Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

So with that encouragement there was a lot of whoopin’ and hollerin’ and yah-hooin’ as we woke up the sleepy, resentful herd and started driving it up over the sloping mountain and down the far side.

We got the herd to the breaks two miles outside of Khabarovsk and had it bedded down long before sunrise.

There were two problems that came with sunup that morning. One was trying to explain to the Slash-Diamond outfit and to Rostov’s cossacks about how it would be an advantage for one and all to wear each other’s clothes once in a while. This plan met with quite a bit of disapproval.

The second, and killing, problem had to do with the two fellas who’d befriended us and paid our tariff in Khabarovsk the night before.

That morning those two big men were both hanged by the neck until dead. And finding out about that hit us like a sledgehammer.

One thing came on top of another pretty fast.

Just about to a man, our fellas hated the idea of wearing any kind of cossack clothes and therefore refused.

“It—it ain’t American!” Rufe said.

“Fuck it,” Mushy said simply.

“A nigger cossack?” Shiny demanded.

“Shit, boss!” Dixie grumbled. “Ain’t there some better way t’ protect them dumb bastards?”

“I ain’t gonna be no clown f’r nobody,” Crab said, and Chakko grunted “Uhh!” in a way that meant something more negative than all the “no’s” ever said.

Big Yawn stood up to his full height. “I like them fellas enough t’ fight for ’em! But pretend t’ be one, never!”

I got the feeling that Rostov was having somewhat the same sort of hard time with his men, who’d camped right next to us in the dark. But his cossacks were better disciplined than our bunch, so he seemed to have the situation more in hand.

And then Lieutenant Bruk, who’d been on lookout with Old Keats, came galloping over a twenty-foot slanting bluff and rode quickly down to us.

Bruk, who’d been watching Khabarovsk through Rostov’s telescope, handed it slowly back to him and said something in a choked, twisted voice.

The cossacks knew first, and then we finally learned.

The two big men, recognizable by their size and their clothes, had just been hanged from an oak tree on the outskirts of Khabarovsk. Being big and strong, they’d struggled quite a lot, and Old Keats and Bruk had watched them through those long, long moments of death.

We all knew it was because of last night, because of them taking up for us, and someone, some terrible little person there, who had told about it.

And looking at Shad, I could see that all he was thinking of was the toast he’d made.

“ Vostrovia !” his powerful voice echoed in my mind.

“ Vostrovia !” both big men had roared back, meaning so much more than simple good health.

And now, with all the good, strong things they’d intended, those giant-hearted, generous, free-spirited Russians were dead.

Rostov and Shad now looked at each other for a long, quiet moment, their eyes meeting and locking in silent thought. And the way their look was, even the other men who hadn’t been with us the night before could see how hard and deeply both of them were hit.

Finally Shad turned a little and said in a low voice, “Purse, go up an’ relieve Old Keats.”

Purse said huskily, “Yes, sir, boss.” And he mounted and rode off.

Rostov stepped over to stand near Shad now, though still neither of them said anything. They both looked down thoughtfully at the ground about halfway between them, as though that little patch of dirt was worth a lot of quiet study.

Igor and Bruk and some of the other cossacks came over now, sort of following behind Rostov so that we were all standing pretty close together.

It was Slim who finally spoke, his low, quiet voice just barely breaking the silence, like a pebble dropped gently into a quiet pond. And his words were as easy and soft as the ripples spreading out. “Darnest thing. None of us never ever said but that there one word t’ them, an’ them t’ us. But somehow it’s just like they was one of us. And, sort of, always was.”

My voice wasn’t that low or controlled, but I tried my best to at least keep it level. “Verushki did that outta pure, crazy meanness. Just f’r nothin’ . What’re we gonna do back ?” That was as far as I could make it without my voice going out on me altogether.

Shad gave me a quiet, hard look that managed to hide the pain he was feeling inside. “Not one goddamn thing.”

Even though I knew he had to be right, my face must have showed something else. Anger maybe, or disappointment, or both.

Old Keats now rode back and joined us, touching Bruk’s shoulder with brief warmth because of the grim sorrow they’d just shared.

Slim said grimly, “Shad’s right, f’r hard-rock sure. We don’t do nothin’.”

Rostov looked at Old Keats and Bruk, who were still standing near each other, silently seeming to think and even look a little bit like each other. “Do you think it was meant as a lesson to us, or the people of Khabarovsk?”

Old Keats, his narrowed eyes still filled with what he’d seen, said bitterly, “Both.”

Bruk nodded. “Most of the Imperial Cossacks were there, and they’d gathered many, many people to watch.”

“Captain?” Igor said, and I could see he felt the same hopeless frustration that I did. “Two good men have been deliberately murdered!”

Rostov said quietly, “That’s exactly right. So then, in the interest of justice, what would you suggest we do?” He glanced from Igor to me. “Or you?”

Igor and I looked at each other, and we both knew that between us we couldn’t come up with a decent answer.

“Well—maybe,” I said lamely, “at least if they had families, maybe we could—”

“No.” Rostov cut me short. “If we helped their families, they would be the next to suffer.” Off to one side, in a low voice, Sergeant Nick translated to the other cossacks what Rostov was saying. “There’s nothing we can do for those two men.” He paused briefly, filled with his thoughts, and then went on, speaking as movingly for the first time to all of us as he had once spoken to me alone about swans. “Nor is there anything we can do for the millions, beyond counting, who have died in Mother Russia over the years in the name of the Tzar.

“What we can do, and will do, is what we started out to do. We’ll get these cattle to Bakaskaya, so that that town, and the movement toward freedom that it stands for, will have a chance to survive.” It’s just possible that Rostov felt even more deeply about the deaths of those two men than Shad and us others. Because in his voice and his eyes, as well as what he was saying, he was sure sending chills up a lot of spines, including mine. “There is an ancient philosophy that gives us the choice of weeping in the darkness or lighting a candle. Bakaskaya is our candle. And to keep it lighted against the day when there will no longer be a Tzar is everything.” He paused, and when he went on, his voice was almost harsh. “We will survive here until we can cross the Amur. Some of us will make daily visits into Khabarovsk for supplies and relaxation, and while we’re there we will not only show the Imperial Cossacks no fear, but to the contrary, rather superior and casual disdain.

“And to successfully manage these things, we must keep the military in Khabarovsk convinced that our force is much larger than it actually is.”

He now stopped, but the way he’d ended his talk brought the whole thing right smack-dab back in a circle to where it had been, up front, in the first place. It was still a question of whether or not the Slash-Diamonders would put on cossack clothes every now and then.