The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) (42 page)

There had been one change made in our traveling setup. Instead of riding with the herd, Shad and Igor went to riding far drag, about the same distance behind the cattle as Rostov and I were before them. Back there was where riders catching up with us would be spotted first. So that’s where Shad elected to be.

That night, except for general exhaustion, we were all feeling pretty good. There still hadn’t been one sign of one Tartar overtaking us. We were due to join up with the men from Bakaskaya within no more than two or three days. And even Kirdyaga was in miraculously good shape, sitting up and eating and joking. Igor had already told me that Kirdyaga wanted to start an exclusive club, limited to men who were packing bullets in their guts. And naturally, Kirdyaga and Rostov were in on it as the charter members.

While we were eating beans around the low fire, Slim frowned at his now empty tin plate and said, “Goddamnit t’ hell, anyway.”

He was fishing, so I up and took the bait. “Goddamn what t’ hell, Slim?”

“We jus’ might not never even
see
that big bunch a’ Tartars.”

“Heartbreakin’ thought,” Crab muttered.

“An’ in that case, what’ll I tell m’ grandkids?”

“What grandkids?” Mushy asked.

“Ain’t you fellas got no feelin’s?” Slim demanded. “I was lookin’ forward t’ tellin’ ’em some real excitin’ stories in m’ old age.”

“Do what ya’ usually do,” Crab suggested. “Lie.”

And Rufe added, “You’re already in y’r old age, Slim.”

Old Keats finished his coffee. “We’re movin’ out in four hours. You fellas c’n sit around regalin’ each other all ya’ want. But I’m gettin’ some sleep.”

And the next day was the seventh day.

By sunup we’d already made four or five miles, and we made even better time on level plains of knee-high waving grass through the morning and most of the afternoon.

In the late afternoon Rostov and I crossed a wide meadow and rode to the top of a high, sloping hill where he pulled his black to a halt, suddenly frowning.

The land ahead of us was a little rougher, broken up here and there by ravines and outcroppings of rocks. Two or three miles beyond, there were some steep pine-covered ridges.

But the terrain wasn’t rugged enough to explain Rostov’s hard, thoughtful frown. He took out his telescope and studied the land ahead for a long moment. Then he turned his black and raised the telescope again to scan the horizon far to each side of us and behind us.

“Somethin’ the matter?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said quietly, his voice as hard as his granite expression.

Not sure that I really wanted to hear the answer, I said in a low voice, “What, sir?”

“Kharlagawl’s army will not catch up with us from behind.” He closed his telescope slowly. “It’s up ahead, there.—Waiting for us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

R
OSTOV STAYED
on the high hill to act as a lookout for us, and I galloped back to the herd. Seeing me headed back at full speed, the Slash-Diamonders eased off on the cattle, letting them slow down to a stop. By the time I hauled Buck to a skidding halt, my heart pounding deafeningly in my ears, most of them and some of the cossacks were already gathered to find out what was going on.

“Them Tartars!” I half shouted, trying to catch my breath. “They’re up ahead!”

“Where?” Slim asked.

“Didn’t see ’em! But Rostov says so!”

“Then they’re there,” Old Keats said grimly.

But Crab, trying to cling to some kind of hope, said, “Maybe they
ain’t
! Maybe Rostov—”

“Oh, shut up,” Slim growled. “That bastard c’n spot a gnat from three miles off, an’ then read its mind.”

Shad and Igor galloped up now, and the only question Shad asked was, “What’s Rostov say t’ do?”

I was still having trouble breathing. “T’ git the cattle into a big hollow about half a mile ahead an’ off t’ the left!”

“Slim, git the herd up there fast,” Shad said. “You cossacks give ’em a hand. C’mon, Levi.”

Then he galloped on toward the high hill where Rostov was. I spurred after him as Slim and Nick began bawling orders to the cowboys and cossacks, and they quickly got the herd moving at an angle toward the hollow ahead.

At the top of the hill Shad and I pulled up beside Rostov. They exchanged brief looks, and all of a sudden I knew both of them had had the foresight to be prepared for this possibility from the very first. Rostov silently handed Shad his telescope.

Raising the scope, Shad looked out over the broken land ahead and the pine-covered ridges beyond. Lowering it after a moment, he said, “Ridges.”

Rostov nodded. “They were planning to attack us from there when we were strung out in the open meadows just below.”

Shad passed me the telescope. “That sure woulda been a mess.”

Squinting at the far-off land through the lens, I couldn’t see a damn thing that was out of the way.

“Farther to the right, Levi,” Rostov said. “The last meadow.”

And Shad added, “Either they did that ’r there’s a herd a’ elephants up ahead—can’t miss the sign.”

Finally I vaguely made out in the far distance one shadowed hairline of high grass that had been beaten down by many hooves, though even with the help of the powerful lens it was still almost impossible to see.

“Yeah, Shad.” I handed the telescope back to Rostov. “That’s really hard t’ miss.”

They were both sitting there so quietly now that it kind of threw me. Scared, nervous and excited as I was, I’d somehow expected that by now each and every one of us would be galloping off in every direction at once. But Shad even took out his Bull Durham and started to build a leisurely smoke, though neither he nor Rostov took their eyes from the growingly ominous flats and ridges.

After a moment Slim rode up and said, “Herd’s just about inta’ that holla’, boss. How much time ya’ reckon we got?”

“’Bout two hours,” Shad told him. “They ain’t gonna tire their horses runnin’ ’em all this distance at us.”

Slim studied the land ahead. “That there Kharlagawl sure ain’t nobody’s dumbbell.’Stead a’ pickin’ up our trail an’ followin’, he figures out where we’re most likely headin’ an’ plain damn simple cuts us off.”

Shad finished building his smoke as Rostov said to him quietly, “The hollow seems to me to be our best defensive position.”

Shad lit up and blew the match out. “Seems that way t’ me, too.” He broke the matchstick and dropped it.

Then, though neither of them said anything, by common accord they turned their horses and rode easily toward the hollow, and Slim and I followed them.

I’d just glanced at the place as Rostov and I were riding past it on point, but studying it more carefully as we now got there and rode down into it, I could see what they liked about it. It was a roughly rounded-out depression, sort of like a big, natural bowl in the ground, about three hundred yards across. It was sunk down over a hundred feet, and on both sides high, jagged rocks made it hard as hell to get to. For that matter it wasn’t easy to get to from the rear end, where they’d now driven the cattle in, for that was also a rocky, pitching decline that would make any four-hooved animal slow down and go careful. The front part, a wide, gradual slope leading up toward the flats, was the only clear entrance. A hell of a charge could be made from there, despite a few low outcroppings of rock. But at least it was the only direction from which the Tartars could attack in force. And there was one more thing, which turned out to be important as hell later on. There was an arroyo off to the side up front that led from somewhere up in the flats down into the hollow. It was about forty feet wide, and its steep sides were anywhere from twenty to thirty feet high.

Otherwise, the spacious hollow was filled with sweet grass that some of the cattle were already munching, while others were just lying down or standing motionless, spraddle-legged with fatigue. On the far side of the hollow there was a large spring in the center of a shady clump of maple trees.

We circled around the herd and dismounted at the front of the hollow where most of the others had gathered. The arroyo was to our left. The slope itself fanned out as it slanted easily upward, so that it was maybe a thousand feet wide up at the top. Here and there along the way it was broken by low outcroppings of rock. And where we stood, at the point that the slope dropped
the last little bit down to join the hollow, most of the two-hundred-foot width there was a long, low ledge of rock about five or six feet high. It formed a perfect breastwork to help us defend ourselves against any attackers who might charge down the slope. To our left, next to the entrance to the arroyo, there was a nearby higher wall of rock where our horses could be protected and yet still be close at hand.

Igor said to Rostov, “We’ve placed guards in the rocks on both sides and at the rear.”

“Good.” Rostov scanned the gently rising slope before us carefully, finally studying the crest of it half a mile away. “But right up there is where they’ll come from.”

“Hell,” Slim said, looking around. “All in all, this here situation ain’t too damn bad a’tall.”

But Rufe, who clearly represented the majority, was of a gloomier frame of mind. “Wish t’ Christ you’d stop bein’ so fuckin’ cheerful,” he muttered. “Tends t’ git nauseatin’.”

“Well hell,” Slim countered, “this place is just as good a natural fortress as God ever built, with water an’ grass t’ spare. All we gotta do is settle in an’ hold out till them fellas from Bakaskaya git here.”

Shad and Rostov looked at each other for a thoughtful moment, and then Shad said, “We’ll camp b’hind those high rocks. Mushy, Rufe, git a fire goin’.”

“A fire?” Mushy questioned.

“That’s right. Might’s well make it a big one.”

“Hot beans’re better’n cold,” Slim said.

“And,” Old Keats added, understanding Shad’s reasoning, “if our friends are within seeing distance by now, we might as well let them know exactly where we are by the smoke.”

With that encouragement, Rufe and Mushy got what looked like a ton of wood from one of the maples that was long dead. They built such a big fire it was hard to get close enough to it to cook, and Kirdyaga, lying near it, had to move his blanket away.

“Christ,” Slim said, looking up at the smoke billowing into the sky, “they oughtta be able t’ see that clear back t’ Seattle.”

We ate in shifts, with most of us staying at the natural rock breastwork, rifles in hand. At first we talked and joked a little, but it was just too spooky for much of that, and the talk slowly eased off. After that all there was for one long, nerve-racking hour, and then finally two, was dead silence and nothing. It was still so quiet after those two endless hours that the loudest things I could hear were my own breathing and a fly buzzing a few feet away near Crab, who was sweating slightly as he frowned up the long slope before us, blinking into the nearly setting sun.

Crab must have been thinking about the same thing I was, for the fly flew away and a moment later he said tightly, “Only noise f’r miles around here is my sweat droppin’ off!”

Igor grinned and translated Crab’s line in a low voice. The other cossacks grinned back, and a few of them chuckled.

“Goddamnit,” Crab complained. “Wasn’t trying t’ be funny.”

“Only times ya’ ever are,” I told him, “is by accident.”

“Very amusin’,” he muttered. “Y’r a real scream, Levi.”

Then, from farther down the line, Purse said what was on a lot of our minds. “I don’t think there’s one damn, bloody thing up there!”

“Maybe,” I said, looking over toward Shad, “a couple of us ought t’ ride up an’ take a look.”

Chakko spoke for the first time in two days. “Fuck it.”

Shad glanced at Chakko and then at me. “Maybe after nightfall, on foot. Not now.”

Chakko nodded gravely at Shad’s words, and Rostov said quietly, “I believe we’ll see them before then. I think they’re just waiting for the most dramatic moment to show themselves.”

“Dramatic?” Old Keats said.

Nick nodded his massive head. “To frighten.”

A few minutes later the sun, now directly in our eyes, began to set behind the far top of the slope.

And as it did, there was a sudden hollow, haunting sound that seemed to grow slowly out from everywhere at once, and as
it grew in volume it seemed to start pounding on the inside of my brain, trying to jar it loose.

“Show time,” Old Keats said above the strange, booming noise.

Slim cocked his rifle. “Nice t’ have ringside seats.”

From down the line Sammy called, “What ’n God’s name is
that
?”

In an easy, calming voice Rostov called back, “It’s a Tartar war horn. If that’s all they have to offer, we’re in no trouble.”

But as Rostov knew, that sure as hell wasn’t all they had to offer.

As the hideous, long blast of noise at last stopped, and its echoes began to fade away, somebody started beating very slowly on what must have been the biggest goddamn drum ever made on earth. The very ground beneath us seemed to shake with each measured, thunderous beat.

By now the sun was about halfway down, making it a blinding proposition to try to keep your eyes on the faraway top of the slope.

And then, as slow and measured as the giant thunder of the huge drum itself, riders started to appear up there, lining themselves out and facing us, the murderous sunlight behind them making them seem to shimmer and shift like motionless, yet moving, phantoms.

There were already tears in my eyes from squinting so hard into the sun, but I’d guess that at first there were about fifty of them. And then there was maybe a hundred, and then more, and more, and still more.

Finally, as unmoving and silent as death, they covered the entire thousand feet at the top of the slope, and though my eyes weren’t working too good, the thought kept slamming at me that they were
crowded
against each other up there.

From a few feet away Crab whispered hoarsely, “Now I know how it feels t’ be scared shitless.”

Just as quiet as Crab, and dead level, Slim whispered back, “Does sorta cut every string in y’r gut.”

And the rest of us sure as hell knew how they felt.