One cossack and his more or less pinto suddenly went down not far from me, and I slammed Buck through the bellowing longhorns toward him. A wolf had severed his horse’s rear left tendon. As I closed on him, the wolf, with hooves thudding all around them, leaped toward the man’s throat. The cossack, one elbow on the ground, swung with his sword and cut the wolf’s entire head completely off, where it lay still snapping blindly at the air.
I reached down, realizing for the first time that it was Igor. Understanding instantly, he reached up from where he was lying with one leg still under his horse. A big, bewildered bull leaped partially over his downed horse, one forehoof landing with crushing force on Igor’s other leg before the bull swung off. I knew how much that hoof hurt, because it’d happened to me in gentler circumstances on the boat a few nights before. But Igor acted like it was nothing, and a second later we’d gotten him behind me aboard Buck.
By now there wasn’t much left of the wolf pack. The four or five of them that were still alive sped away behind their leader, a giant who’d lost about half of his tail somewhere, and who was almost completely black.
Slim and some others took a few pot shots at them as they raced toward cover in the forest. They knocked down a couple more, but then the black giant and the others were out of sight among the trees.
Old Keats has always claimed that cows are sometimes among the great philosophers of the world, and I guess he’s right because the herd calmed down almost instantly once those last few wolves were gone.
I dropped Igor off Buck near where Rostov and most of his men had dismounted. The other cossacks were making a count of dead wolves, which was getting easier because the cattle didn’t like the scent of blood and were gradually moving away toward the more pleasing smell of simple, fresh grass.
Igor looked up at me and nodded slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He seemed embarrassed because I’d helped him out of a jam, and I could understand that. But there was something else that seemed to be bothering him even more. And I should have understood that—even more.
Igor said something to Rostov in a very quiet voice. And Rostov, who was wearing a revolver, took it out and handed it to him.
Igor then walked over to his horse, who was still alive. It was only a hundred feet or so, but it was a long, long walk for him.
I felt like I shouldn’t be there, but I didn’t quite know what to do, and just riding off would have seemed sacrilegious.
Igor stroked the helpless animal’s muzzle and face, scratched the horse’s forehead a little, and then rubbed his neck. He was still rubbing his neck when he shot him. The horse didn’t make a sound. He just stretched his legs out so they quivered gently for a moment, and then he died.
Igor walked back and handed Rostov the gun. Then he turned and started walking back toward the cossack camp. Rostov looked at me, his dark eyes searching mine even though I wasn’t looking right back at him. I didn’t feel like looking at anybody just then.
That poor darned horse could have just as well been old Buck.
So without looking at anybody or saying anything, I turned Buck around and rode back to camp.
Shad and the others were already there. One of the wolves had bitten Crab’s right forearm to the bone, and Shad and Old Keats were working on it to clean it and stop the bleeding.
Shad noticed me come up and dismount, and he spoke with quiet warmth to Crab, who was in considerable pain and held a bottle of bourbon in his other hand. “Don’t know what t’ do with you, Crab. Keep ya’ outta one fight with Levi an’ ya’ go right out an’ get in another fight with a wolf.”
It was a vicious, double-fang wound, the torn-out kind that it hurts to even look at. I had the sinking feeling that Crab could lose the arm. “One thing I’ll guarantee ya’,” I told Crab as lightly as I could. “In a fair fight, I’d never bitten ya’ quite that hard.”
Crab took a long drink and then forced a small grin, though his hurt arm was beginning to involuntarily shake. “That damned wolf was really mixed up. Leaped up on me like he was gonna throw me outta the saddle an’ ride m’ horse.”
At this point Rostov rode into camp and got down from his big black. “I heard one of your men was hurt.”
Shad said, “We’re takin’ care of it.”
“I’m sure you are.” Rostov walked over to them and looked at the wound. “This could be serious, and I’ve had some experience with wolf bites.”
“So have I,” Shad said curtly.
“I’d take it as a personal favor, Captain Rostov,” Old Keats said quietly, “if you’ll stay here and give us any advice you might happen t’ have.”
Shad gave Keats a critical glance, and then he gave me an even tougher one when I poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the fire and handed it to Rostov.
Slim said, “We’re in pretty good supplies right now. Ya’ like any sugar, or maybe whiskey, t’ lace that coffee, Captain?”
“No. It’s fine,” Rostov said easily.
It sort of looked like, up to a point, the way any one of us talked to him was the way he was going to give it back.
Sammy the Kid, more curious than friendly, asked, “How many wolves get killed back there, altogether?”
“Twenty-three.” Rostov’s answer was in kind, crisp and to the point, with no trace of friendship in his voice. “Four by your guns. Three by the longhorns themselves.”
“Them longhorns ain’t too bright,” Slim said, “but they’re tougher’n nails when they git mad.”
“Jeez!” Mushy frowned deeply, thinking. “You got sixteen of ’em with them old-fashioned swords!”
“Sabers.”
There was a silence as we all took in that different word and grimly watched Shad and Keats working tensely on Crab’s arm.
Finally Shad said, “It’s gonna take stitches.”
Old Keats, only half thinking about it, looked at Rostov, who nodded just once.
“Who’s got needle an’ thread handy?” Keats asked.
Mushy said, “I have. Been fixin’ my chaps.”
“Jesus Christ, no!” Crab groaned. “That leather-workin’ needle’s big as a railroad spike!”
Purse said, “I got one not so big right here, for shirt buttons and the like.”
“Heat it in the fire,” Shad said. Crab wet his lips and Shad went on. “Hit that bourbon hard as you want.” As the hurt man drank deeply, Purse heated the long, narrow needle until its end was glowing yellow. Then, threading the needle, Shad said, “As long as I’ve got t’ do all this work anyway, ya’ want me t’ sew a couple buttons on your arm?”
“Not particularly.” Crab took another long drink and put the bottle down.
“It’d be damned interesting and might even possibly make ya’ more attractive.”
But now in dead silence, Shad concentrating intently, the hot needle was already going quickly, efficiently and terribly painfully through Crab’s flesh, drawing the muscles and skin closer together. Crab was gritting his teeth and in a cold sweat, both from the pain and from the repulsive idea of his arm being sewed together. “Goddamn it!” he said weakly, and yet angry at the same time. “Somebody say somethin’ so I can listen to it!”
Sammy, grasping for something, said loudly, “What I want t’ know is why that herd didn’t stampede t’night!”
“They’d a’ stampeded except they couldn’t make up their mind which direction t’ go,” Slim answered equally loudly.
“Huh!” Chakko grunted abruptly. “Natcho! Old Fooler!”
“What he means,” Natcho said strongly, watching Crab’s pain-stricken face, “is that I rode by Old Fooler and was smart enough to jump off of Diablo onto him instead! My shirt was only halfway on anyway so I took it off and held it over Old Fooler’s eyes so he couldn’t see! Most of those cows are so used to followin’ him that when he went in circles they must have thought that was the right thing to do! It seemed like a lot better thing for me to do than go off and get my arm half chewed off by an unfriend
ly wolf!”
“And also,” Slim’s voice boomed, “without Old Fooler them cows didn’t know whether they was comin’ or goin’ anyhow! If they run off from one wolf, they was runnin’ right smack t’ward another one! Them dumb damn wolves is the only ones ever made a whole stampede take place all in the same place!”
“Which just goes to prove a simple fact!” I said loudly. “Those dumb wolves must be about the same level a’ cowhand as this here old fella Crab Smith! Equally dumb and grouchy! No wonder one of ’em tried t’ take over his horse an’ ride it! Probably wanted his job!”
Mushy picked it up and half yelled, “Hell, yes! That goddamn wolf no doubt rides better! And sure as hell’d be worth more salary at the end a’ the month!”
And now with his quick, powerful and yet at the moment very delicate hands, Shad had finished sewing the gaping flesh of Crab’s arm back into place. He knotted the thread in place and bit it off and leaned back to take a deep breath.
I’d thought Crab had passed out two or three times, but he managed to raise his head slightly, knowing that it was over. “That wolf might a’ killed me,” he said weakly. “But with you fellas, an’ the jokes ya’ come up with, I’ll damn well never have t’ worry about laughin’ m’self t’ death!” And then he laid his head back down and closed his eyes.
Shad looked at us with grim, hard approval. “He’s right about your humor not bein’ too vital of a danger.” Then he took the bottle of bourbon and poured it on the sewed-up wound, gently squeezing as much of it as possible into the places where the closed flesh had been torn open. “He’ll be okay now.”
“No he won’t.” Rostov’s voice was very quiet and dead on the level. “The arm has already been infected.”
Crab’s arm did seem a little bigger.
Old Keats stood up. “We’ve done all we can for him, Captain.”
Rostov shook his head and said very simply, “No.”
Shad turned slowly and faced him, and as always there was the feeling between them of an earthquake about to hit the whole area. “The sewin’ was good, and bourbon’s a good outside cure.”
None of us, except maybe Shad, could get mad at what Rostov said, and the way he said it. “Those wolves don’t have the cleanest fangs in the world. Infection has set in.”
Shad nodded. “That’s always possible.”
“Whatever poisons are in there must be drawn off.”
They both meant every word they said, and for the first time this was a quiet, thoughtful duel between the men, backed up by the things that each man knew.
“If his arm swells any more,” Shad said, “we’ll make a poultice outta cowshit. That’ll draw everything but a man’s bones out.”
“You need a simple, swift thing, now.” Rostov stepped to Crab, kneeled down and put his hand on his forehead, then his hurt arm. “Otherwise he’ll lose this arm, or die.”
I loved Shad for saying what he said then.
He said, “This man means more to me than any fifty men you’ll ever know.” Then as Rostov looked up at him with those damned, dark, piercing eyes, he said, “He’s only twenty-three years old, and he hasn’t had as much trouble and fun as he ought to, and if you got anything constructive, I’ll listen to it.”
“What medicines do you have?” Rostov asked.
“Just two. Quinine, for the fever, and whiskey.”
Rostov was already working with Crab, rubbing his wrists hard between his powerful hands, and then putting his right hand very softly and lightly over Crab’s heart and on his forehead. With all his obvious concern for Crab he suddenly said a thing that shocked and almost stunned me. He said bitterly, “I’d have expected more from the modern, up-to-date United States of America!”
Rostov was leaning down over Crab, and Shad now leaned down over him again, one of them on each side of the hurt man. “All right,” Shad said, his jaw hard, “I told you this man means somethin’ to me! You and your goddamn Russians come up with somethin’ that’ll help him more than me and cowshit and bourbon can help him!”
Rostov put his hand on Crab’s face and worked with it softly. “Come awake. Be aware. I need one thing from you. Saliva.”
Crab kind of woke up but didn’t quite understand what was going on. He mumbled something, but nobody knew what it was.
“I can use my own, or others’, but it’s best from you,” Rostov said.
“This dumb bastard says he needs your spit!” Shad told him.
Chakko, Indian-like, nodded and grinned at this.
“Hell, I ain’t got any left,” Crab whispered.
“Then make some!” Rostov lifted him, cradling him in his arm.
“You make some!” Old Keats leaned down near Crab. “It may have t’ do with havin’ one arm or two—or bein’ dead!”
In just a little while I was really proud I hadn’t fought with Crab last night, because with no spit left in him, and too tired to hardly breathe anyway, he spit a handful of spit into Rostov’s hand. Part of it was natural and part of it was choking, but it worked either way, I guess.
And Rostov just mixed that spit with a little dirt he picked up from the ground in his other hand. And finally Rostov had a little handful of sort of wet spit and earth, and he said in a very soft voice to Crab that it was okay for him to go to sleep again.
And that American spit and Russian ground was the poultice.
Shad didn’t complain and he didn’t cooperate either. He stood back while Rostov and Old Keats bound the poultice around Crab’s arm with a piece of fairly clean cloth.
When that was done Rostov said, “If the swelling goes down within three hours, his arm will cure itself and he’ll live.”
It seemed a hundred years longer, but the top edge of the sun was just coming up over eastern hills now.
“Get ready to move when all of that sun’s in sight,” Shad said.
Rostov swung up onto his horse before replying. “No.”
“Why not? My men’ll be ready!”
Rostov took the time to swing his big black around. “My men have to attend a burial.”
“Burial?” For a moment Shad was really concerned. “One of your men—”
“No. One of our horses.”
“One of your horses!”
I somehow knew Rostov was talking about Igor’s horse, and I couldn’t help but agree with him, though I said nothing.
Rostov said patiently, “A warrior’s burial. He died bravely, and with honor. We’ll dig a grave for him and bury him with the honor he has earned. And after those things are taken care of, we’ll be ready to leave, about noon.”
He turned and rode away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THAT WAS some kind of a funeral.
Those cossacks always looked pretty shiny, but that morning they turned out with more gleam on their boots and their saddles and sabers than ever before.
Some of them had dug a grave, which was quite a job in itself, since it was big enough for the horse. It was more than six feet deep and about four by eight in top size.
Midmorning they were all on horseback, gathered around the grave and the dead animal. Us cowboys, not used to such a ceremony and mostly not putting a whole lot of stock in it, hadn’t fancied ourselves up at all, naturally. We just rode over partly out of curiosity and courtesy, and partly killing time until we’d get the herd moving.
But like I said, all those cossacks were scrubbed and polished up fit for the burial of a king. They were circled around the grave, so Shad and the rest of us just sat on our horses a little distance away, watching and listening.
Igor had ridden up on a kind of a scrubby-looking little splayfoot pony that was obviously second-string and had probably been a packhorse up until this morning. Slowly, with a ceremonious feeling about it, he and Rostov dismounted to stand at the head of that big grave.
Rostov started to speak. And somehow on that lonely Siberian plain, even with his tough voice, it sounded like Rostov was speaking in church. His voice was
deep, resonant, and filled with emotion.
“What’s he sayin’?” Slim quietly asked Old Keats.
“Well—” Old Keats hesitated.
Mushy whispered, “He’s sure serious!”
“He’s prayin’ for that damn horse!” Dixie muttered. “He’s lookin’ at the sky an’—”
“Shut up!” Keats said. “If you dumb bastards all talk at once, I can’t make heads or tails out of it!”
And then he began translating haltingly, in a low voice, as best he could. “Captain Rostov says—that horse was—part of everything living.—Man, horse, or beast.—Or anything.—Like everything else, it’s got its own feelin’s—it’s got its own courage.” He hesitated, frowning. “I ain’t sure, but I think he just said that that horse probably had its own sense of humor.—Which Rostov claims is almost always the better part of courage.” He waited for a while, listening carefully as Rostov spoke. “And he says he consigns that beautiful warrior horse to the place where all brave spirits go.”
Rostov stopped talking then, and Igor moved up beside him to speak one short, quiet line, his voice a little unsteady.
“He says because of its funny coloring, his horse’s name was ‘Spotted’ or ‘Spot,’ or somethin’ like that,” Keats said.
“Hell,” Dixie grunted. “Rotten name for a horse.”
But nobody paid much attention to him.
Igor was taking something out of a little leather bag, and it glinted in the rising sun. As he moved toward the dead horse it chimed with a crystal sweetness in his hands.
It was a silver bell.
Saying a few words, his voice still shaky, he started to tie the bell around the horse’s neck.
Old Keats was genuinely moved, and he said, “I think—he said—that the sound of that silver bell will help him to find his horse—in whatever land there is—beyond death.”
Then Igor, with the bell tied in place, whispered one last thing that none of us could hear, so Old Keats couldn’t translate it. He slowly drew his saber and touched its blade softly on the shoulder of his dead horse. And after that gentle touch he slowly drew the sharp edge across his wrist so that blood began dripping down from it. Finally, he put his saber back in its sheath and stepped back to watch the final part of the burial, his damp eyes now, slowly, becoming stone dry, and his jaw firm.
The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) Page 8
