by John F. Carr
* * *
Chuluun watched as the United Front suddenly spurred into a charge, firing their rifles from the saddle. Then he turned and waved to Yuri, leading the herders behind the muskylopes and cattle. The herd was already at a canter.
Yuri shouted and fired his rifle into the air. The rest of the herders did likewise.
The sudden increase in gunfire behind the livestock drove them forward again and suddenly they crested the slight rise at a full gallop, stampeding toward the United Front.
Tuya rode up next to Chuluun. Her Women’s Guard reined in behind her. “We’ll ride with you.” Her tone dared him to object.
Chuluun did not argue. Instead, he watched as the stampeding herd thundered forward. As the last of the livestock passed out of Karakorum, Yuri and the herders rode behind them, now leaning down low in the saddle and firing at the United Front.
Captain Naran drew his saber and shouted an order, spurring his mount into a charge to the left of the herd.
Chuluun waited for the clash of the stampeding herd and the oncoming United Front.
“Chuluun, who’s that?” Tuya asked.
He looked. A young Mongol was riding at full gallop from the foothills, the direction Bataar had taken.
Chuluun turned back to the front. The massive muskylopes and cattle stampeded straight into the oncoming cavalry. The United Front horses whinnied and turned, some rearing. The riders fought for control and struggled to shoot forward. Collisions among the animals drove horses to the ground with their riders.
Now Naran’s column was angling to its left, fanning wide so the Free Tribe riders could open up with their newly acquired Kalashnikovs to their right without endangering their comrades in column ahead.
Yates led the Americans behind them along the same angle, all of them firing relentlessly.
The young rider from the Home Guard reined in, his face panicked. “Chuluun Khan!”
“Report,” Chuluun ordered, hoping to keep the youngster calm.
“We’re outnumbered six to one, maybe more!” the young man shouted.
“What?” Tuya leaned forward. “Where?”
“That’s Bataar’s estimate?” Chuluun asked.
“Yes, Chuluun Khan! They need help!”
“Where are they?” Tuya demanded.
“On the hunting trail,” said the messenger.
Before Tuya could spur her mount, Chuluun leaned over and grabbed its bridle.
“What are you doing?” Tuya slapped his arm. “We’re going!”
Chuluun jerked hard on the bridle, holding her mount in place, as he surveyed the battle. The stampede had broken the force of the enemy charge, but now the muskylopes and cattle had run themselves out. However, the confused livestock still got in the way of enemy riders trying to rally.
“Chuluun, let go!” Tuya tried to pull away.
Holding her bridle fast, Chuluun watched the conflict ahead of them. Many United Front riders lay dead or wounded on the hard steppe, but their greater numbers meant the fight was still in the balance. On the roughly level ground, Naran’s First Troop still maintained cohesion as they fired their weapons. The United Front riders, scattered but still outnumbering the Free Tribe and the Americans, were shooting back and no one had any cover.
“Bataar’s in trouble!” Tuya shouted. “We’ll take the rest of the Home Guard and go!”
That could help Bataar, Chuluun knew. Tuya’s Women’s Guard— herself and just five riders—could lead the remainder of the Home Guard up to the trail to improve the odds somewhat and maybe catch part of the enemy by surprise.
Chuluun spoke to the messenger. “Tell my son no one is coming— and wish him well!”
The messenger’s mouth dropped open, but he turned without speaking and kicked his mount into a gallop.
“Are you insane?” Tuya screamed. “He needs help!”
Still holding her horse’s bridle, Chuluun leaned close. “He has to prove himself now.”
“At six to one? You’d let him get killed?” She tried to jerk free, then slapped at his arm. “Let go!”
“No! You’ll get him killed!”
“Chuluun, we have to go—”
“He can earn his standing today!”
“Save him first and worry about that later—”
“He’ll never be khan if his mama rescues him!”
“I lost six children already!”
“If you save him now, he’ll be doomed.”
Tuya, his petite ray of light, glared. “Then you save him!”
“That’s no better! If we rescue him now, someday he’ll be overthrown. Maybe by another Altan Zhang or by a full rebellion. Or maybe he’ll be assassinated!”
“You’re insane! All of you are insane!” Tuya shrieked.
“Maybe,” said Chuluun, his eyes on Tuya’s. “Maybe we’re insane, but it’s true.”
Tuya studied his face for a long moment. Then she let out a breath and looked toward the foothills. Beneath the canopy of trees, nothing was visible. She slumped in the saddle, apparently resigned.
Chuluun kept a tight grip on her horse’s bridle anyway.
To the west, the battle kept moving, swirling, as the riders dodged as they fired. More bodies of riders and horses lay scattered on the steppe. Those still mounted and shooting maneuvered farther away.
Chuluun looked up into the forested foothills above the battleground and desperately hoped he had chosen right.
* * *
Bataar forced himself to wait. Through the trees and brush, he watched the double column of United Front riders pass at a trot. He knew that timing was crucial—if he ordered the attack too soon, most of the column would still be coming and their numbers would give them a big advantage. If he ordered the attack too late, most of their column would simply charge ahead and bear down on Karakorum, virtually undefended behind the main conflict. His pulse pounded as he tried to judge whether the middle of the enemy column was passing.
Movement to his right caught his attention. Through the brush, he saw someone catch Luke’s eye and shake his head. Then Luke turned to Bataar and did the same.
No help was coming.
“Now!” Bataar shouted, before fear could overwhelm him. He fired his Kalashnikov on full auto, stepping and sliding down the slope to get closer.
All along the line to his right, the Free Tribe and the Americans started forward, spraying automatic fire back and forth on the column riding from left to right in front of them.
Enemy shouts rose up, and horses whinnied and fell. Mounts reared and turned, out of control along the narrow trail. They thumped into each other, jarring their riders’ return fire.
“Get ‘em!” Luke yelled.
Bataar found himself emptying his magazine as he reached the trail. United Front riders lay dead and dying along the trail, with some riderless mounts going back the way they came and others crashing through the brush farther down the slope. To his left, more United Front riders were coming, struggling to control their startled mounts.
Throwing himself back behind a tree as enemy riders fired at him, Bataar snatched up another Kalashnikov from a dead man. He stayed down and fired it blindly around a wide tree trunk.
Six to one, Bataar thought crazily as he scrambled along the slope to drop behind an outcropping of rock. He had already accounted for more than six of the enemy. In the first sudden burst of fire, maybe many of his companions had done likewise.
The rattling of gunfire mixed with shouts in Mongolian, English and other languages sounded up and down the trail. He sneaked a quick look to his right and saw enemy riders down in large numbers. The narrow trail gave them no room to maneuver. Then he fitted another magazine and fired over the rock.
He heard the automatic fire of a weapon very close, and then heard it stop. Rising fast, he moved up the rifle he held and squeezed the trigger, but the magazine was empty.
A turbaned young man, his face contorted with rage, leaped out of his saddle toward him, dra
wing a dagger.
Bataar, with his lifetime of training guiding his reflexes, took a two-handed grip on the rifle and swung the butt like a club. It knocked the dagger aside but the other man collided with him and they both went down. Bataar snatched up the dagger as the other man grabbed Bataar’s throat. Gagging, Bataar jammed the blade into the man’s side, twisted as hard as he could, and pulled it out.
Striking the inside of the man’s elbow with his free arm, Bataar broke his grip. Shoving the man back, Bataar stabbed him in the stomach and got to his feet.
“Bataar!” Luke, still on foot as well, grabbed another Kalashnikov from the ground and held it out. “They’re on the run back the way they came.”
The remaining United Front riders were riding hard back up the trail.
Bataar took the rifle and whistled for his horse. Turbaned bodies littered the trail and the far side of the slope. Some riderless horses were still crashing down through the brush.
“How many down, you think?” Bataar swung up into the saddle.
“Looks like we killed over a hundred,” said Luke, as he also mounted up.
“Go hard! We can’t give ‘em time to set up an ambush for us the same way!” Bataar set the rifle on single shot to conserve ammunition and kicked his mount to lead the pursuit.
* * *
Chuluun still clutched Tuya’s bridle when Captain Ma came charging across the steppe from the right, leading the Second Troop in a wide front. They caught the United Front riders by surprise, firing their out-of-date weapons from the saddle. Trapped on each flank, with the livestock still milling among them in confusion, the enemy riders broke and fled west.
“Tuya! Come on!” Chuluun released her bridle and spurred his mount into a canter. Ahead of him, the Free Tribe and the Americans spread out, giving chase and gunning down the enemy.
By the time Chuluun reached the area where most of the conflict had taken place, only the dead and wounded remained. He rode on, aware that Tuya and her Women’s Guard were pacing him. They cantered through the next valley, where Chuluun had first parleyed with the Americans long ago. The rattle of gunfire ahead continued.
“Chuluun! Look!” Tuya shouted, pointing ahead and to their left at the foothills.
Even at this distance, Chuluun recognized Bataar and Luke leading a column in pursuit of United Front riders fleeing down the foothills onto the steppe. The enemy riders appeared to be trying to join the main body of the United Front. Instead, they found the main body scattering in flight.
Deeply relieved at the sight of Bataar, Chuluun allowed himself a smile and spurred his mount harder, but Bataar and Luke were too far ahead for him to catch up.
After Chuluun rode across this open valley and over the next rise, rage and disgust swept over him. The wooden buildings of Independence, charred and smoldering, stood empty. Bodies were more numerous on the ground here, casualties from both the original attack and the current pursuit. He rode through the abandoned streets without stopping.
* * *
The brightday remained bright when Chuluun stood on the open ground among the captured United Front covered wagons. Captain Naran, in the saddle, waited nearby with Bat. On foot, Tuya and her Women’s Guard formed a slight arc near the closest wagon. Sheriff Yates Harrow joined them.
Bataar and Luke dismounted and walked up. The Home Guard and American riders they had led on the hunting trail surrounded the small group at a respectful distance. They moved with cohesion, grim and hard, before drawing to a halt.
Captain Ma was still leading the two troops of Free Tribe riders to hunt down enemy survivors.
As the cold wind blasted all of them, Chuluun looked down at Timur, sitting on the ground with his arms bound behind him.
“So here we are again,” said Yates.
Luke translated into Russian and Mongolian.
“You’re nothing,” Timur snarled. “Hiding behind cows? Afraid to fight like men?”
Chuluun glanced at Naran with an unspoken question.
“We found him on the ground,” said Naran. “His horse got caught between a muskylope and a couple of steers. When his horse lost its balance, he hit the ground and the breath was knocked out of him. He’s not hurt bad.”
“No,” said Chuluun. “He would not be hurt. His men take the risk.”
Bataar translated into Russian.
Timur spat on the ground at Chuluun’s feet.
Chuluun observed the defiant young man, then realized that Naran wanted to say something. “Yes, Naran?”
“We took a lot of casualties.” Naran spoke quietly, always Chuluun’s rock in turbulent times. “At least a third of our riders are dead. The Americans lost similar numbers.”
Chuluun burned with sudden fury. He knew all the tribe members at least by sight, even the herders who did not like him. Many of the fallen would be friends, some of them comrades from the original escape from the mining camp. Losing a third of the riders was a horrifying loss.
“Khan, what do you think?” Yates asked. “In Independence, we’d hang him, but out here there’s nothing to hang him from.”
“Drag him back to Independence on a rope,” said Luke. “Keep him around while we rebuild. We can start with a scaffold.”
“Why bother?” Bataar asked. “Just execute him.”
Chuluun waited while Bataar and Luke translated for everyone.
“I confess I don’t much care,” said Yates. “Shoot him now, hang him later, drag him to death.”
“Most of his men are dead,” said Chuluun. “The others will be hunted down and killed.” He waited for Bataar to translate for Timur.
“So kill me now and finish it,” Timur shouted.
“We will take your wagons, your weapons, and your livestock,” said Chuluun. “The women—single or widows—will be welcomed into our tribe if they wish, even with their children.”
“They’ll never join you!” Timur yelled after the translation. “Never!”
“We will ask them,” said Tuya.
Timur turned at the sound of her voice, startled. He studied Tuya and the Women’s Guard, all with rifles on their shoulders.
“Yates,” said Chuluun. “If you had a choice, would you rather go back to the Dover mines, or die out on the steppe?”
“I’d never go back there,” Yates said after Luke’s translation. “Not for any reason. I intend to die out here.”
“So kill me!” Timur shouted. “You know you want to kill me! So do it!”
Bataar translated, with a shrug.
“That’s what he wants,” said Chuluun. “Let’s not give him what he wants.” He looked at Yates for agreement.
“Yeah,” said Yates, after Bataar’s translation. “Don’t give him anything he asks for.”
“Naran?” Chuluun asked.
His face grim, the blocky captain with his graying jawline beard just looked back at Chuluun. His silence voiced his agreement.
“Kill me!” Timur screamed. “Kill me! What are you doing? What are you doing with me?”
Chuluun walked away.
* * *
Leaving the details of mop-up, casualties, and prisoners to Naran and Yates, Chuluun stood alone a short distance from the group around Timur. He watched Bataar and Luke translate for the United Front women now standing outside the wagons. Protected from view and the elements by dark burkas, their eyes stared in surprise at Tuya and her armed female soldiers.
Chuluun was uncertain about the wisdom of allowing the United Front women and their children to join the tribe, but he was willing to take the risk. Any of them who accepted the offer would be watched closely for a long time. Maybe Tuya’s personal dynamism and independence would help earn their loyalty. He was glad now that she and her Women’s Guard were here.
He also resolved to use the victory to unite the Free Tribe. The split between the herders and the tillers had to end. He would honor the herders for the sacrifice of many livestock and for joining the battle, with no talk of Altan Zhang or
Yuri Bai forcing them forward at gunpoint. The tillers and herders would have to mix, just as the Free Tribe’s children had come to know the Americans. With so many riders killed in battle, the tribe would be very different. This was the time to make changes for the better.
After the United Front women had been returned to their wagons, Tuya and Bataar walked up to Chuluun.
“What did they say?” Chuluun asked.
“They’re in shock,” said Tuya. “They will talk among themselves. I told them they must choose after a night’s sleep, but they will all come with us. Timur told them CoDo will enslave them. They won’t go back.”
Chuluun turned to Bataar. “You and Luke did well on the hunting trail.”
Bataar shook his head. “We were lucky.”
“Never say that again,” said Chuluun. “You will be khan when I am gone.”
“What?” Bataar studied him. “I don’t understand.”
Tuya put a hand on her son’s arm. “He means, you must be seen as a leader. You and Luke are heroes.”
“That’s not right. We didn’t do it alone. It was everybody with us.”
“Good words,” said Chuluun. “Praise all the others and accept their compliments in return. Don’t talk about luck.”
Tuya gave Chuluun a hard look as she spoke to Bataar. “As eldest son of the khan, you ride the back of a tiger. If you fall off, it will kill you.”
Bataar listened to her, saying nothing.
Chuluun had told his children of Earth’s animals when they were young. No matter that Bataar had never seen a tiger. He understood the point.
As the warmth of relief and affection came to Chuluun at last, he wanted to embrace them both. He would not do so in the sight of others only because Tuya would object. It was against tradition.
Instead, Chuluun just put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You have one more duty before you go home.”
* * *
Major Garrison Tern, commander of Fort Stony Point at Karakul Pass and a cavalry officer of the CoDominium 77th Marines, was startled to see the two young men waiting for him outside the fort’s sentry house on a brightday. Though they had dismounted, the rest of the combined patrol of Free Tribe and American riders remained in the saddle. Two men waited on a single covered wagon.
