Crab nodded. “He was out of joint in the first place, and then Shad’s bullheadedness really got to ’im.”
“What I think,” Slim said, “the sonofabitch is looking for some kind of a handout.”
I went over to where Shad and Captain Barum were and said to Shad in a low voice, “Maybe the sonofabitch is lookin’ for some kind of a handout.”
“That’s helped before when I’ve put in here.” The captain rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “All these goddamn Russian officials think they’re little tzars.”
“No,” Shad said.
“We’ve come clear out here to the end of the world, Shad.” I took a deep breath, knowing how he felt. “Don’t you think we oughtta go by whatever their rules are just this once?”
He spit some tobacco over the railing. “Goes against the grain.”
For at least an hour now everything went against the grain. Yakolev, with maddening slowness, asked all the men endless and stupid questions. Shad was tensely ready to bite a nail in half, and Captain Barum was getting more and more edgy, taking his pocket watch out every little while to see how many minutes had gone by.
The only good thing I can remember about that time was that we learned a few things about each other’s names that wouldn’t normally come up in any cowhand’s conversation. They had told us when we got on the Queen in Seattle to be careful to put our real names down or we could be sent back. And it turned out, for example, as Yakolev read the Sea Papers, that old Purse Mayhew was actually named Percival.
After Yakolev got through talking to him, and we’d made a few casual remarks, he told us with some small resentment, “The name Percival is perfectly normal in England!”
Rufus said, “Sure, Percival.”
Link put his hand on Purse’s shoulder. “No need for explainin’. We think Percival’s real sweet, Percival.”
The next name that Yakolev called out was “Lincoln Washington Jefferson Jackson!”
“My God,” Purse got back at Link, saying, “you’re the only nigger ever elected President four times.”
But under the circumstances we weren’t really in too funny a mood, so nothing we said was overly hilarious.
Big Yawn’s name was Jan Oblensky, but his first name happened to be pronounced the same as yawn. Dixie Claybourne was really Dick C. Claybourne. Chakko had a hard time until Shad stepped in and explained through gritted teeth that he was an Ogallala Sioux and he only had one name, which meant “The Silent One,” and he didn’t like to talk to strangers. Old Keats’s first name was William, which nobody had ever known. Mushy Callahan was really Mushy. Natcho was just a normal Mexican nickname for Ignacio Rodriguez. Slim’s actual first names were Leroy Eugene Cecil, which were so bad it would have been almost criminal to take advantage of them. And Crab Smith could have been a honey to kid, because his first name, which was a subject of grouchy, secret concern to him, was Jehovah. But by the time Crab’s name came up we were all too mad at Yakolev to pretend any kind of a sense of humor.
And then Yakolev called a name that sure as hell threw me.
“Marvin Samuel Shapiro!”
A bunch of us looked at each other, kind of puzzled, and then Sammy the Kid stepped forward.
“That’s me,” he said.
“This name is Jewish,” Yakolev said, saying it so it sounded like “Ziss name’s Hooish.” But I don’t even want to bother about the way he talked anymore.
“You’re damn right it’s Jewish,” Sammy said. “And so am I.”
“Then you admit it!” Yakolev seemed pleased at finally finding a name he could, in his own mind, legitimately find some fault with. He repeated it, shaking his head. “Marvin Samuel Shapiro. For your own safety, I cannot allow you into Russia.”
Shad had been just about ready to fight for some time, and now he leaned forward, knuckles down, on the table where Yakolev was sitting. His voice was low. “These men have all been given clearance by my country and by your consulate. With these papers, you cannot refuse us entrance.”
Yakolev raised his hands up in mock concern. “But I cannot, in my small authority, guarantee this man’s safety.”
“I’ll take my chances with my friends,” Sammy said.
“You can’t guarantee any safety for any of us!” Shad stood back from the table, his jaw muscles tight and hard. “We’re taking our cattle over a thousand miles into Russia, and your ‘small authority’ won’t last half a mile out of Vladivostok.”
“But I do rule here.” Yakolev smiled his smile that looked like he was ready to bite something. “Perhaps if we talked about it privately.”
Shad leaned on the table again. Now his voice was not only low, but deadly. “I will not pay you one goddamn penny, mister!”
Yakolev said quickly, “I did not suggest that!”
Shad tensed forward, like a mountain lion about to spring. “Those Sea Papers are in order.”
“Yes.” Yakolev stood nervously, moving away from the table to where his two men were waiting near the railing. “The papers are in order. Your men and animals can enter the port of Vladivostok and go into Russia.”
“Good,” Captain Barum said, relieved. “We’ll arrange to dock immediately.”
Yakolev started toward the rope ladder, then turned back before he answered. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He looked at Shad, his eyes malicious under those two thick eyebrows. “As Harbor Master, you have my permission to enter—sometime.” Then he looked at the captain. “In my judgment, the bad seas are too heavy for you to put in tonight. Serious damage could happen in docking, to your ship and my wharf. Perhaps tomorrow—or the next day.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow!” Captain Barum protested.
“It may be many days, or weeks.” Yakolev rubbed a thick eyebrow.
“You know I can’t wait here indefinitely!”
Yakolev raised his shoulders helplessly. “That is your decision, Captain.” Then he turned quickly and hurried down the ladder, his two men following.
There was a long silence as Yakolev’s men rowed away from the Great Eastern Queen. Finally Shad said, “Could you dock your ship in there all right, Captain?”
Barum nodded, his face grim. “Certainly I could. But not without his permission.”
“What the hell we gonna do now, boss?” Slim asked.
“There’s only one thing you can do,” Captain Barum said. “I’ll take you back to Japan on the Queen—no extra tariff. And you can make whatever plans about your cattle and getting back to America from there.”
“Our outfit’s been paid t’ deliver a herd a’ longhorns a thousand miles into Siberia,” Shad said quietly, “and we’re gonna deliver ’em.
“I tell you I can’t put ashore!” Captain Barum’s voice showed how bad he felt about the whole thing.
“I know you can’t put the Queen ashore,” Shad said. Then one side of his mouth muscled very slightly in the half grin, half frown he showed sometimes when he was thinking. “But we can get our longhorns onto the beach just outside town.”
“How?” I asked. “Us and five hundred head gonna fly?”
“No.” He turned to me. “But if any of our men or cattle haven’t learned how t’ swim, they damn well better learn fast when they hit that water.”
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