The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) (31 page)

She was tying the bandage when Igor came back in. “We’re going now.”

“Igor,” I said, “will you tell her—”

“What?”

How can you say a lifetime of words, especially through another fella, in the time it takes to walk from a basin of water to a door? So I just gave up and looked at her and said, “Nothin’.”

But she understood.

And then we were gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
HE NEXT
day three of our fellas and three cossacks, with Sergeant Nick in charge of them, went into town. None of our men, Mushy, Sammy the Kid and Chakko, had been in before, and it was the same with the cossacks, so except for Nick they were all new faces.

Before they left, Shad told the Slash-Diamonders not to mess around with the Imperials in any way, shape or form, and particularly not to do any arm-rassling. But after that bout between Rostov and the Imperial moose, it just never came up again anyway, as though everybody on both sides realized that any further contest would just have to be plain silly by comparison.

Later that afternoon, a bunch of mounted Imperials were doing some sort of a toy-soldier drill just outside of Khabarovsk on that huge meadow, so Rostov and Shad decided it was time to show them a reversal of our first all-cossack performance, just for the hell of it. Us cowboys outfitted the cossacks as best we could. Shad and me gave Rostov and Igor each spare jackets and pants and boots and bandannas. The thing we were shyest of was hats, because most of us had only one. But Big Yawn was a help there. He always wore a kind of a hunting cap with a visor in front of it and ear flaps on the sides that you could pull down if you wanted to against the cold. And for some reason he was packing half a dozen spares that he passed out among the cossacks.

So it came to pass that over twenty cowboys rode up against the skyline, just briefly, to watch the Imperials drilling far off on the meadow. And then, as though we were almost immediately bored by what we were watching, we soon drifted back away and out of sight again.

Our men came back from Khabarovsk just after nightfall, and the most exciting thing they had to report was that Mushy had caused a mild sensation by finishing his last drink at The Far East, and then eating the glass. Mushy did that every now and then, especially after a few too many. Damnedest thing, he’d chomp down and bite off a chunk from the rim, chew it slowly and thoughtfully, and then swallow it. And he’d just keep that up until the whole goddamn glass was gone, except that he usually left the bottom of the glass because it was thicker there, and he also claimed it didn’t taste as good.

I kept waiting for one of them to pass on some word to me from Irenia, but nobody said anything.

I did let my pride go down a peg by saying offhandedly to Mushy and Sammy, “Ya’ talk t’ anybody in town?”

“How the hell could we?” Sammy said. “Ain’t nobody in there can talk American.”

“That’s right.” Mushy nodded. “Nick did all our talkin’ for us.”

At supper, Slim and I wound up sitting beside Nick, and I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. “Did ya’ see that girl, Irenia?” I asked Nick casually.

He nodded, and kept on eating.

After a long time, I said, “She—say anything?”

Between mouthfuls he said, “She ask how your hand. I say fine.”

“Well, goddamnit, why didn’t ya’ say so?”

He finished eating and turned his massive face toward me with a hurt expression. “I
say
so. Just now.” And then he got up and walked away.

“Stupid goddamn cossack,” I muttered.

“You been slightly an’ subtly had by that stupid goddamn cossack.” Slim grinned. “He told me all about that more’n an hour ago.”

“Oh.”

The following day I rode the morning stretch on the herd, and the sun was a little past high noon when Crab relieved me.
I swung around by the big rock on the war-games meadow to see if anything might be going on, and on this day my timing wasn’t too good because I got stuck in a race that was about to begin around that tough damn course.

The good part was that it was a relay, with four men on each team, so we’d each have only about half a mile to go, instead of the whole rugged two miles.

The bad part was that instead of each racer passing on a baton, or something light like that, to the next fella, what we were supposed to carry and pass on was a large, rounded rock weighing over twenty pounds. And if anybody dropped it, that would probably lose the race for his team because he’d have to go back to get it. And it was easy to drop because just standing there on the ground holding that rounded rock in one hand wasn’t all that simple.

“Jesus,” Dixie said, “whoever invented this idea musta been mad as hell at somebody.”

“Well, Dixie, you can see how it’d help train ya’ for warfare,” I said dryly. “If you ain’t got a cannon, you just ride up carryin’ the cannon ball and throw it.”

“This is child’s play compared to some of the games,” Rostov told us. “Such as racing the entire course with a sharp saber clenched between your teeth.”

“Yuck,” I said.

“However,” he continued, “this race will do. Particularly in deference to Northshield’s common sense, and also the fact that right now we can’t afford to have anyone get his head cut off.”

This sounded pretty grim, but Purse managed to take it lightly. “Put a saber in Mushy’s mouth,” he said, “and he’d probably eat it.”

Aside from Rostov, Slim and Nick, there were eight of us there, me being the lucky number eight who made the cowboy team complete. Dixie, Purse, Mushy and I made up our bunch, and Igor, Ilya, Pietre and Kirdyaga were the cossacks.

It was decided that Pietre and I were to ride the final heat for our teams, and we rode at an easy gait out to the fourth pole about half a mile off at an angle to the right.

We got there and pulled up to wait, giving each other a grin. I couldn’t help but remember some of that fancy riding I’d seen Pietre do and felt pretty outclassed. But then I shrugged mentally, thinking what the hell, at least old Buck was every bit the horse that Pietre’s fine skewbald mare was.

Looking back I studied the three final poles we had to race outside of on our way back to the finish line. The first was at a tricky outcropping of rocks, and the second was in a thick grove of trees. The third, and last, was that one next to that murderous ten-foot jump over the swift, rock-studded stream twenty feet below, which I had absolutely no intention of even trying to make. I figured I’d swing about a hundred feet down to the left of that pole. It would be safe to jump there, and I’d still be making pretty good time.

Everybody was in place by then, and at about that time I saw Shad ride up to join the others over near the big rock.

Igor and Mushy, the starters for the teams, were mounted, each holding a heavy rock in one hand and ready to go. Nick raised his arm and then quickly dropped it, signaling the two of them to bust out.

They took off like demons, and both of them made that first low jump over the stream all right, each of them holding their rock kind of up against their chests so they could hang on to it better. But by the time they approached the first relay point far across the meadow, where Dixie and Ilya were waiting and raring to go, Igor, on that fast Blackeye, had now pulled about two or three lengths ahead of Mushy. He handed his rock to Ilya, who in turn took off at full tilt. And then Mushy was there, passing his big rock over to Dixie. It looked like they damnere dropped it, but then Dixie was also on his way, galloping furiously to try to narrow the cossack lead.

Dixie was on his handsome Appaloosa, Shiloh, who could outrun damnere any living thing on four legs, and taking that second part of the course in almost exactly the same route Ilya used, Dixie picked up a couple of lengths.

The race was getting exciting as hell, and was now suddenly half over as Ilya and Dixie barreled up to Purse and Kirdyaga with at the very most one second difference in their running time. With growing, eager excitement, Pietre leaned over and whacked me powerfully on the back, letting out a wild whoop that may have been Russian, but sure sounded like a pure cowboy yell.

And then Ilya, who was handier with balalaikas than rocks, dropped his as he was handing it over to Kirdyaga. The giant Kirdyaga didn’t even dismount to get the heavy rock. He spun his horse around and, leaning far down, did an almost impossible thing by simply picking it back up in one huge hand.

But just that brief time still lost them three or four lengths because Dixie had passed his rock to Purse and Purse was on his way. It would have been a shoo-in for us then except that Purse tried to gain even more time by cutting too close to a pole in some thick trees and he got slowed down for a long, maddening moment, so that when he and Kirdyaga came charging out of that grove of trees and onto the open meadow, they were as close together as the two sides of a silver dollar.

Pietre was going crazy, and I guess I was too, because all of a sudden I realized I was hollering at Purse, and urging him on, as loud as Pietre was yelling at Kirdyaga.

The two of us each got handed our rock at about the same time, and I damnere lost myself along with the rock as Buck, feeling all the intense excitement, roared away so fast he almost left me sitting there in midair.

Getting my seat back, I took the rough outcropping of rock closer to the first pole than Pietre did and for a few seconds had to slow down or Buck could have hurt himself. Pietre took a way
that was farther around but faster, so we both galloped out of the rocks about even.

We exactly reversed that process going through the thick stand of trees farther on. Pietre elected this time for the shorter, more tangled route, and a grasping branch almost tore the rock out of his hand, slowing him briefly as he went ducking and weaving through. Playing it safer this time, I spotted a wide path forty feet to the left of the pole where I could charge through at a dead run, and I chose that way.

And again, goddamned if we weren’t still flying along neck and neck on the far side of the trees.

And now, in these last seconds, the whole, entire race boiled down to whatever the two of us made up our minds to do.

It was a flat-out straightaway toward that final, deadly obstacle, and we were going so fast I don’t think any one of those combined eight hooves were hardly even touching the ground.

It was going to be awful damn tight.

Maybe Pietre suddenly got the same idea about me that I suddenly got about him. But I for sure suddenly got the idea that he wasn’t going to play it in the least bit safe, but was going right smack at that last pole to take that killer of a jump there. So no matter who was reading whose mind, before there was any time to think it over, that’s exactly where we were both headed, like blistered bats out of burning hell.

I knew as sure as I knew my own name that I shouldn’t try to make that jump. But in those last feverish, speeding moments, I’d have probably needed three guesses to come up with my own name anyway. Winning that race had crowded out everything else in the world. And yet I did somehow know that the jump was wrong.

All things equal, I suddenly decided on what seemed to me to be a brilliant way out of my dilemma.

Cradling my rock against my chest, I leaned forward over Buck’s ears and said, “I’ve decided t’ leave this up t’ you. If ya’ can make that jump, then make it. An’ if ya’ can’t, then fuck it. As f’r me, I’m just gonna sit here with this rock.”

Even at the blinding speed that we were traveling, Buck’s ears were twitching back every now and then as I spoke, as though he wanted to be sure not to miss anything.

And that dumb buckskin sonofabitch decided to make it. If possible, he opened up even a little more, his neck and nose stretched out ahead as straight and graceful as the prow of a speeding ship.

All this time, Pietre and his skewbald were staying so close alongside us that he and I could’ve shook hands without leaning over.

Right now there was just time for one quick breath before we’d be at that brutal, empty space looming swiftly up ahead, so I sucked in a half breath of air as I leaned forward, balancing myself into the killing jump.

And at that precise moment, Buck changed his mind and stopped. When I say he stopped, I don’t mean he just slowed down or anything like that, because there wasn’t enough time to fool around. I mean he slammed on every goddamn brake he had as he sat right down and dragged his butt holding both forelegs stretched stiffly out before him so that he dug up enough dirt to start a small farm with, and skidded to a halt that was just slightly less abrupt than running straight into a brick wall.

Both me and my rock came awful close to sailing on all by ourselves and completing the remainder of that jump, or at least a portion of it, without benefit of Buck. It was so close, that gripping onto Buck’s ribs and then his flanks with every bit of foot and leg power I had, I swear it was only my toenails finally holding firm that just barely kept me from going on.

But Pietre did take that awesome leap. As me and Buck were skidding, he and his mare were flying, and that skewbald of his was one hell of a jumper. They just made it, but the ground on the far side wasn’t firm enough for all that flying weight, and as they came down, some of the dirt at that far edge broke away under her hind hooves and, slipping, she almost went over and down backward.

But superb horseman that he was, Pietre’s right hand instinctively flashed back and whacked her on the rear as his left hand swiftly hauled her head around so that she was jerked into one of the quickest half-turns ever seen, and her struggling hind hooves were now on secure ground farther from the edge.

This had all happened with such split-second timing that it was just about now that the rock he’d had to drop in order to save his mare splashed into the stream below.

After a deep sigh of relief that Pietre and his mare weren’t hurt, I spurred Buck down to where the stream was easy to cross and rode unhurriedly up to the big rock, and the finish line, where the others were gathering.

Pietre was sitting his mare quietly, just past the finish line, looking miserable as hell. He’d crossed over it, but crossing without his rock didn’t count. And as if that didn’t add up to enough misery for him already, it wasn’t hard to guess that Nick had given him hell for even trying the dangerous jump in the first place.