Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

Slim reined Charlie around and he and Nick led us off back toward camp.

“If we all ride as fast as you two,” Nick said, “we have good games.”

“That’s f’r sure,” Slim agreed. He pulled out his plug. “Either one of ya’ care for a little more Red Devil?”

Igor shook his head. “No thanks.”

I said, “Some other time.”

“F’r me, personal, m’self,” Slim said, taking another chew, “I sometimes find Red Devil downright inspirational in makin’ good time.”

He and Nick looked at each other and then spurred into a lope, and we followed them back up over the hill toward camp.

FIVE OF us woke up at an ungodly hour that night to ride the second half of the graveyard shift, and it was around sunup that Mushy and some others came out to relieve us. We went back to camp and got a few hours sleep, so it was pushing noon when we woke up and pulled on our boots and went over to see if there was any coffee.

Some of Slim’s coffee was still left over from yesterday, a little bit warmed over and added to. And tasting it on that second day, I’d guarantee no horseshoes or anything else would survive in it one way or the other.

Shad and Old Keats came riding in from checking out the herd and dismounted, Shad glancing up at the near high-noon sun. “Four of ya’ are gonna go in town t’day,” he said, “along with four cossacks. You’re gonna buy some supplies an’ have a good time. Who wants t’ go?”

Remembering Irenia in her tablecloth dress, I spoke right up. But after those hangings, not many others did.

From the cossack camp next to us, Rostov called, “Northshield?” And Shad and he took about three steps toward each other so they could talk.

Old Keats went on talking for Shad. “T’ kind a’ keep ’em off balance in there, these visits are gonna go on regular, every day. So on this first day especially, just to break them in right, whoever the first four of ya’ are, ya’ gotta handle yourselves just proper.”

“What the hell’s just proper?” Crab wanted to know.

“T’ act like ya’ own the town an’ yet not get anywhere’s near t’ gettin’ in a fight. An’ that ain’t gonna be easy.”

Like Old Keats said, it sure wouldn’t be easy, but their idea shaped up to be pretty simple. We were still playing showdown or chess or whatever. And we had to put on an absolutely fearless front without accidentally causing Khabarovsk or our far-off hidden meadow to become a battleground. Because with or without one of Rostov’s “Pyrrhic” victories, we’d sure as hell finally lose.

From off on one of the high points, there were now a couple of rifle shots. We looked in that direction, and a minute later Ilya galloped down to speak excitedly to Rostov. Rostov then sent him back where he’d been on lookout, slapping his pony on the rump to speed him on his way. Turning to us he said, “Some of Verushki’s men had circled and were coming in from the far south side to examine our camp. They didn’t make it.”

“The two shots?” Shad asked.

“They wounded one man and shot another’s horse out from under him.”

“That,” Old Keats said dryly, “is really nifty.”

Shad nodded. “It is. An’ this is the time, right now on top a’ that, t’ send our men in just like we planned, big as brass an’ twice as shiny.”

“Yes,” Rostov agreed. “But after the incident this morning, today will be an even more difficult time.” He paused. “My four men will be Lieutenant Bruk, Kirdyaga, Vody and Yakov.”

Rostov moved back to speak to his men and Shad thought hard for a moment. Volunteers were suddenly out, and he was considering which of us he would send.

At last Shad said, “The four of us who are goin’ are Old Keats, Big Yawn, Shiny an’ Link.”

The other three, without a word one way or the other, started to get ready. But Shiny just stood without moving, staring down at the ground.

“Well?” Shad said.

Shiny cleared his throat slightly and looked up at Shad. “They been hangin’ our friends an’ we just shot one a’ them. Maybe dead, maybe not.” He hesitated. “An’ now, with all that trouble goin’ on, some a’ us cowboys an’ some cossacks’re supposed t’ ride into that town big as life.”

Shad didn’t answer, waiting for him to go on.

“I hate t’ remind ya’ about this again”—Shiny frowned—“but me an’ Link ain’t exactly typical.”

“Nobody said ya’ were,” Shad told him flatly. “Get mounted.”

As Shiny moved resentfully off, it occurred to me that Yawn wasn’t exactly typical either. He was by far the biggest man in our outfit, like Kirdyaga was among the cossacks. And it further occurred to me that next to Sergeant Nick, Vody and Yakov were the biggest and toughest-looking men among them. So Rostov had chosen the three roughest, most spine-chilling customers in his whole outfit to go into town with Bruk on this particular day.

Shad and Rostov were both stacking their small going-into-town decks with the largest, meanest-looking, most untypical men they had. And in favor of Shad’s decision making, Shiny and Link were not only Negro, but both of them topped six feet and weighed in at a long way over two hundred pounds. In addition, if you didn’t know them, and therefore know how gentle they really were, they just happened to look as fierce as wet wildcats.

The four men now led up their horses, and Shiny said quietly, “Me an’ Link goin’ ’cause we’re niggers?”

“Partly,” Shad said.

“Hell, boss!” Shiny grumbled as he and the others swung up on their horses. “You’re gettin’ rid a’ your fuckin’ misfits!”

“Who you callin’ a misfit?” Big Yawn growled.

But right then Shad had already grabbed the bit on Shiny’s mare Ginger, so that she wasn’t about to move without getting her jaw broken. And the funny thing was that as he did this he wasn’t even mad so much as he was kind of saddened. Holding Ginger motionless he said quietly, “Ya’ feel that way, get off. I’ll send somebody else.”

But Shiny wasn’t yet quite ready to get down. He sat in the saddle, frowning vaguely, as though he had a feeling he’d done something wrong but didn’t know exactly what.

Keats, who had mounted to lead the others off, turned and spoke with more anger than I’d ever heard in his voice before. “Shiny!”

Every eye there jerked around to him, and he went on as hard as before, every word slamming against Shiny like a clenched fist. “You think Shad’d send you ’cause you’re a nigger ? Who went night b’fore last?”

Shiny’s gaze winced and narrowed under those battering words.

“You’re goin’ ’cause you’re a good man an’ thank God black! You an’ Link’ll be outstandin’ as hell ! Like Big Yawn here, who’ll stand about a foot an’ a half taller than anybody there!” Keats took a quick, angry breath. “Shad’s sendin’ you three with me ’cause he thinks you’re the most all-round impressive bastards t’ go along on this first, hard day!”

Shiny’s low voice just barely hung on. “Won’t do nothin’,” he muttered, “made t’ feel like a dumb, black nigger sonofabitch.”

For some reason, Shiny was really hurting, and we all looked at him, puzzled.

With a frowning, genuine innocence, his brother, Link, said, “Nobody’s made me feel like a dumb, black nigger sonofabitch.”

As one of the chosen three, uncomfortable, and with nothing better to say just then, Big Yawn rumbled, “Me neither.”

Slim was quiet but about equally as sore as Old Keats. They both felt that Shad’s fairness was in question. “Civil War’s finished these fifteen years, Shiny. Slavery abolished an’ all. An’ you still think, either way, whether you’re picked or not picked, you’re bein’ picked on !”