Clair Huffaker - The Cowboy and the Cossack

But Pietre did take that awesome leap. As me and Buck were skidding, he and his mare were flying, and that skewbald of his was one hell of a jumper. They just made it, but the ground on the far side wasn’t firm enough for all that flying weight, and as they came down, some of the dirt at that far edge broke away under her hind hooves and, slipping, she almost went over and down backward.

But superb horseman that he was, Pietre’s right hand instinctively flashed back and whacked her on the rear as his left hand swiftly hauled her head around so that she was jerked into one of the quickest half-turns ever seen, and her struggling hind hooves were now on secure ground farther from the edge.

This had all happened with such split-second timing that it was just about now that the rock he’d had to drop in order to save his mare splashed into the stream below.

After a deep sigh of relief that Pietre and his mare weren’t hurt, I spurred Buck down to where the stream was easy to cross and rode unhurriedly up to the big rock, and the finish line, where the others were gathering.

Pietre was sitting his mare quietly, just past the finish line, looking miserable as hell. He’d crossed over it, but crossing without his rock didn’t count. And as if that didn’t add up to enough misery for him already, it wasn’t hard to guess that Nick had given him hell for even trying the dangerous jump in the first place.

I pulled up just short of the finish line, and Nick rumbled, “Well, cross over, so to win!”

I almost did what he said, both him and his voice being so big and tough, but some kind of an invisible string, somehow, was pulling me back the other way.

Just letting the string tug on me, I didn’t go over the finish line. But instead I rode Buck the short distance back to the stream and threw my team’s rock down into its waters too.

There was silence as I rode back from the creek, and now I finally spurred Buck a little, so that we also crossed empty-handed over the finish line to where Pietre was sitting his mare.

I didn’t have any idea that doing that simple thing would touch those cossacks so much. It was almost too much, as though what I’d done was so damned right that they wanted to be silent about it so it’d remain in their memories for sure. But I couldn’t let it stay that quiet and serious, because no matter how you looked at it, Pietre had rode the best race.

So I looked at Pietre and held both hands up just to start all over again with the simple fact that they were as empty as his. Then I grinned and shrugged my shoulders broadly, which meant in any language, “What the hell!” With a whole lot of “Who cares anyway?” thrown in.

He grinned back, and it was a damned good grin. And then everybody, cowboys and cossacks, were grinning and talking and laughing all at once, and the whole feeling among us was warm and fine.

Shad had already dismounted, and when I got off my horse he came over. After a quiet moment, and in a voice he made sure no one else could hear, he paid me one of those rare, generous compliments of his. “You didn’t make too much of an ass a’ yourself, Levi.”

I hated to admit it, but I had to. “Boss, I wasn’t the brains behind not takin’ that jump. Buck was.”

“I know that!” he said impatiently. “I ain’t blind.” After a moment, he went on. “I meant about tossin’ your goddamn rock in the creek.”

Then he frowned a little, at nothing in particular, as though he might be secretly mad at himself for having talked too much.

“Thanks, boss.”

“Well,” he said, still quietly, “you’re mostly such a fuckup, it’s refreshin’ t’ see ya’ do somethin’ partway right once in a while.”

Then he walked away.

If there is anything on earth more sensitive than a sensitive man who tries to act like he ain’t, I’d sure like to know what it is.

Later that afternoon, there was still a long time left before sundown when Bruk and Old Keats hurried unexpectedly back toward camp with the four men they’d taken into town that day.

There was something wrong for them to be riding back to camp so early, and the looks on their faces didn’t help. On top of that a cold, mean wind was rising quickly, while angry black clouds were suddenly starting to fill the sky in the west, and there were occasional dim rumbles of distant thunder.

Slim was standing next to me and was sharing my thoughts. “Kinda feels like the devil just now stretched an’ woke up,” he said, “an’ is out t’ cause some mischief.”

Old Keats and Bruk dismounted near the fire, where Shad and Rostov and some of us others were gathered. Link, who’d been one of the men with them, sat his horse a few feet away, his eyes cast down.

“It’s just possible,” Keats said grimly, “that we got us a small problem on our hands.”

“If we have,” Link muttered, “then it’s my doin’.”

Keats frowned at Link, but his expression was more thoughtful than angry.

“Well, ya gonna tell us about it,” Shad said flatly, “or are we supposed t’ guess?”

Link got off his horse and forced himself to look directly at Shad. “I made a toast t’ Rostov an’ his men.” He hesitated. “Way it come out, I said, ‘Here’s t’ the best fifteen cossacks in Russia.’”

Link dropped his gaze toward the ground again, and Keats took over. “Some Imperials who’d been sittin’ close by got up an’ took off like they’d all of a sudden been whistled for. We think that maybe one of ’em understood enough t’ get the drift of what Link said.”

“There’s no way of knowing for certain,” Bruk said. “But if any of Verushki’s men do speak some English, he’d have them listening to us in town as much as possible.”

There was a moment of grim, thoughtful silence, and then Slim said, “What ya’ think we oughtta do, Shad?”

Shad looked off toward the black storm clouds that were now blotting out the lowering sun and surging across the sky closer toward us. “I think them clouds’ve made up our minds what t’ do.”

Knowing what he meant, Rostov said to Bruk, “What’s the level of the river?”

“It’s down another twelve centimeters.”

Shad and Rostov studied each other, and Rostov said, “It’s still higher than we’d intended.”

“With heavy rain hittin’ upstream, that river’s gonna rise a lot b’fore goin’ down again, an’ we ain’t got all summer.”

Rostov nodded. “Then it’s tonight. The storm will help cover our movements.” He paused. “One more thing. Some of us should go into town for a while.”

Now it was Shad’s turn to agree. “And make it look like that rain’s got us stuck here.”

Rostov started giving orders to his men as Slim said, “Shad, our pack animals’re gonna be overloaded f’r much swimmin’.”

“Lash some of the stuff onto some a’ the cows.”

“They ain’t gonna like that too much,” Crab said.

“Then convince ’em!”

Link hadn’t moved since he’d gotten off his horse, but now he stepped to Shad, his eyes still as pained as ever. “Boss, it was stupid a’ me, mentionin’ fifteen cossacks!”

Shad looked at him. “You ain’t s’ stupid as I thought. I didn’t think ya’ could count t’ fifteen.”

Like Shad knew it would, this somehow made things better for Link, and most of the pain eased out of his eyes.

“All right!” Slim called out. “Time f’r you third-rate wranglers t’ start earnin’ y’r wages agin! Everybody git ready t’ bust outta here!”

We moved off, and Sammy the Kid was putting his possibles together near where I was wrapping up my own bedroll when the first advance drops of rain started to hit us. He looked up at the darkening, cloud-swept sky and rubbed those first light splashes of rain from his face, but I could see he was thinking a whole lot more about that river we had yet to cross.