the slope and to our ears.

“The
arroyo
!” His thundering far-off voice was dim but clear. “Use the
herd
!”

And then, as the fire raged higher around his body, Rostov took careful, steady aim and fired.

It was an impossible, and perfect, shot. It went right through Shad’s heart and stopped the searing pain of the fire.

And in the silence that followed, a far-distant, low rumble began.

“They’re chargin’ upon us down through the arroyo,” Slim said. “They’ll be down on us in a couple a’ minutes.”

Rostov slowly, so very slowly, now lowered his rifle. And it was as if he was now both a cowboy and a cossack, for he’d surely read Shad’s thoughts more clearly than any man ever could without having witnessed firsthand the power of a longhorn stampede.

Almost softly, he said, “They’re going to be faced with more than five hundred enemies. Slim, Levi, get out that last keg of black powder!”

So in about one minute, under Rostov’s directions, it came to pass that we were ready. Natcho and Crab had goaded Old Fooler partway into the arroyo, and a few of the other head sort of followed along, wondering where everybody was going. And Slim and I had spilled that final keg of gunpowder out in a long, thick little mound that stretched like an explosive string along the flat land behind the herd.

We were all asaddle. Nick was looking after Kirdyaga, and Shiny was helping to hold Link aboard, and nobody else needed any help.

From the front part of the hollow Rostov yelled, “Light it!” and I struck a match and tossed it down at the end of that long string of powder.

I never saw such a damn thing. That powder roared like something living and, without actually hurting anything, sent rolling sheets of booming flame blasting high into the air.

Buck and I were the closest ones to it and Buck, in terror, almost reared over sideways to escape the horrifying thing.

And the cattle felt the same instant terror that Buck did. All they needed was some place to go.

Old Fooler had been madder than hell for days anyway. And all the recent fighting hadn’t helped his temper. So since it was the easiest escape route there was, he took off up that arroyo like a speeding one-ton cannon ball, and every bull and cow in the whole outfit elected instantly to follow his lead.

Within the few seconds it took me to get Buck back to normal, that herd was spilling into that arroyo like a tidal wave.

I raced Buck to where Rostov was, and we galloped on up the right side of the arroyo, speeding along its rim.

Our riders were strung out at dead runs on both ridges of the arroyo, with the herd thundering at full speed below us and between us.

The Tartars were expecting to get right to us by charging down the arroyo. That way, instead of having that long, deadly run down the slope, they’d be able to burst right out upon us.

And their own massive charge must have been making so much noise that they didn’t hear the answering thunder coming back at them until it was too late.

From above, it was some kind of an encounter to watch. The leading Tartars galloped around a bend in the arroyo and saw Old Fooler and his gang shaking the earth as they came at them.

Those leading Tartars had very few choices. With all the close riders behind them they couldn’t stop or go back, so the best they could do was immediately try to climb the steep walls of the arroyo, which didn’t work.

Old Fooler and the longhorns behind him stampeded into them like a huge iron locomotive slamming full speed through the front parlor of a house of cards, smashing the small ponies and their riders to pieces.

The crushing, thunderous disaster lasted maybe five minutes, and then Old Fooler and the herd busted wildly out of the arroyo and up onto the far flats, not quite realizing, or giving a damn, that the battle was over and that they’d won a hands-down victory. So they just kept on running for about ten miles.

Frankly, I don’t know how any of those Tartars in the arroyo survived, but some of them did. And on the flats beyond there were a few small, sporadic fights.

Three Tartars came upon Slim and Sammy, and Sammy put his arm in the way of a sword being swung at Slim. They killed one of the Tartars, or maybe two, and that was the end of that. But Slim told him something as we were quickly tying off the bleeding in Sammy’s arm. “Ya’ know Sammy,” he said, “the way ya’ stretched your arm out, it was kinda—like a fella swimmin’.”

Sammy liked that. And I did too.

Next morning we caught up with Old Fooler and most of the herd. They were standing around munching grass and staring off into space with bored expressions, as though nothing exciting ever happened in their lives, and they were getting a little fed up with it all.

It took most of the rest of that day to round up the scattered wandering cows, and then, rather than retrace our steps, we headed straight on toward Bakaskaya.

It was the second day that we ran into the five hundred men from Bakaskaya. One of the two cossacks, Dmitri, had gotten through, and they were headed back toward us as fast as they could make it.

Seeing them come toward us in the distance, Old Keats said very quietly, “Three days too late. A thousand years too late.”

Somehow I found myself saying, “No, Keats. They’re on time. Just tryin’ t’ be makes it so.”

Old Keats looked at me for a long, quiet moment. “Yes. Sometimes your heart can get someplace b’fore the rest of ya’ can.”

Then, with a few of the hands to help them, that big bunch of fellas took the herd on the last little ways to Bakaskaya, for it was surely safe now.

And the rest of us rode back.

I’d expected a hell of a mess back there around the flats and the hollow. But it’s funny how fast the world takes care of things. From a mile away, your eyes couldn’t tell you for sure that anything had ever happened there.

The Tartars who had lived through it had stripped the place of everything in the way of weapons or clothes they could use.

The only things that were left were bodies, too many bodies to bury. And it sure hit hard how little use a body really is. Without life and breath and spirit in it, it’s worth no more than the ground it’s lying on. We left them for their flying gravediggers, the vultures.

The one thing they hadn’t touched was what was left of Shad. When we cut him down, I was reminded, like Rufe had been, of Mushy fixing all our boots. He’d done a real good job on Shad’s, and I hated to see those good boots scorched and burned into nearly nothing but blackened ashes.