“Jesus Christ!” Shad said. “I just know that there’d be pure hell t’ pay! That’s the whole reason for my goddamned lecture on economics!”
“If you did win, Colonel,” Rostov said levelly, “it would be a Pyrrhic victory.” He must have guessed that he’d lost some of the rest of us there. “A victory in which the winner is hurt so badly that he, himself, also dies.” He added grimly, “The word ‘Pyrrhic’ has a certain similarity to ‘funeral pyre.’ ”
Verushki studied all of us for a long, quiet moment before he finally reached a decision. “Perhaps it may be possible for us to reach an honorable understanding among ourselves.” He spoke a brief, low order in Russian and his men, puzzled but obedient, now uncocked and lowered their guns. Then Verushki gave Shad a hard, bitter look. “But this is in no way amicable. I’d like nothing more than to cut off that damned finger of yours and keep it as a souvenir of this meeting.”
Shad said, “We ain’t expectin’ a parade. Just a workable agreement.”
It took about an hour for the colonel and us to agree on what our agreement was. And shortly after that the eight of us walked back out onto the square. There were still a number of Imperial Cossacks standing around who stared at us with hate-filled eyes but did nothing to interfere with us.
For our part, we did our best to seem like we were casually ignoring them, but I for one still felt as tight in my chest as a stretched rawhide drum. “Goddamn!” Slim muttered so that only we could hear him. “I was sure mainly convinced we’d never git outta there in upright positions!”
As he untied his black, Rostov said, “In chess, Northshield, we’d call you a Grand Master.”
“Huh?”
“At playing that game of yours—showdown.”
Shad swung up aboard Red. “You didn’t do too bad yourself.”
Slim glanced from one of them to the other, as surprised as the rest of us that they’d actually said something pleasant to each other. “Well, unless you two plan on spendin’ all night congratulatin’ yourselves, how ’bout us findin’ the nearest saloon?”
Rostov said, “I think that’s an excellent idea. Right now it would be an even further indication of how secure we feel.” He glanced at Shad, not asking his opinion, but ready to hear it.
“I doubt we’ll ever again agree on anything twice in a row”—Shad turned Red from the hitching rail—“so let’s go drink t’ that rare occurrence while we got the chance.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROSTOV KNEW where to go, and he and Shad led us off at an easy walk across the square and down one of the wider, better lighted streets.
As we rode slowly, quietly along, my head was kind of divided. The part of it that belonged to my eyes was fascinated by the people on the street and on the boardwalks. There sure was every kind, and most of them were looking at us with interest and curiosity. Young and old, tall and short, they were usually on the heavy side, but not always. The thick, rough clothes most of them wore added to that feeling of heaviness, the men in rugged homespun jackets and coats, the women in long, generally black, wool dresses. Most of the men wore fur hats, but some of them were made out of thick cloth or felt, and I even saw one top hat on a man in a black suit. Almost all of the women had white handkerchiefs on their heads, folded in the shape of a triangle and tied under their chins.
Aside from those who looked like farmers and laborers, and a few businessmen, there were some men who I judged by their worn fringed buckskins to be the equivalent of our mountain men, trappers and hunters and the like. Ranging the street, aside from the normal riding horses and pack mules, there were some dogs and pigs that looked for all the world like they owned the place, and they’d move out of the way resentfully when an occasional wagon or carriage drove by. Along the sides of the street or on the boardwalks, there were quite a few noisy vendors, fellas shouting out from near their little stands to call attention to whatever it was they had for sale.
But as I mentioned before, despite all these fascinating things, my head was divided, and the back of it wouldn’t let go of a kind of throbbing fear that was sort of like a dull headache. It had a whole lot to do with what we’d agreed on with Verushki, which seemed to me to be a shaky enough agreement in the first place. But in the second place, even that shaky deal was based on there being sixty of us. And such a count was ridiculous, because no matter how hard you added us all up, there were only thirty-one of us.
Rostov pulled in to the hitching rail before a well-lighted two-story building that had a hand-printed sign on it and half a dozen big windows facing the street on the ground floor. Inside you could see people eating and drinking at large, heavy tables, and all in all seeming to be having a pretty good time. We dismounted to tie up, and Slim, studying the place, said, “It ain’t exactly the Silver Slipper, but it don’t look half bad neither.”
And then a nice thing happened. From not far away, a band struck up and started playing. We all turned to look, and about a half a block farther down the street there was a small round building that was built about six or eight feet up off the ground. It didn’t have any sides at all, but just some beams holding up the roof over it. So that way, from any angle, you could see the band sitting inside and now playing away with a lot of pep and vigor as another fella waved a little stick in front of them. They were all in real fancy uniforms, blue pants and jackets with considerable strands of gold braid on their shoulders and around their waists, and ribbons and medals across their chests.
“Cossacks?” I said.
“Hell, no, Levi,” Slim told me. “What them fellas’re wearin’ is musicians’ outfits. Anybody tried t’ fight in them uniforms, he’d strangle hisself on his own gold braid.”
The street widened out where the little round building was, and a lot of people were walking up in a circle around it now, just to stand there and listen to those men playing their music.
“That’s a real goddamn fine thing,” I said, but the others were already going around the hitching rail and starting across the crowded boardwalk.
As I stepped onto the boardwalk, Igor suddenly grabbed my arm, holding me protectively back. Since the only person walking in front of me was a feeble old lady with a bucket, I couldn’t imagine what he was protecting me from, and gave him a puzzled look.
When she’d moved on a few slow steps, he let go of my arm. “Never pass a woman carrying an empty pail,” he said. “It’s bad luck.”
“Oh.”
I looked back at the old lady, and sure enough most of the people were giving her a wide berth as she went trudging along the boardwalk to wherever she was going with her bucket.
And then we crossed the walk to enter the building, where the others were already going in.
Igor and I were the last ones through the door, and I stood for a moment, sort of awe-struck. This was only the second time I’d been indoors in Russia, not counting the Imperial Cossacks’ headquarters we’d just come out of, which right then I was trying hard to forget, anyway. The other time had been that night in Vladivostok, in that lopsided, rough little place where we’d bought the vodka for the herd, with the three grubby soldiers, staring at us from off in one corner, and the fat greasy-aproned bartender.
But this big, fine place was really different.
It was just one wide, long room, with a swinging door on a far side that led to the kitchen and some stairs on the other side going up to the second floor. Everything in it was made of heavy, dark wood, the floors and walls and tables and chairs and the beamed ceiling. And, according to the smell, some of it was fresh cut and hewn. Beyond that, there was the rich, homey smell about the place of good food being cooked and eaten. And, somehow, the people themselves had that same thing about them, the warm feel and smell of fresh-cut wood and good simple cooking.
And, too, there was the deep, bubbling sound of men’s laughter, which often sounds deeper and better when they’re laughing only partly because of what’s being said and mostly because of just having a goo
d time with their friends and some strong liquor. But the best part of all was that the big, handsomely carved tables were being tended by six or eight girls. And except for one, who was a tough-looking old gal, they wore those same floor-length dresses and the triangle-shaped handkerchiefs on their heads. And like the theory of longhorns, their dresses came in every color of the rainbow. One girl, carrying a trayful of drinks to some men at a nearby table, was wearing a red-and-white-checked dress, and she looked as spunky and cheerful as a brand-new tablecloth. Except for the fact that no table was ever in history built along the same sort of overwhelming lines as that young lady. She looked at our bunch near the door and gave us all a big, sunny smile as she headed back toward the door to the kitchen.
And it was a kind of interesting thing that everybody in that big room, although they seemed a little surprised, also seemed to be just about as friendly as she was. They could tell at a glance, of course, that us Slash-Diamonders were foreigners. But when they looked at Rostov and his men, sizing up their uniforms, their reactions were just the opposite of Verushki’s and his Imperial Cossacks. They showed open admiration, and a couple of big men waved their glasses toward Rostov and called out something in rough, friendly voices before drinking.
The one older, tough-looking woman came up to us now, and even her hard face became almost pleasant as she looked at Rostov. He said a few words, and she nodded and gestured to a large round table that was by itself near the rear of the room.
She led us back to the table, and Rostov spoke to her again, ordering for us as we all sat down. But instead of simply accepting his order, she shook her head and told him something quietly before leaving the table.
“Someone,” Rostov explained, “has already bought us a bottle of vodka.”
Slim frowned across the table at him. “Well, that surely is big-hearted. But how the hell come?”
Rostov shrugged. “We’re strangers. It’s a fairly common custom out here.”
Nick stroked the unbearded, scarred side of his big, solid face. “There is more,” he rumbled.
Bruk nodded. “A few of the people here know who we are and where we come from.”
What they’d left unsaid seemed more important to me. But it was Old Keats who put words to it. “I’d venture,” he said, “that many American colonists felt much the same way as these people do around the time of our Revolutionary War.”
Rostov said thoughtfully, “Your point may be well taken.”
The pretty girl in the tablecloth dress came up now with a tray that had eight glasses and a bottle of vodka on it. As she beamed at us and started to place the glasses around, Shad said to Rostov, “Tell ’er that we’re buyin’ two bottles back for whoever bought us this one.”
I half expected Rostov to go against this, but he didn’t. It was almost as if the same thing had been on his mind, and he was already talking to the girl as Shad’s last couple of words came out. She smiled and nodded and went away.
Bruk did the pouring, which with eight of us took a minute. Slim raised his glass and said, “Here’s t’ the best goddamned game a’ showdown ever I seen!” He added with feeling, “Or ever hope to!”
Shad picked up his glass. “Let’s also just hope we can make it stick.”
We all drank then, and the way those cossacks drank was an awful thing for me to take note of. I took a sip of the fiery vodka and was about to put the rest of it back down in a civilized fashion. But around the edges of my glass I suddenly saw that they were all downing every drop in their glasses all at once. So, despite the furious burning in my throat, I forced myself to finish my glass too.
Everybody at the table put down an empty glass.
After that time back in Vladivostok, Shad was sort of geared to vodka, and Old Keats could drink it like water. For myself, I couldn’t have managed to say one word on a large bet. But Slim, whether he was hurting or not, came through in his normal, winning way. He breathed out a long, heavy breath and said, “Say, that white whiskey ain’t too bad at all!” He picked up the now half-empty bottle and looked at it. “Matter a’ fact, it’s downright jim-dandy.” He began refilling our glasses, mine first. “There ya’ go, Levi!” he said, pouring for the others.
Knowing Slim, I knew damn well that he knew damn well how bad I was feeling.
“Yeah,” I muttered, finally just barely able to talk. “There I go.”
Looking around the table, I saw one encouraging thing. As Slim leaned across to fill Igor’s glass, I noticed tears, or at least a lot of very suspicious moisture, in Igor’s eyes. He looked at me at the same time, and both of us, without words, knew that neither one of us was alone in his agony.
And then, as Slim finally filled his own glass, emptying the bottle, the pretty, tablecloth girl, as smiling as ever, came back carrying a tray with four brand-new bottles of vodka on it.
Igor and I gave each other a second pain-filled glance as she spoke to Rostov in a cheerful voice, placing the bottles before us.
As she left the table, Rostov turned to Shad. “We sent two bottles, so—”
“Yeah,” Shad broke in. “I gathered.”
Rostov said, “It’s those two big men who spoke to us as we came in.”
Old Keats grinned. “Shall we send ’em back eight bottles?”
It didn’t take a genius at arithmetic to figure out what was going on. “Jesus Christ, boss!” I said. “They’ll send us back sixteen!”
Slim turned to give the two men a short, friendly look. “Tell the truth, I can’t help but kinda admire their style.”
Shad said nothing, but his face was set in a hard half-angry frown.
Looking at Shad now, Slim saw deeper, beyond the frown. And when he spoke it was in a quiet, easy voice. “I know it’s a sorta dumb spot t’ be put in, boss. But in Montana it’d be easy. Back there we’d either invite them fellas over t’ join us, or send the booze back, which’d sure be askin’ for trouble.”
Rostov said flatly, “It won’t be sent back.”
Slim nodded and spoke for all of us to Rostov, though he was speaking mostly for Shad. “We just hate somehow t’ give less than we get. T’ ever be beholden t’ anybody. It ain’t in our nature. An’ this white whiskey thing’s gettin’ sorta foolish an’ outta hand. In some kind of a good way, how can we come out fair an’ even with them fellas?”
“Very easily,” Rostov said quietly, knowing our minds were all on Shad. “Simply by thanking them.”
Old Keats muttered, “Hell!” Then he shook his head slightly and said, half to himself, “The easiest and yet the most difficult thing of all.”
It looked to me like Rostov was about to get up and go to the far table where the two men were when Shad suddenly spoke in a low, gruff voice. “What’s a good word?”
If Rostov felt as startled as the rest of us, he didn’t show it. He said, “You might try vostrovia.”
“What’s it mean?”
“To your health.”
Shad grabbed his glass and stood up from the table, glaring at the two men across the room. Raising his glass high he roared “Vostrovia!” so powerfully that it seemed like the whole room damnere shook.
That was probably the hardest thing he ever did in his life.
But it sure worked.
The two big men stood up with their glasses raised and shouted “Vostrovia!” back at him.
There was something a whole lot more than simple “good health” in the air, and whatever it was, it was so exciting and contagious that all of us at our table and most everyone else in the room suddenly started rearing up with glasses held high, yelling deafening “Vostrovias!” all over the place.
And then, as the thunder of voices subsided, we all drank.
Carried along, even I drank again, and the second glass wasn’t as hard on my already numb throat as the first one had been.
As they finished their drinks, the two big men suddenly and swiftly threw their glasses as hard as hell to the floor, shattering each glass into maybe
a million pieces. Shad’s and Rostov’s empty glasses were the next to slam explosively down against the floor. And then, with glassware now being shattered all over the room, I got to the end of my drink and threw it down as hard as I could.
It was the strangest thing, but in the instant my glass crashed to the floor, I somehow understood with great clearness two things I hadn’t known before. One of them was that all these people throwing their glasses down had a pretty good idea of what Rostov and his free cossacks stood for and this was their way of wordlessly wishing them good luck.
And the second thing I realized in that instant was the actual reason for smashing the glasses. It had to do with the human mind and spirit, as if it were a way of showing that the idea within that last drink was so damned true and important that the glass had to be destroyed and never used again. And in never being used again, the truth and importance of the idea it held could never ever drain away like the casual drink the glass held. The drink would be forgotten soon. But the shattered glass and the idea behind it would be remembered forever.
After all that noisy breakage, there was a long, warm moment of silence as the other men in the room stood facing us, the good feeling so thick in the air that you could almost breathe it in.
Then, as if everything that needed saying had been said, everybody started sitting back down, talking and laughing once more between themselves. At the same time some of the girls working there started sweeping up the broken bits of glass all over the floor, while the others quickly began bringing out trays of new glasses to set at the tables. They not only didn’t seem miffed at what had happened, but I got the idea they were actually pleased about it. For that matter a couple of them, including the tablecloth girl, had clapped their hands delightedly as we were demolishing our glasses. She came up with a trayload of new ones as we settled back into our chairs. Putting eight of them down for us, she said something to Rostov, and then she was gone.
As Old Keats and Bruk each took a bottle and started pouring refills around, Rostov said, “Her name is Irenia. She just said that in her heart she drank and broke a glass with us.”
The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) Page 15
