Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

“Slim’s right.” Natcho shook his head grimly. And since Natcho was one of the finest horsemen ever born, even Dixie paid attention. “There are about fifteen places where a man on a good horse could go straight through at top speed without hurting either one of them. But there are about five—” He stopped and whistled low under his breath.

Igor nodded, understanding and agreeing. “Those are the ones you circle around as quickly as you can.”

The other cossacks, about seven of them, now splashed through a shallow part of the stream and rode toward us. Leading them, big as a bear in the saddle, was Sergeant Nick. They pulled up, facing us, and Nick looked back at the meadow, then at Slim. “What you think?” he asked in his growling, heavy accent.

“I hate t’ tell ya’ this, Nick,” Slim said slowly, “but I think you fellas’re outta your minds.”

Nick chuckled deep in his throat and started to fill his long-stemmed clay pipe. “Why?”

“That goddamn thing’s dangerous!” Sort of joining along with Nick, Slim took out an old plug of Red Devil Chewing Tobacco and bit off a chunk before offering it around. “Run like that’s bound t’ cripple ’r kill somebody ever’time.”

Dixie and a couple of others took chaws off Slim’s worn old plug, and then it came to me. I passed because I hate and can’t stand chewing tobacco, but I could see that Igor was curious. I held it out to him, thinking he only wanted to look at it. But he thought I was just being polite, and giving him first go. As he raised it to his mouth I quickly said, “It’s awful”—but he was already forcing his teeth through the tough plug, and I finished lamely—“strong.”

Nick, now lighting his pipe, looked at Igor. “You talk more good. You tell about games.”

Both the responsibility and the taste of the tobacco hit Igor at about the same time. He handed me back the plug, trying to keep the stricken look off his face. “The games—” he said, unable to go further at the moment.

Old Keats had once told me, in one of his moments of rare insight, “There is no hole that goes so far, or is so forever unending, as an asshole.” And though I should have known better, I fit that category right then. Because when Igor handed me back the plug, out of sheer idiocy or misguided loyalty or whatever, I went so far as to take a big goddamn chew off of it too. I guess I just couldn’t stand seeing him go through all that suffering all by himself.

As bitter fire surged up through my throat and nostrils and head, and started to move sickeningly down my throat, I handed Slim back what was left of his Red Devil.

He pocketed it, him and the others who were chewing, slowly working their jaws in easy, practiced contentment, and waiting quietly for what Igor had to say. About the same time, Nick passed his lighted pipe to Ilya, who was sitting his chestnut mare next to Nick.

Igor looked at me, his pain-filled eyes knowing that I’d tried to warn him and was now going through the same torture.

“We have never,” he said in a thin voice, “had anyone killed in our games.”

With the cossacks paying close attention, and Nick nodding at both the questions and the answers from time to time, Slim went on. “Well, how the hell come not? That there sure is a killin’ course.”

“Captain Rostov,” Igor managed to say, “has taught us that it can be a matter of honor—to die for someone or something—loved.” He hesitated, and I realized he was doing the same thing I always did, which can kill anybody who’s chewing tobacco. I’ve always hated to spit and therefore didn’t, and he wasn’t spitting either, and when you’re chewing tobacco you’ve got to spit or wind up turned inside out. Then, swallowing a little, he went on. “But Captain Rostov has also taught us that it is a crime for anyone to be hurt, or to die, for foolish reasons.”

Slim spit expertly, hitting a small rock near Charlie’s left forehoof. “In this rough ol’ race ya’ got lined up here, what’s foolish an’ what ain’t?”

“He’s taught us that each rider must only do what he knows he can do.” Igor was struggling against the same nausea that I was. “If there’s any doubt he must not try it.”

“Makes good horsemen,” Nick rumbled. “Hurt your horse is even worse than hurt yourself.”

“Well,” I said, forcing my words one at a time through lips that were sealed against throwing up, “that explains that.”

“As long as there’s common sense,” Slim said, shrugging, “there can’t be too much damage.”

“You’re a goddamned spy,” Mushy said to Slim indignantly. “You’re here t’ see Shad don’t lose no hands!”

“Oh, hell, no.” Slim frowned. “You fellas can fool around all ya’ want, far as I’m concerned.” He spit again, hitting the same rock with deadly accuracy. “I’d just feel better knowin’ you’re not all gonna get yourselves killed off, for some dumb damn reason here in this peaceful valley.”

I looked at Igor and saw that he couldn’t take it much longer. And sure as hell, I couldn’t either. “Igor’s explained it,” I just barely managed to say. “Hell, we’ll show you the first part of the ride!”

Igor, in all his torment, caught on like a shot. His fading eyes looked at me like twin suns trying to come up feebly over a dark and dismal horizon. All he said, or could say, was, “Let’s go!”

He whirled Blackeye, and I spurred Buck, and we raced down toward the first pole by the creek. I guess he felt the same way I did, which was that if we happened to miss that first ten-foot jump we’d just fall in the water and hopefully drown, which right at that time would have been one hell of an improvement.

Shoulder to shoulder and at a full gallop we hit the edge of the creek and went flying into the air, and an instant later his good old Blackeye and my goddamned Buck were landing us down at full speed on the far side.

We didn’t pay any attention to the dimly heard cheers behind us, but kept going on like bats out of hell until we got to that second obstacle, which was a blessed stand of thick trees. Once inside those trees, we both jerked our horses up so hard they damnere sat down, and then we both slightly quicker than instantly abandoned ship.

With our horses staring at us in some mild confusion, both Igor and I started throwing up, our stomachs and throats and every other part of us trying to get rid of that poisonous chewing tobacco.

He finished first, standing there drawing in deep breaths. And then I finally came more or less to an end of all that painful heaving and stepped over to him, with one hand clutched hard against my aching chest.

“I tried t’ warn ya,” I said.

He took another deep breath. “How will we explain about disappearing in these trees?”

“Well,” I said, “we’ll just tell them we stopped t’ take a casual piss.”

Igor had learned that word some time back, so he knew what I was talking about but still wasn’t too happy. He even swore for one of the first times. “All this time for a goddamn piss ?”

Impatiently I said, “Then we’ll just tell ’em we came here t’ throw up! ’Cause neither one of us can take Slim’s goddamned more’n-year-old Red Devil Chewing Tobacco!”

He thought about this, weighing it back and forth for a moment. “We stopped to take a long piss.”

Then we got back on Blackeye and Buck and rode out of the trees and back through the stream toward where the others were waiting near the rock.

“You fellas made pretty good time gettin’ t’ them trees,” Slim said, “but ya’ were a little slow gettin’ out.”

“We stopped t’ take a piss.”

“Oh?”

“A long one.”