Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

We were both silent for a long moment.

As for me, I was so moved by that story, and by the way Rostov had told it and had felt it, that I couldn’t have trusted myself to say anything I might have said, in any case.

He led off at an easy walk again.

We were heading across a wide plain of golden, knee-deep grass that bowed slightly as the wind touched it, and in the far distance there were some low tree-covered hills.

There were three words he’d used that stuck hard in my mind. They were “loyalty,” “steadfastness” and “love.”

Finally, still touched about the whole damn thing, I spurred closer abreast of Rostov and managed a small half grin. “Guess you’re right, about what a fella could learn about from them swans. About loyalty an’ all that.”

He nodded briefly. “The story applies to many things—in many ways.”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t really figure out what all he meant by that, at the moment. So just trying to say something, anything, I said, “It’d sure be nice if while they’re at it swans could teach us how t’ fly, too.”

He glanced at me, his expression quiet and serious. “If you think of what I just told you enough, you’ll find that that swan, and the absolute loyalty it was capable of, does indeed teach you how to fly in the most important possible way.”

“Yeah?”

He could see he’d lost me, but he was patient about it. He said gently, “Don’t you understand the simple thing I mean? Just the very awareness alone of one such magnificent and complete sacrifice should be an inspiration for every man’s spirit to fly, and soar forever within his heart. And, so inspired, he should want to be able to hopefully emulate that life-and-death devotion.”

Good God, I thought. And we call Old Keats the Poet.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “But—that’s kinda philosophic, for me.”

“Simply thinking and speaking of action is philosophy, of course. Taking action is something else. And, as with the swan, the greatest and ultimate test of a man taking action must also be his willingness, while loving life, to give his life for something he loves.”

“Yeah.” He’d never talked to me like that before, and I couldn’t think of much else to say.

And then there were the sounds of hoofbeats coming closer from behind. It was Nick, moving at an easy run to catch up with us. He pulled down to a walk and tried out his American in his deep, rasping voice. “In the small mountains up ahead, we have seen two wolves.”

Without missing a beat, Rostov said, “There were three.”

That got to me quite a bit. We’d been riding along easily and with no trouble, philosophizing and such, and for that time I hadn’t been paying much attention to anything. But that Rostov, without seeming to pay any attention either, hadn’t missed one goddamn thing. “There are no Tartars on the other side of those hills,” he said. “The wolves crossed over without hesitation.”

I decided that maybe I could learn something from swans, but that I could sure as hell learn a lot more from Rostov himself.

Two mornings later, riding far ahead of the others toward the top of a steep hill, Rostov dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. Wondering, but without question, I followed his example. He took a small spyglass from his saddlebag and we went on up to the crest of the hill on foot, going on all fours the last few feet and finally lying down at the very top. Far off and below there was a wide, slow-running river. On the near side there were a few hovels and shacks scattered along its muddy banks. There were perhaps a dozen people visible in the village, and a handful of small boats in the river.

Studying the area through his small telescope, Rostov said, “The Ussuri River.”

There were also a small number of distant huts on the far bank of the river.

“What’s on the other side?” I asked.

“Manchuria.” He adjusted the scope for another look. “The buildings on this side are a Russian town. Uporaskaya.”

“Upor—what?”

“Uporaskaya. Freely translated, it means ‘the stubborn man.’” He’d seen enough, and we moved back down the slope without ever showing ourselves against the skyline. As we remounted, he said, “We’re going to swing east to avoid Uporaskaya.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “There are no Tartar warriors there or across the river. But just one Tartar sympathizer could give us away.”

I frowned and grinned a little at the same time. “Considerin’ we got five hundred longhorns, somebody’s sure as hell bound t’ notice us sooner or later.”

“With luck, we’ll be able to get to Khabarovsk without being seen.” He shrugged slightly. “After that we certainly will be seen—sooner or later.”

Something about the grim way he said it made me hope it would be later.

Rostov waved far back to the nearest cossacks behind us, signaling them to angle eastward behind us.

About the time that the main herd was safely bypassing the town, two or three miles east of it, with high hills in between, Igor came galloping up to us on Blackeye, not looking too happy.

At Shad’s instructions he’d taken to calling Shad Shad, so he said, “Shad would like to know why we have taken this change of direction.”

Rostov was faintly amused. “He’d ‘like’ to know?”

Igor wet his lips. “I am sure that he was joking.” He wasn’t at all sure Shad was joking. “But he said”—Igor concentrated—“that ‘there fucking well better be a damn good reason, or heads will roll.’”

Rostov’s faint amusement still remained in his eyes, but his jaw hardened. “Tell him if we hadn’t changed direction, heads would have rolled.”

Igor was caught dead center between those two strong men, and was getting nervous as a cat in a dog kennel. “But he very much wants some reason, Captain.”

The last tiny traces of humor were gone from Rostov’s eyes. “That’s all, Corporal.”

“But—”

“Add one more thing.” Rostov’s voice became deadly. “Tell him if he ever disagrees with any decision of mine in the future, I’ll be only too glad to discuss it with him personally, instead of by messenger.”

Rostov swung his horse around and rode off.

Igor and I looked at each other, and I could see how miserable he felt. “Just tell Shad that Rostov was busy but that I told you everything’s okay. Tell him I want to explain the reason to him myself tonight.”

Igor understood that this would kind of get him off the hook. He nodded, grateful and relieved. Then he rode back, and I galloped ahead to catch up with Rostov.

We rode particularly fast during the rest of that long, hard day. I knew Rostov was concerned about any people who might be out of the town, hunting or whatever, and might see us. So we scoured the mountains and forests on every side, but there wasn’t a living soul in sight.

Finally, toward the end of the day, Rostov slowed down to a walk. I offered him a drink of water from my canteen, and he took it.

As he drank I said, “Funny thing about Upor—Uporaskaya meaning a stubborn man. I never knew any a’ them funny Russian names for towns meant anything.”

He handed the canteen back. “In any unsettled land, the names of towns come from the pioneers who settle them, from colorful incidents that happen, from legends, or sometimes from the topography.”

Not knowing what that last word meant, I just said, “Yeah?”

“Translated, some Siberian towns are called Too-Far Mountain, Pancake Flats, Broken-Jaw Creek.”

“Hell, sounds kinda like some names back home.”

He continued, growing thoughtful. “As for Uporaskaya, there’s a legend around that name. When it was first settled, a man there was reputed to be the most stubborn man in the world. The other few people there, his friends, decided to move out. But he’d planted some pumpkins, so he wouldn’t go. He was working in the pumpkin patch as the others left, and a couple of them, knowing that he would be all alone, called out that he just had to move with them.” Rostov paused. “Since he’d been told he had to move, the stubborn fellow wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t move at all. He just stood there stubbornly, without ever moving one bit. And finally the pumpkin vines started to grow up around his legs. They grew until at last, in time, the vines reached his throat, and they strangled him to death where he stood.”