Clair Huffaker: The Cowboy and the Cossack

Eager hands helped us down, but we sure weren’t the center of attention. I looked at Shad, and for one grim moment his face seemed dark and old as night. “One horse up there,” he said.

And I suddenly knew what he and Rostov had been quietly talking about before, that had made them walk away from the rest of us.

The hoofbeats became louder, and a little later that one horse came galloping down through the shadows on the slope.

It was a frightened skewbald mare, and she raced down and jumped half over us into the hollow, where some of the men grabbed her and held her and brought her back.

It was Pietre’s mare, and his body was tied over his saddle.

At that moment the one overwhelming thought in my numb mind was so simple. I just wished to God I had given him that last big bear hug, like I almost did.

Because after what they’d done to Pietre, there wasn’t enough left of him to hug.

WORKING BY the dim light of the moon, a few of us buried Pietre near the edge of the grassy hollow, while the others stayed on guard. Then, in groups of two and three, everybody had finally gone over to the grave to pay their last, silent respects.

By then it was as dark as it was ever going to get, and Rostov sent two more cossacks, Dmitri and Yakov, to try to get to Bakaskaya. They were to go back through the rocky rear entrance to the hollow and then keep going back for another mile or so. Then they were to split up, one going far north and the other far south, to make a several-mile-wide circle around the Tartars ahead of us.

After looking down at Pietre’s grave for a long, silent time, Igor had volunteered to go, but Rostov had said no because he needed him.

As the two other cossacks rode silently away in the dark I said to Igor quietly, “Well, that’s what ya’ get for knowin’ both languages. Miss out on all the nice, pleasant rides.”

He knew I was just trying to be helpful, and he forced a small, tight grin. But the truth was that none of us held out much hope for those two fellas. Or for ourselves either, for that matter.

So that long, dark night wasn’t altogether too cheerful of a time.

Some of the cossacks bedded down fairly early, but around midnight the only Slash-Diamonder who was sleeping was Chakko. Shad left the breastwork and the men on guard there to come over to the rest of us sitting silently around the low-burning fire. “Anybody here got a ribbon?” he said in a quiet, easy way.

This was an unlikely request, and Big Yawn muttered, “Huh?”

“If y’r gonna give Kharlagawl a present, ya’ might as well tie it up proper.”

Slim nodded, understanding. “Rate we’re goin’ we’ll be too damn tired t’morra t’ even see straight, let alone shoot straight.” He stood up. “I’m gonna git me some sleep if it kills me.”

Embarrassed into turning in, like all of the others, I crawled into my bedroll, but I was absolutely certain I wouldn’t get ten minutes’ sleep.

And on top of everything else, as though somebody up off there on the flats was reading our minds, that huge goddamned drum began its slow, measured booming again. “Dirty bastards!” I mumbled to no one in particular. And Rufe grumbled, “They’re tryin’ t’ drive us crazy!”

A few feet away Chakko raised his head slightly and yawned. Then he said, “Fuck it,” turned onto his other side, and went back to sleep. That sonofagun sure got a lot of good mileage out of that one expression.

I decided that about the best thing I could do was close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

So it came as something of a shock when I blinked my eyes back open to see the clear light of dawn around me. Some of the others were waking up now, too.

The drum was still booming out its slow thunder, and from near the fire, where he was pouring coffee, Slim grinned toward us and said, “That poor damn drummer’s gotta be the tiredest bastard in Siberia.”

Going to sleep on Chakko’s words and then waking up to Slim’s line was just about the best thing that could ever happen to a fella. Being faced with fear is a funny thing. It’s like walking a tightrope inside your own head. On the one hand, if you fall, you can become a bawling, panicky coward or just a helpless, soggy bowl of cold mush. But if, somehow, you can stay balanced on that rope, then things aren’t too bad. And both Chakko and Slim had been real helpful as balancers. Matter of fact, that morning’s cool air seemed to taste sweeter than any I’d ever breathed, and even Slim’s coffee was downright delicious. Looking around at the others, I had a strong hunch they were feeling the same sort of way.

From where they had been watching the slope above, Shad and Rostov now left the men who were there on guard at the breastwork and started over toward the fire.

“After all that good advice t’ us,” I said, “I doubt either one a’ them closed their eyes all night.”

Old Keats nodded quietly. “I’m beginning to believe those two men aren’t made of muscle and bone. Something more like leather and iron.”

A little later, sipping his cup of coffee, Shad glanced around at us. “Well, you fellas seem t’ be fairly bright-eyed an’ bushy-tailed this mornin’.”

“Goddamn drum put me right off t’ sleep,” Mushy said.

“As f’r me,” Big Yawn rumbled, “it pissed me off s’ much I swore t’ git m’ rest just t’ spite it.”

“Exactly,” Natcho agreed. “I can understand perfectly their wanting to kill us, but trying to disturb our sleep is going too far.”

That was one of Natcho’s better shots at humor, and we were all proud of him for it.

For his part, Rostov now said quietly, “Kharlagawl’s tactics of terror weaken most men.” He looked back toward the tip of the rising sun and added thoughtfully, “But they strengthen strong men.”

By the time the sun was gaining a little toward breaking loose from the far horizon on its way up into the sky, we were all ready and waiting there at the breastwork. The way the mathematics figured out, there were just exactly twenty of us, including Kirdyaga, who was propped up with his shoulder against a rock, sitting there with his rifle in hand, ready to fire against whatever might come down upon us.

Of our original thirty-one men, three were dead, six were on guard around the hollow behind us, and two were, hopefully, on their way to Bakaskaya.

As the sun got nearly halfway to high noon, the monstrous drum stopped, and when its echoes were gone, there was a moment or two of complete, dead stillness.

Then we heard the damnedest last noise on earth anybody could ever have expected. From just beyond the top of the slope there was suddenly the vast tinkling sound of a thousand sleigh bells. Then, along with the jingling, there was a long, booming blast from the war horn.

“Show time again,” Slim said.

Rostov, understanding the meaning of the bells, called out, “This will be a small exploratory attack, some of their best men testing our strength.”

“In that case,” Shad said, “don’t nobody blow up those kegs a’ gunpowder on the slope. We’ll leave them f’r when they throw every damn thing they got at us.”

Now, as if by magic, about a hundred Tartar riders instantly appeared all at once on the far top of the slope. Many of their horses were painted in strange colors and designs, from zebra stripes to red and yellow polka dots. Countless bells were jangling, hanging from the stirrups and other horse furniture.

Those men were probably the best-armed fighters Kharlagawl had. About half of them carried old single-shot rifles of some sort or another. One real puzzle. In addition to the weapons they were packing, every man up there, regardless of what else he might be wearing underneath, was wearing a white kind of long, lacy shawl draped down around his shoulders, with little bells on it.