Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

At an order from Rostov, two of the cossacks rode down to the meadow to undo the damage Dixie and I had caused to their poles and pine cones. Dixie watched after them, still with a hint of that same dark thunder in his eyes.

“Well, Rostov,” Slim said, “what was the order a’ winnin’ among these fellas?”

Rostov said, “Natcho, Crab and Rufe were first, second and third. Then Dixie and Levi.”

I was surprised at Slim asking such a question, and his next line made me wonder even more. “Umm,” he nodded. “Kinda’ thought maybe ol’ Levi’d won.”

“Levi?” Crab said as we all frowned at Slim.

“Yeah. Downright spectacular.”

I began to sense Slim’s devious mind at work, so I didn’t say anything, but Rufe now got sucked in along with Crab. “What d’ya mean?”

“I doubt if in the history a’ them war games nobody ever b’fore took both a pine cone an’ a pole prisoner simultaneous like Levi just did.”

I looked at Slim and pretended to be mad, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t be because I suddenly knew that bighearted bastard was putting pressure on me to make it easier on Dixie, who’d not only lopped a pine cone clean off, but also lost a fairly rough scrap just before.

“You think you’re jokin’, you dumb sonofabitch,” I told Slim. “But it takes years a’ hard practice t’ perfect a saber blow like that.”

Rostov, who somehow understood everything that was going on, said, “How long do you think it would take you, Levi, to teach my men that fantastic saber thrust?”

“A lot more’n the week or so we’ll be here, sir.”

“A pity,” Rostov said. “Not knowing the Levi Dougherty thrust will probably set back cossackdom a hundred years.”

All the others were grinning now, at my expense, and it was cheap at twice the price because Dixie was now grinning too.

“This is all very goddamn fuckin’ funny,” I said. “But in the meantime I’m sittin’ here bleedin’ t’ death.”

Slim looked at my cut hand. “Ya’ got some sap in the cut, along with the blood.”

“No foolin’?” I said dryly. “An’ it just happens t’ sting like hell.”

“Go back t’ camp an’ wash it out,” he told me. “Put a little Jack Daniel’s on it, but don’t waste any, an’ wrap a piece a’ tape around it. An’ chances are you’ll survive.”

“Thanks a lot, doctor,” I said. And then we both knew what the other one was going to say. “Ya’ think I can manage t’ do all that by m’self?”

“Frankly, I doubt it.” Slim turned to Dixie. “Think ya’ can help this poor wounded fella long enough t’ see he gets patched up?”

Everything was working fine and Dixie even started to go along with the fun.

“I’ll try m’ best, if he don’t bleed t’ death on the way back.”

So Dixie and I rode off, with him helping me.

And it was hard to tell, right then, whether or not Dixie knew or didn’t know, that it was really him who was being helped.

But be that as it may, you had to chalk a good thing up for Slim. And for Rostov. And if it can be construed to my credit, I whined and grumbled a whole lot more than necessary while Dixie washed out the cut, put a dash of Jack Daniel’s in it for health, and taped it to stop the bleeding.

One thing that kind of interested me. Chakko rode into camp just behind the two of us. He went over to where his bedroll and his gear was and got out something that was long and slender and wrapped in canvas. He took it and rode off again toward the meadow, without a word to anyone.

Even in his sleep, it seemed like Shad was aware of everything that was going on. He sat up now and tipped his hat up away from shading his eyes. “What did ya’ do t’ your hand?”

“Cut it.”

Maybe it was the fact that of all people Dixie was taping it, and maybe it had to do with an instinct that went far beyond that, but I swear to God that Shad read my mind just then, and pretty much knew everything that had happened. He stood up and stretched his shoulder muscles. “If Levi’s gonna go through life bein’ s’ goddamn clumsy, Dixie, maybe ya’ oughtta just amputate while you’re at it an’ have done with it.”

Somehow, just like Slim had done, he was making it seem like I was the biggest jackass in the world, who was lucky as hell to have a good friend like Dixie.

And also, somehow, that’s exactly the way they made it work. While Dixie was bandaging my hand, I can guarantee he was just about ready to adopt me. Funniest damn thing that way, about two men fighting each other and helping each other, because if those two men are worth anything at all, both the fighting and the helping, in about equal measure, can make them closer.

Feeling kind of good about the way Dixie felt, I said, “Amputate ’em both, Dixie. Always wanted t’ go through life bein’ spoon-fed.”

Shad came over and said quietly, “How’d ya’ cut it?”

All of a sudden it wasn’t quite so funny, and I wet my lips a little. “Saber.”

“Kinda’ thought so.”

“It was an accident, boss.” Dixie finished the bandage and stood back. “Coulda happened t’ anybody.”

Shad gave Dixie a look. “Like you?”

“Well”—Dixie hesitated—“yeah. Five of us made a run with sabers. You wouldn’t want us t’ back down, boss, in some kind of a coward’s way?”

Like Slim, Shad rarely chewed tobacco but he nearly always carried an ancient plug. He took it out now and bit off a chew. Then he handed it toward Dixie and me. I shook my head and Dixie took a chew before passing it back.

Pocketing the plug, Shad said, “Let’s take a ride over there.”

A little later the three of us arrived at where the others were by the big rock. The two cossacks had finished fixing the poles and pine cones down in the meadow and were on their way back.

Shad pulled up near Rostov and spent a moment studying the many poles that made up the racetrack layout and the six pine-cone-topped poles in the middle of the meadow. I wish he’d said almost anything else for starters, but he chose to say, as a flat statement of fact, “These games a’ yours, Rostov, got one a’ my men hurt.”

The hard way he said it, and further the simple fact that it was true, left a kind of a hole in the conversation because there wasn’t much for Rostov to say by way of an answer. Shad turned from studying the meadow and faced Rostov, and again there was that feeling of two earthquakes about to happen all at once.

“It was my own damn fault, Shad,” I said. “An’ I ain’t hurt hardly at all.”

“Coulda been worse, just as easy.”

Rostov finally spoke, his voice quiet and flat. “Getting hurt, as Levi did, makes a man stronger and wiser.”

“I’d hope my men are both strong and wise already.”

Neither one of them was about to back off, and since it was my fault, right or wrong, I had to throw the rest of my two-bits’ worth in. “Not me, Shad. Maybe them others are, but I ain’t nowhere near neither strong or wise enough. Igor did me the honor a’ lendin’ me his saber, an’ I plain fucked up by gettin’ carried away and not usin’ it right.” I added lamely, “You know I ain’t goin’ against ya’, boss, but—”

Instead of getting mad, which I fully expected and probably deserved, Shad gave me a look of such quiet patience that I knew that somewhere, and somehow, he was righter than I was. Then he turned back to Rostov, more thoughtful now than angry. “My men will compete too hard.”

Rostov nodded, and the brief, dark feeling that had been between them was gone now. “Perhaps you should forbid your men from taking part.”

None of us said anything about that, but our expressions showed how we felt.

Looking around at us, Slim said dryly, “Seems ya’ got your choice of a bunch a’ cripples here, boss. Broken bones on one hand, an’ broken hearts on the other.”