The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) (9 page)

Finally, around sunset, when my butt and the saddle under it felt like they were both about to shove themselves right up through the top of my head, Rostov pulled up on a bluff overlooking a beautiful and wide green flat with a creek running through it.

“I would suggest this as our camping place.”

Not wanting to agree with him too much, I said, “It’s not bad.”

“Ride back and tell Northshield.”

“Well, I’ll say it like you said first—about ‘suggestin’ it.”

He gave me a brief, piercing look in which there just might have been a glint of humor and then put his horse down the steep slope before us at breakneck speed.

Well, at least I’d now found out why he wanted me with him, and why Shad had agreed. I patted Buck on the shoulder and told him, “You should be proud of me, old horse. At last I’ve come to my great calling in the world—I’m a goddamn messenger boy.”

Then I turned Buck and we headed back for the herd.

Shad was still riding point, and when I told him about Rostov’s suggestion, all he said was “Place look okay t’ you?”

“God never invented a nicer one. We just veer left up ahead, around that buffalo-backed hill.”

While we were camping down, Mushy and Crab tried to make some sport of the fact that I’d been off “sight-seein’” while the others had been doing an honest day’s work. But I was too dead beat-up to bother trying to explain the error of their ways.
I was asleep, literally, before my head ever came close to the saddle. All I remembered was sitting on my bedroll and starting to take off my boots.

The next morning I decided to take it easy on Buck and left him with the remuda, saddling Blackeye instead. Blackeye was a sturdy, feisty little pinto with an all-white face except for that one eye.

The cossacks were camped about five hundred feet away on the flat, and I rode over to them as Rostov was mounting up.

He looked at me and Blackeye and said, “You’re sparing the other horse because of yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

I got the feeling he approved of that. “You yourself managed to ride along with me fairly well.”

I shrugged. “Hell, I’m the worst horseman in the outfit.”

He called some orders in Russian to his men, and then we took off again.

After a few more miles of rough mountains, the terrain gradually started getting a little easier, which was a blessing even though it was still another hard-riding, wordless day.

When the sun was finally getting low in the west a young cossack about my age wound up riding with Rostov, too. He was tall and husky, with sandy hair and clear, constantly frowning blue eyes. His scraggly beard looked sort of new, unlike Rostov’s thick, trim, jet-black beard that looked like it’d probably been on him when he was born.

The three of us rode to the top of a low hill, the two of them, as always, searching to both sides and as far ahead as they could see.

I’d gone along quietly all day before and most of this day, and still hadn’t intended to break the silence, but curiosity finally got the best of me. Somewhat mad at myself for speaking, I must have sounded angry. “Would ya’ mind tellin’ me what you’re lookin’ for, so I can look for it too, for Christ’s sake?”

Rostov glanced back at me, that tiny bit of humor lurking somewhere in those hard, dark eyes. “The puppy barks.”

I don’t know if the hair on the nape of your neck really stands up, but mine felt like it did right then.
“Puppy!”
Somewhere in the rear part of my mind I knew I was going out on a suicidal limb, but the front part was boiling over. “Just one a’ two things! Take that back or fight!”

I meant it flat out and couldn’t and wouldn’t back down, but once I’d said it that anti-suicide part of my head was banging away something fierce trying to find me some way, any way, out of this fix.

Rostov’s look didn’t change, and he didn’t move a hair. After an eternal few seconds he said, “The puppy barks—and the wolf bites.” Then, “Perhaps you are a young wolf.”

Thank
God!
He’d given me my way out. He hadn’t exactly taken back what he’d said, but he’d allowed me a fair escape route, which that panicky rear area of my mind was grateful to accept.

Trying to keep up what I hoped was a fearless look I said, “I ain’t all that young, and you’d have t’ try me as a wolf. But I’d still like t’ know just what we’re scoutin’ for.”

He let the whole thing go, and answered me. “Primarily Tartar raiding parties. From across the Ussuri right now.”

“What’s a Tartar look like?”

“Just let us know if you see anyone we don’t see, on foot or horseback.” He added quietly, almost warmly, “Your eyes will be much appreciated,” and I knew he meant what he said. Then he turned back to search the horizon ahead.

“Uhh, Captain Rostov?” I said uncomfortably.

He looked around at me, questioning.

“That’s kind a’ nice—appreciatin’ the offer a’ my eyes like that. My name’s Levi Dougherty. Just Levi’ll do, though.”

He indicated the sandy-haired young cossack near him. “This is Corporal Igor Zarutski.”

I nodded at the corporal and said the only thing I could think of to say, which was “Igor.”

Igor stared at me, concentrated hard and said in a slow, studied, funny kind of a one-noted way, “I-am-very-pleased-to-have-the-honor-of-making-your-acquaintance-Mister-Levi.”

That line of his hit me like a sledge hammer.

If anything, I was even more stunned than Shad had been when the same kind of thing happened to him before. My expression must have been odd, because Rostov laughed for the first time since he’d singed off Yakolev’s beard and eyebrows, and Igor grinned over at him in a proud, pleased way.

I never did think of anything to come up with, and Rostov finally slowed down his laughter enough to say, “Believe me, not all cossacks speak English. I’ve taught three of my men to speak reasonably well, and the others know a few words.”

I finally just barely managed “I’ll be damned.” And then a sort of resentment of my own shortcomings must have welled up in me because I said, “An’ I don’t speak
one word
a’ Russian except ‘
Daughhh
,’ which sounds like some idiot tryin’ to start off a sentence!”

Rostov said, “A language takes time. And we’ve been planning on getting these cattle for more than two years. I wanted someone else to be able to communicate with you Americans in case I should happen to be killed along the way.”

He didn’t say that grimly, but somehow the words had an ominous ring to them. And then he rode quickly down the hill before us, looking as impossible to kill as any man I ever saw.

Igor frowned in concentration again and said, “Let-us-go,” and we galloped down after him.

We made a fine, sweet-water camp again that night, with enough grass to feed ten thousand head. Purse, Mushy, Rufe and Link had the first watch, and the rest of us were feeling pretty good about how the drive was going so far, sitting around the fire after supper. Sammy got out his guitar and started fooling around softly with the strings, and we got into one of those easygoing bullshit talks when nobody’s got a whole lot to say and yet nobody’s quite ready to go to bed as long as there’s some hot coffee left.

The cossack campfire was burning about five hundred feet away, and you could faintly make out the shadowy flickers of men moving around it.

Natcho leaned comfortably back against a tree, stretching his shoulder muscles. “Not a bad day.” He smiled. “Everything considered, my only regret is that we didn’t have that one night in Vladivostok, so as to better judge that white Russian whiskey and the ladies there.”

“Didn’t miss much.” Shiny Joe grinned. “That white whiskey’s poison an’ there wasn’t no ladies. Not even women.”

“Christ,” Dixie said. “After all that time on the boat, even them cows’re startin’ t’ have a strange effect on me.”

“Only the good-lookin’ ones, I hope,” said Slim.

“Well, there’ll be other towns.” Big Yawn moved his huge shoulders in a philosophic way. Then he said, “Hey! I heard a couple a’ them cossacks hollerin’ back and forth t’day, and I kinda understood a couple words!”

“That makes you about even,” Dixie said, “since ya’ only know a couple words of American too.”

“Screw you.” Big Yawn scratched his ear. “Sounded kinda like some a’ the words Ma an’ Pa used t’ use when I was a kid.”

“Speakin’ of that,” I said, “Rostov ain’t the only one of ’em who knows American.”

“Who else does?” Shad asked.

I told him about Igor. “An’ there’re two others. Don’t know which ones yet.”

“Underhanded of ’em.” Shad glanced at the distant fire suspiciously. “Not lettin’ us know.”

“They’re not tryin’ to keep it a secret. But we haven’t exactly encouraged a whole lot a’ friendly talk back an’ forth.”

“You stickin’ up for them?” Dixie asked.

“Hell, no!”

Slim looked up at me curiously, from where he was idly whittling on a stick. “After two days now, what do ya’ think of ’em?”

I hesitated, then said, “All in all, they ain’t too bad.”

“Huh.” Crab grunted. ‘Sounds like you’re soft on ’em.”

“I am not! But they’ve been all right with me. An’ they’re damn good t’ their horses. One time t’day, when it was hotter’n
hell, one of ’em went t’ take a drink and his water bag was almost empty. So he gave his last water to his horse instead.”

Natcho shrugged. “Any real horseman would do the same.”

“Well, that’s sort of what I mean. They really care for their mounts, like us.”

“Difference is, I’d hope in this rich country none of us would be stupid enough t’ run out of water in the first place,” Shad said flatly.

“Boss’s right.” Crab grinned. “Dumb heathen didn’t deserve a drink.”

“C’mon.” Old Keats sounded slightly irritated. “Levi’s basically got the right of it. We can’t go over a thousand miles with them fellas without ever talkin’. I ain’t sayin’ we oughtta be friends, but we should try to have some kind of a halfway decent relation with them.”

I was surprised that almost none of the men thought Old Keats was right. With looks and a few words his idea was generally voted down. Crab said, “Farther off they are the better,” and Dixie threw in at about the same time, “It’ll be a lukewarm day in hell b’fore I kiss no cossack’s ass.”

Even Sammy the Kid now hit a hard note on his guitar. “I still ain’t figured out just what they think they’re doin’, anyhow.” He hit a second harsh note, disgusted. “Tartars!”

“Well, since I’m the one’s been with ’em,” I volunteered, “I think what they’re doin’ is this. I think they think we’re just supposed t’ herd the cattle. An’ if we run into any trouble, I think they think they’re goin’ to do all the fightin’.”

Natcho laughed, Shiny Joe said “Shit,” and even Chakko grinned slightly. Crab shook his head. “If they think we’re gonna do all the work and they’re gonna have all the fun, they’re crazy!”

For some reason, maybe just knowing Rostov the little I did, my back got up. “I have a strong hunch, Crab, you’d not find fightin’ Tartars all that much fun.”

Crab frowned at me. “You are sidin’ with them fuckin’ foreigners! Maybe you’d rather bunk down over at
their
fire!”

I stood up angrily. And damned if I didn’t accidentally come out with exactly the same thing I’d said earlier. “Take that back or fight!” But I felt a lot safer with Crab than I’d felt with Rostov.

Crab started up and I moved toward him but Shad said quietly, “Hold it.” He didn’t have to raise his voice to stop us. He got up and walked slowly between us and threw the little bit of coffee he had left onto the fire, where it made a brief, sizzling sound. “Levi?”

“Yeah?”

“That Igor, who knows our language.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Rostov I want him ridin’ with me startin’ tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t I just suggest it to him?”

“Tell him any way you want.”

Crab and I were still standing there, sort of facing each other down. At Shad’s order to hold it, we’d held it, but we were both still feeling pretty unfriendly. Shad looked at us mildly and said, “It’s sure a hardship, havin’ two such grouchy sonsabitches on your hands.”

He wasn’t making fun of us, yet something about the way he said it made us both want to laugh somehow.

“He’s grouchier than I am,” Crab finally said.

“That’s impossible,” I told him.

“Well”—Shad shrugged—“you two go ahead and fight all night, if you really want to. But just don’t make one damn sound doin’ it because the rest of us sensible fellas are goin’ to sleep.”

He’d left no way for a fight. He’d given us both room to back off gracefully from a fight neither one of us actually wanted. And it crossed my mind that he’d stopped that potential battle with the same kind of instinctive, tough humor that Rostov had used with me earlier that day, when he’d gotten me out of the “puppy and wolf” situation.

Crab grimaced in a half grin and hit me on the shoulder just hard enough to let me know he was pretty strong but not mad
anymore. I hit him back in the same way, and that was the end of that.

And we all went to sleep.

Until those giant lobo wolves showed up just before sunrise.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HERE WAS
a sudden, wild bellowing from a cow that sounded like it was being murdered, and three or four gunshots banged out on top of each other.

That greasy-sack outfit came to life like lightning. I’d jumped up and was jerking on my second boot when a voice yelled out from the other side of the herd, “
Wolves
! A
million
of ’em!” The watch had changed and it was Slim’s voice.

“Don’t shoot into the herd!” Shad roared. He’d gotten up early and was already dressed and saddled. He jumped aboard Red and tore off toward where there was now more scattered firing, and that section of the herd was starting to mill around in wild panic, the other cows quickly picking up the feeling of fear.

From the cossack camp I heard Rostov give a loud, brief order in Russian.

And then the rest of us were getting aboard horses, and if it hadn’t been so serious it would have been kind of funny. Most of us were in various states of undress, and about half of the hands were still in red or white long johns, a couple with the rear-end flaps still flopping open. I always slept with my shirt and pants on, so that was no problem for me. But in the whole group there were only three things every man had on without exception—his boots, his gun and his hat.