Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

Rostov looked at Shad, who was listening quietly, turning his now empty glass between his thumb and forefinger on the tabletop, making little circles of water on the wood. As Nick filled the empty glasses, Rostov went on. “It’s supposed to be a gentlemen’s agreement that he won’t spy on us, but he will. He’ll do everything he can to collect Shad’s little finger and everything that goes with it.”

“Sure he will,” Shad put in. “That’s why we’ll be way out on those broken flats. With our men and cattle movin’ in and out of those far-off breaks, they’ll never be able to figure out for sure that there ain’t too many of us.”

Bruk put away another glass of vodka as though it was clear spring water and said grimly, “If Verushki had any idea how few of us there are, or if he finds out—”

“ If this an’ if that!” Shad said in a low, impatient voice. “The whole point a’ showdown is t’ out-if the other fella! We’re sittin’ here because Verushki ain’t got no idea our last card is a deuce!”

Rostov had been studying Shad thoughtfully. “In one strange way, Northshield, showdown and chess are the same game.”

“The hell you say.” Shad frowned. “Plain old showdown got us this far.”

“In chess one sometimes mounts a seeming show of strength where there is no intention or real ability of attacking at all. It’s usually referred to as a diversionary tactic.”

Genuinely puzzled, Slim said, “Huh?”

“Let’s show Verushki our last card. But we’ll make our deuce look to him like an ace.”

I expected almost any reaction from Shad except the one he finally had. He said quietly, “Tell me about makin’ an ace.”

“Verushki would massacre the thirty of us, the deuce.”

Taking another sip of vodka I muttered, “Thirty-one,” wanting to keep the count as high as possible.

“But he’s afraid of sixty of us.” Rostov paused and then went on. “So let’s show him that ace. All sixty of us.”

The others at the table just looked at each other, wondering if Rostov was quite right in his head.

Except for Shad. Once again his reaction was thoughtful and quiet. “My fellas would raise a lotta hell over that.”

Rostov nodded. “So would mine.”

Even with the vodka not helping me much, it was then that I first started to realize that Rostov and Shad were each slowly beginning, somehow, to damnere be able to know, or at least guess, what the other one had on his mind. Maybe, even seeming so different, they were that much alike. In any case, right now they were already talking back and forth about something that hadn’t even been said out loud yet.

Frowning, Bruk spoke for the rest of us. “Just what is it that we would all raise hell over?”

“Verushki’s men,” Rostov explained, “will be watching us from a great distance, and on broken terrain. Therefore, aside from our normal movements, from time to time we will all put on American clothes and deliberately show ourselves all at once against the skyline. At other times, we’ll all wear cossack uniforms and do the same thing. That way there will sometimes seem to be thirty cowboys. And at other times, thirty cossacks.”

“Rostov’s chess ain’t too bad,” Shad said. “When Verushki’s already been buffaloed up front, thirty an’ thirty sure add up fast t’ sixty.”

Slim started pouring again, glancing off toward the Imperial Cossacks. “Them two games do have one thing in common.”

“What?” I asked.

Slim shrugged. “T’ play either one like a real champion, looks like ya’ got t’ be slightly crazy.”

IT WAS a good while later before the Imperial Cossacks finally got up to leave. We’d already decided not to take off until after they did. We were bound and determined to be more relaxed than they were if it killed us.

As they gave us hard looks and started to go out, Old Keats and Nick were pouring from our last two bottles, which were both getting fairly empty by now. There weren’t many people left in the place, and the girls were sort of straightening things and cleaning up in general.

The Tzar’s men went through the door and Shad said, “We’ll give them a couple of minutes, then bust out.”

Bruk said, “They’re probably waiting to follow us.”

Nick nodded strongly. “Yes. They follow.”

“Won’t matter.” Shad looked at Rostov. “It’s too dark t’ count anything tonight, and we’ll move ourselves an’ the herd out t’ the flats b’fore daylight.”

Again they were understanding each other’s thoughts without words. Rostov just looked at Shad, silently agreeing, and then turned and called out in Russian, obviously asking for the bill.

We started to get up and the tablecloth girl, Irenia, came over and said something that was nice, in a low, happy voice, smiling all the while at Rostov. And after all that niceness of hers, she was no more prepared for Rostov’s sudden anger than I was. If a man could ever speak quietly and yet carry a lion’s roar at the same time, Rostov did it then. Whatever it sounded like to her, she rushed away, frightened half to death.

Appalled, I said to Rostov, “What was all that?”

Rostov was still too angry to answer, but Bruk did. “She let those two big men pay for everything.”

Shad spoke to Rostov, his eyes harder than any voice could ever try to match.

“The broken glasses?”

“Yes,” Rostov said angrily. “Those too.”

And then the tough older lady came hurrying up to the table to talk to Rostov. As they spoke, Bruk translated, with Old Keats nodding in agreement whenever he got the gist of it.

“She says this is a matter of honor,” Bruk said, having a hard time listening and talking at the same time. “And the captain just told her the honor belonged here at this table. She says no, the honor belonged at both tables. And”—Bruk hesitated—“she says both of those men have spoken out against the Tzar already, and with no free cossacks around to help them speak out.”

The tough-looking lady suddenly put her hand over her eyes as if she were holding back quick tears of her own, and then she too rushed away.

Rostov was touched by her. “Our bill seems to have been paid in full,” he said quietly.

Shad had already taken a big handful of silver dollars out of his pocket. “How ’bout payin’ it twice?”

“No,” Rostov said. “Let’s just let it go.”

Shad studied Rostov and then said, “All right. Let’s get back and move the herd.” He put the coins back in his pocket, and we all started for the front door.

The tablecloth girl came out of the kitchen just then, and I couldn’t help but notice her and slow down in following the others. She was standing there, not too far away, looking unhappy as hell, and I said to her, “Thank you, Irenia.”

She only understood the word “Irenia” and my tone of voice. But that was enough. She knew the way I felt and she smiled, so there was a good feeling between us.

Then I turned and went on out through the door.

Outside, we all mounted up and followed Shad and Rostov out of the dimming lights of the town into the ink-black darkness beyond.

That big group of Imperial Cossacks followed us, which was kind of silly. About a half mile out of town we just pulled off and sat our horses quietly. They rode on by, bits and spurs jingling in the dark stillness and the leather of their saddles creaking, and pretty quick they had gone on their noisy way. If you don’t happen to want to make all that racket, you simply take off your spurs, reach up and hold the bit gentle, and don’t shift the weight of your butt around in the saddle. We did that until we reached the herd. And then, as the others gathered around in the pitch-black night, Shad said, “We’re drivin’ the herd over t’ them broke-up flats. As of now, make all the noise ya’ want. Matter a’ fact, it’d help some if each one of ya’ sounded like five or ten.”