Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

Igor was riding back, and Shad called, “Come on with me, you goddamn Russian!” He spurred Red away.

Igor pulled up beside me briefly. “What is a ‘goddamn’ Russian?” he asked, toying with Blackeye’s reins and patting the horse.

“One of the best kind a’ Russians,” I said.

And then I rode toward the cossacks far ahead, as Igor joined Shad and the cowboys started whooping and hollering to move the herd.

In the next couple of weeks we went through some of the most beautiful country I ever saw. It was mountainous, some of it pretty rough, covered by vast but never crowded forests. And there was damnere every kind of tree you could think of, from oaks to birches and maples, from aspens to poplars and elms. And everywhere you looked, there was a green blanket of high grass. And just about every time you were thirsty, you came upon clear, sweet water, a lake or stream or creek. Those cows never had it better, nor probably as good, in Montana and they were getting fat and sassy and contented, even making about twelve miles a day. And some of the big bulls were getting rambunctious as hell. I could double guarantee, for example, that we had a whole lot more pregnant cows after those two weeks than we’d had at Vladivostok. And all too often, singly or in groups, those longhorns would up and decide that they just wanted to go their own way and the hell with the rest of the world. When that happened, it took some artistic, persuasive cussing and hard whacks on their asses with lariats to finally get them back to following the main herd and Old Fooler.

But those were the problems of the average, dumb cowhand. As an average, dumb messenger boy, I was spending all my time trying to keep up with Rostov. Whenever he stopped long enough to talk, he talked pretty freely now. One time, when we were riding far ahead of all the others, he spotted two big deer, far off. By the time I’d seen them, now bounding away, he’d pulled up, jerked out his rifle and fired twice. They both went down, and at that distance that was some kind of shooting.

“One of them is for the Slash-Diamond outfit.” He lowered his rifle.

“I don’t know how Shad’ll take that. He likes t’ make do on his own.”

“Tell him it’s a gift. In partial repayment for the pinto he gave to Igor, after you made him do it.”

“How’d you know it was anything like that?”

Rostov glanced at me briefly with those damned dark, piercing eyes as he reloaded his rifle to full-up with cartridges from his bandolier. “You wanted to in the first place. He knew you were determined, and somehow right. Therefore, he made the gift.”

“You sure are jumpin’ to conclusions.”

“I looked at you the night Igor had to shoot his horse. Right then you were almost ready to give him your own.”

“I hadn’t even thought about anything like that.”

“Yes. You had. Whether you know it or not. You couldn’t even look at me, or Igor. You understood.”

“Well, when you get right down to it then, Shad finally understood everything. And a whole lot better than me.”

Rostov finished reloading his rifle. “That’s right. He’s not a bad fellow. Except for being opinionated and prejudiced.”

I started to get mad, but Rostov didn’t give me time. His deep eyes fixed on mine with a certain sadness in them, he shoved his rifle firmly back into its saddle holster.

“I hope not, but one day I may be forced to kill him.”

That was a stopper.

Getting mad went clear out of my head, and I wanted to say a thousand things against that idea but couldn’t think of any one thing to say in particular.

But it was too late anyway.

Rostov had already spurred his horse off at a gallop toward the two deer.

That night I took one of the deer back to camp tied behind the cantle of my saddle. It was dressed and bled and all ready to cut up and cook.

Every man there was really tickled at the prospect of fresh venison. Mushy and Link, who were on cooking duty, set up a Dutch oven by the fire to make two rump roasts with onions and beans, and a little bacon fat added for flavor.

Crab, who still had his arm in a sling but was feeling a lot better, said, “Hey, goddamnit, this is gonna be a goddamn feast!”

Shad said, “I heard two shots, Levi. Neither one came from your thirty-thirty.”

“Rostov got two deer. Gave one to us.”

“Why?”

He didn’t say it loud or hard, but it made everybody silent. “It was his way a’ thankin’ us a little bit—for givin’ Blackeye to Igor.”

Dixie frowned up from where he was working on one of his stirrups near the fire. “I ain’t so sure I want no goddamn cossack-shot venison.”

Old Keats raised his bad arm as high as he could in an exasperated gesture. “I imagine it tastes just about the same as if it was cowboy-shot.”

“Hell.” Slim grinned. “Meat’s meat. I just hope nobody else eats it, so then I can finish it all.”

The two roasts turned out really fine, and everybody did eat their share of them.

Except Shad.

After all of us others had helped ourselves, he just quietly took some beans and coffee and let it go at that.

On top of what Rostov had said before, that made me damned sad and thoughtful.

Later, after we’d eaten, Old Keats came over and sat down on the ground beside me. Sammy the Kid was idly fooling with his guitar, and a few of the others were playing showdown by the fire, laughing and passing the deal back and forth among them.

Off in the distance, from the cossack camp, we could dimly hear another string instrument, and some of the cossacks were humming a pretty, peaceful tune in a low, strong way.

“How ya’ feelin’?” Old Keats said quietly, and I knew that Shad was on his mind too.

“Sad an’ thoughtful,” I told him accurately.

“Yeah?” He hunched forward, clasping his arms around his knees. “Well, personally I’m not feelin’ too bad, m’self.”

“How come?”

“Shad didn’t eat any a’ that venison. But on the other hand, he didn’t send you packin’ right over t’ the cossack camp t’ give it back. I think there might be some hope there for that hardheaded bastard, somewhere.”

Shad had gone out to take a ride around the herd, checking it. He rode back in now and took care of Red. Then he poured a cup of coffee and came over to sit beside us.

After he’d settled down and taken a couple of sips, he said, “Somethin’s botherin’ you, Levi.”

“I dunno exactly how ya’ know, but damn right there is.”

“What?”

“Rostov.”

“Why?”

“He—He’s got an idea that—sometime you an’ him may come t’ tanglin’ ass. And that wouldn’t be any fun at all, for anybody.”

“Hell.” Shad took another slow sip of coffee. “Didn’t you know about that possibility up front, Levi?”

“Not the way he said it!” I kept my voice down so that it was just the three of us in the conversation, but I couldn’t keep the worry out of my voice. “What he said about you, word for word, was, ‘I hope not, but one day I may be forced to kill him.’ An’ that Rostov’s sure as hell one tough sonofabitch!”

Shad shrugged very slightly and drank some more of his coffee.

Old Keats frowned. “What the hell’d he say a thing like that for? He knew ya’d have t’ tell Shad.”

“It’s pretty easy,” Shad said. “He figures we’re gonna come up against some tough times. And he thinks that as bosses he and me may have some strong differences of opinion on what t’ do under certain circumstances.”

“Well, then—” Keats hesitated. “What he told Levi wasn’t so much a threat as a friendly warnin’.”

I nodded. “I think maybe so. He sure looked unhappy as hell when he said it. Maybe if you just tried to cooperate with ’im—”