Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

I reached down, realizing for the first time that it was Igor. Understanding instantly, he reached up from where he was lying with one leg still under his horse. A big, bewildered bull leaped partially over his downed horse, one forehoof landing with crushing force on Igor’s other leg before the bull swung off. I knew how much that hoof hurt, because it’d happened to me in gentler circumstances on the boat a few nights before. But Igor acted like it was nothing, and a second later we’d gotten him behind me aboard Buck.

By now there wasn’t much left of the wolf pack. The four or five of them that were still alive sped away behind their leader, a giant who’d lost about half of his tail somewhere, and who was almost completely black.

Slim and some others took a few pot shots at them as they raced toward cover in the forest. They knocked down a couple more, but then the black giant and the others were out of sight among the trees.

Old Keats has always claimed that cows are sometimes among the great philosophers of the world, and I guess he’s right because the herd calmed down almost instantly once those last few wolves were gone.

I dropped Igor off Buck near where Rostov and most of his men had dismounted. The other cossacks were making a count of dead wolves, which was getting easier because the cattle didn’t like the scent of blood and were gradually moving away toward the more pleasing smell of simple, fresh grass.

Igor looked up at me and nodded slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He seemed embarrassed because I’d helped him out of a jam, and I could understand that. But there was something else that seemed to be bothering him even more. And I should have understood that—even more.

Igor said something to Rostov in a very quiet voice. And Rostov, who was wearing a revolver, took it out and handed it to him.

Igor then walked over to his horse, who was still alive. It was only a hundred feet or so, but it was a long, long walk for him.

I felt like I shouldn’t be there, but I didn’t quite know what to do, and just riding off would have seemed sacrilegious.

Igor stroked the helpless animal’s muzzle and face, scratched the horse’s forehead a little, and then rubbed his neck. He was still rubbing his neck when he shot him. The horse didn’t make a sound. He just stretched his legs out so they quivered gently for a moment, and then he died.

Igor walked back and handed Rostov the gun. Then he turned and started walking back toward the cossack camp. Rostov looked at me, his dark eyes searching mine even though I wasn’t looking right back at him. I didn’t feel like looking at anybody just then.

That poor darned horse could have just as well been old Buck.

So without looking at anybody or saying anything, I turned Buck around and rode back to camp.

Shad and the others were already there. One of the wolves had bitten Crab’s right forearm to the bone, and Shad and Old Keats were working on it to clean it and stop the bleeding.

Shad noticed me come up and dismount, and he spoke with quiet warmth to Crab, who was in considerable pain and held a bottle of bourbon in his other hand. “Don’t know what t’ do with you, Crab. Keep ya’ outta one fight with Levi an’ ya’ go right out an’ get in another fight with a wolf.”

It was a vicious, double-fang wound, the torn-out kind that it hurts to even look at. I had the sinking feeling that Crab could lose the arm. “One thing I’ll guarantee ya’,” I told Crab as lightly as I could. “In a fair fight, I’d never bitten ya’ quite that hard.”

Crab took a long drink and then forced a small grin, though his hurt arm was beginning to involuntarily shake. “That damned wolf was really mixed up. Leaped up on me like he was gonna throw me outta the saddle an’ ride m’ horse.”

At this point Rostov rode into camp and got down from his big black. “I heard one of your men was hurt.”

Shad said, “We’re takin’ care of it.”

“I’m sure you are.” Rostov walked over to them and looked at the wound. “This could be serious, and I’ve had some experience with wolf bites.”

“So have I,” Shad said curtly.

“I’d take it as a personal favor, Captain Rostov,” Old Keats said quietly, “if you’ll stay here and give us any advice you might happen t’ have.”

Shad gave Keats a critical glance, and then he gave me an even tougher one when I poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the fire and handed it to Rostov.

Slim said, “We’re in pretty good supplies right now. Ya’ like any sugar, or maybe whiskey, t’ lace that coffee, Captain?”

“No. It’s fine,” Rostov said easily.

It sort of looked like, up to a point, the way any one of us talked to him was the way he was going to give it back.

Sammy the Kid, more curious than friendly, asked, “How many wolves get killed back there, altogether?”

“Twenty-three.” Rostov’s answer was in kind, crisp and to the point, with no trace of friendship in his voice. “Four by your guns. Three by the longhorns themselves.”

“Them longhorns ain’t too bright,” Slim said, “but they’re tougher’n nails when they git mad.”

“Jeez!” Mushy frowned deeply, thinking. “You got sixteen of ’em with them old-fashioned swords!”

“Sabers.”

There was a silence as we all took in that different word and grimly watched Shad and Keats working tensely on Crab’s arm.

Finally Shad said, “It’s gonna take stitches.”

Old Keats, only half thinking about it, looked at Rostov, who nodded just once.

“Who’s got needle an’ thread handy?” Keats asked.

Mushy said, “I have. Been fixin’ my chaps.”

“Jesus Christ, no!” Crab groaned. “That leather-workin’ needle’s big as a railroad spike!”

Purse said, “I got one not so big right here, for shirt buttons and the like.”

“Heat it in the fire,” Shad said. Crab wet his lips and Shad went on. “Hit that bourbon hard as you want.” As the hurt man drank deeply, Purse heated the long, narrow needle until its end was glowing yellow. Then, threading the needle, Shad said, “As long as I’ve got t’ do all this work anyway, ya’ want me t’ sew a couple buttons on your arm?”

“Not particularly.” Crab took another long drink and put the bottle down.

“It’d be damned interesting and might even possibly make ya’ more attractive.”

But now in dead silence, Shad concentrating intently, the hot needle was already going quickly, efficiently and terribly painfully through Crab’s flesh, drawing the muscles and skin closer together. Crab was gritting his teeth and in a cold sweat, both from the pain and from the repulsive idea of his arm being sewed together. “Goddamn it!” he said weakly, and yet angry at the same time. “Somebody say somethin’ so I can listen to it!”

Sammy, grasping for something, said loudly, “What I want t’ know is why that herd didn’t stampede t’night!”

“They’d a’ stampeded except they couldn’t make up their mind which direction t’ go,” Slim answered equally loudly.

“Huh!” Chakko grunted abruptly. “Natcho! Old Fooler!”

“What he means,” Natcho said strongly, watching Crab’s pain-stricken face, “is that I rode by Old Fooler and was smart enough to jump off of Diablo onto him instead! My shirt was only halfway on anyway so I took it off and held it over Old Fooler’s eyes so he couldn’t see! Most of those cows are so used to followin’ him that when he went in circles they must have thought that was the right thing to do! It seemed like a lot better thing for me to do than go off and get my arm half chewed off by an unfriendly wolf!”

“And also,” Slim’s voice boomed, “without Old Fooler them cows didn’t know whether they was comin’ or goin’ anyhow! If they run off from one wolf, they was runnin’ right smack t’ward another one! Them dumb damn wolves is the only ones ever made a whole stampede take place all in the same place!”