Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

“Oh.”

I looked back at the old lady, and sure enough most of the people were giving her a wide berth as she went trudging along the boardwalk to wherever she was going with her bucket.

And then we crossed the walk to enter the building, where the others were already going in.

Igor and I were the last ones through the door, and I stood for a moment, sort of awe-struck. This was only the second time I’d been indoors in Russia, not counting the Imperial Cossacks’ headquarters we’d just come out of, which right then I was trying hard to forget, anyway. The other time had been that night in Vladivostok, in that lopsided, rough little place where we’d bought the vodka for the herd, with the three grubby soldiers, staring at us from off in one corner, and the fat greasy-aproned bartender.

But this big, fine place was really different.

It was just one wide, long room, with a swinging door on a far side that led to the kitchen and some stairs on the other side going up to the second floor. Everything in it was made of heavy, dark wood, the floors and walls and tables and chairs and the beamed ceiling. And, according to the smell, some of it was fresh cut and hewn. Beyond that, there was the rich, homey smell about the place of good food being cooked and eaten. And, somehow, the people themselves had that same thing about them, the warm feel and smell of fresh-cut wood and good simple cooking.

And, too, there was the deep, bubbling sound of men’s laughter, which often sounds deeper and better when they’re laughing only partly because of what’s being said and mostly because of just having a good time with their friends and some strong liquor. But the best part of all was that the big, handsomely carved tables were being tended by six or eight girls. And except for one, who was a tough-looking old gal, they wore those same floor-length dresses and the triangle-shaped handkerchiefs on their heads. And like the theory of longhorns, their dresses came in every color of the rainbow. One girl, carrying a trayful of drinks to some men at a nearby table, was wearing a red-and-white-checked dress, and she looked as spunky and cheerful as a brand-new tablecloth. Except for the fact that no table was ever in history built along the same sort of overwhelming lines as that young lady. She looked at our bunch near the door and gave us all a big, sunny smile as she headed back toward the door to the kitchen.

And it was a kind of interesting thing that everybody in that big room, although they seemed a little surprised, also seemed to be just about as friendly as she was. They could tell at a glance, of course, that us Slash-Diamonders were foreigners. But when they looked at Rostov and his men, sizing up their uniforms, their reactions were just the opposite of Verushki’s and his Imperial Cossacks. They showed open admiration, and a couple of big men waved their glasses toward Rostov and called out something in rough, friendly voices before drinking.

The one older, tough-looking woman came up to us now, and even her hard face became almost pleasant as she looked at Rostov. He said a few words, and she nodded and gestured to a large round table that was by itself near the rear of the room.

She led us back to the table, and Rostov spoke to her again, ordering for us as we all sat down. But instead of simply accepting his order, she shook her head and told him something quietly before leaving the table.

“Someone,” Rostov explained, “has already bought us a bottle of vodka.”

Slim frowned across the table at him. “Well, that surely is big-hearted. But how the hell come?”

Rostov shrugged. “We’re strangers. It’s a fairly common custom out here.”

Nick stroked the unbearded, scarred side of his big, solid face. “There is more,” he rumbled.

Bruk nodded. “A few of the people here know who we are and where we come from.”

What they’d left unsaid seemed more important to me. But it was Old Keats who put words to it. “I’d venture,” he said, “that many American colonists felt much the same way as these people do around the time of our Revolutionary War.”

Rostov said thoughtfully, “Your point may be well taken.”

The pretty girl in the tablecloth dress came up now with a tray that had eight glasses and a bottle of vodka on it. As she beamed at us and started to place the glasses around, Shad said to Rostov, “Tell ’er that we’re buyin’ two bottles back for whoever bought us this one.”

I half expected Rostov to go against this, but he didn’t. It was almost as if the same thing had been on his mind, and he was already talking to the girl as Shad’s last couple of words came out. She smiled and nodded and went away.

Bruk did the pouring, which with eight of us took a minute. Slim raised his glass and said, “Here’s t’ the best goddamned game a’ showdown ever I seen!” He added with feeling, “Or ever hope to!”

Shad picked up his glass. “Let’s also just hope we can make it stick.”

We all drank then, and the way those cossacks drank was an awful thing for me to take note of. I took a sip of the fiery vodka and was about to put the rest of it back down in a civilized fashion. But around the edges of my glass I suddenly saw that they were all downing every drop in their glasses all at once. So, despite the furious burning in my throat, I forced myself to finish my glass too.

Everybody at the table put down an empty glass.

After that time back in Vladivostok, Shad was sort of geared to vodka, and Old Keats could drink it like water. For myself, I couldn’t have managed to say one word on a large bet. But Slim, whether he was hurting or not, came through in his normal, winning way. He breathed out a long, heavy breath and said, “ Say , that white whiskey ain’t too bad at all!” He picked up the now half-empty bottle and looked at it. “Matter a’ fact, it’s downright jim-dandy.” He began refilling our glasses, mine first. “There ya’ go, Levi!” he said, pouring for the others.

Knowing Slim, I knew damn well that he knew damn well how bad I was feeling.

“Yeah,” I muttered, finally just barely able to talk. “There I go.”

Looking around the table, I saw one encouraging thing. As Slim leaned across to fill Igor’s glass, I noticed tears, or at least a lot of very suspicious moisture, in Igor’s eyes. He looked at me at the same time, and both of us, without words, knew that neither one of us was alone in his agony.

And then, as Slim finally filled his own glass, emptying the bottle, the pretty, tablecloth girl, as smiling as ever, came back carrying a tray with four brand-new bottles of vodka on it.

Igor and I gave each other a second pain-filled glance as she spoke to Rostov in a cheerful voice, placing the bottles before us.

As she left the table, Rostov turned to Shad. “We sent two bottles, so—”

“Yeah,” Shad broke in. “I gathered.”

Rostov said, “It’s those two big men who spoke to us as we came in.”

Old Keats grinned. “Shall we send ’em back eight bottles?”

It didn’t take a genius at arithmetic to figure out what was going on. “Jesus Christ , boss!” I said. “They’ll send us back sixteen !”

Slim turned to give the two men a short, friendly look. “Tell the truth, I can’t help but kinda admire their style.”

Shad said nothing, but his face was set in a hard half-angry frown.

Looking at Shad now, Slim saw deeper, beyond the frown. And when he spoke it was in a quiet, easy voice. “I know it’s a sorta dumb spot t’ be put in, boss. But in Montana it’d be easy. Back there we’d either invite them fellas over t’ join us, or send the booze back, which’d sure be askin’ for trouble.”

Rostov said flatly, “It won’t be sent back.”