Slim, like me, was still deeply impressed with what had happened. “Does that crazy kinda thing go on all the time?”
Rostov shook his head. “No.”
“Only,” Bruk said slowly, “when it’s something special.”
Slim nodded thoughtfully. “All the same, special or not, back in Montana any barkeep I know sure’d take a dim view a’ the custom.” He pulled his drink toward him. “Just outta idle curiosity, in a saloon like this who gets stuck with payin’ for all them glasses?”
Rostov glanced at Shad. “Traditionally, the man who proposed the toast.”
I think Shad himself was still in a small state of shock, both for having forced himself to thank some Russians for something and also for being moved by their magnificent reaction to it. “Good,” he said, quietly studying the refilled glass in front of him, “that’s exactly as it ought t’ be.”
The noise in the rest of the room, though it wasn’t all that loud, suddenly became lower, voices going down and laughter either stopping or easing off. It was as though somebody might have been playing one of those new Magic Talking Machines I’d heard about and a nasty neighbor had complained so they’d turned it down so far that the good time wasn’t really any fun anymore. The whole place suddenly had a cold, different feeling in it.
We swung around a little in our chairs and saw the reason, which wasn’t hard to figure out. A bunch of Imperial Cossacks, ten or twelve of them, were coming in. They looked around the room with hard eyes, paying particular attention to us. Then they took a couple of tables near one of the front windows, and I had the thought that they probably didn’t even know, or certainly care, that they’d just ruined a fine, warm Magic Talking Machine time.
For that matter, a great many people in the room now began to quietly finish their drinks and leave. The two big men were among the first to go.
Saddened, and even more angered by all this, though I could almost swear I wasn’t feeling the vodka, I raised my glass and said to Rostov, “It’s my turn! What’s the opposite of vostrovia? How do ya’ wish somebody bad health?”
“Nurse your drink,” Shad said quietly. “I’m not all that anxious t’ get you out of a riot, or carry ya’ home.”
Rostov spoke to Igor in almost the same voice. “You will drink everything in your glass—but gradually.”
So the rest of them continued their regular drinking, while Igor and I tried to look indignant about being cut down but were secretly grateful as hell.
Shad downed his drink in the Russian one-raise-of-the-wrist fashion and then frowned at the Tzar’s cossacks near the window. “Seein’ us relaxin’ here, they know we’re either awful strong or awful stupid.”
Slim swallowed his vodka neat and said, “That’s one major advantage we got over ’em. They ain’t yet picked up no inklin’ a’ how stupid we really are.”
The others emptied their glasses and Rostov said, “Verushki has already sent night patrols out, of course.” He leaned forward to speak quietly. “Let’s look at it from Verushki’s point of view. We camp on the broken flats two miles outside of town. We will not bother him, and he is not to bother us. No more than a few of our men are to come into town together at any time. As soon as we can cross the Amur, we’ll go.”
Slim put down another charge of vodka. “That’s about the simple right of it.”
Rostov looked at Shad, who was listening quietly, turning his now empty glass between his thumb and forefinger on the tabletop, making little circles of water on the wood. As Nick filled the empty glasses, Rostov went on. “It’s supposed to be a gentlemen’s agreement that he won’t spy on us, but he will. He’ll do everything he can to collect Shad’s little finger and everything that goes with it.”
“Sure he will,” Shad put in. “That’s why we’ll be way out on those broken flats. With our men and cattle movin’ in and out of those far-off breaks, they’ll never be able to figure out for sure that there ain’t too many of us.”
Bruk put away another glass of vodka as though it was clear spring water and said grimly, “If Verushki had any idea how few of us there are, or if he finds out—”
“If this an’ if that!” Shad said in a low, impatient voice. “The whole point a’ showdown is t’ out-if the other fella! We’re sittin’ here because Verushki ain’t got no idea our last card is a deuce!”
Rostov had been studying Shad thoughtfully. “In one strange way, Northshield, showdown and chess are the same game.”
“The hell you say.” Shad frowned. “Plain old showdown got us this far.”
“In chess one sometimes mounts a seeming show of strength where there is no intention or real ability of attacking at all. It’s usually referred to as a diversionary tactic.”
Genuinely puzzled, Slim said, “Huh?”
“Let’s show Verushki our last card. But we’ll make our deuce look to him like an ace.”
I expected almost any reaction from Shad except the one he finally had. He said quietly, “Tell me about makin’ an ace.”
“Verushki would massacre the thirty of us, the deuce.”
Taking another sip of vodka I muttered, “Thirty-one,” wanting to keep the count as high as possible.
“But he’s afraid of sixty of us.” Rostov paused and then went on. “So let’s show him that ace. All sixty of us.”
The others at the table just looked at each other, wondering if Rostov was quite right in his head.
Except for Shad. Once again his reaction was thoughtful and quiet. “My fellas would raise a lotta hell over that.”
Rostov nodded. “So would mine.”
Even with the vodka not helping me much, it was then that I first started to realize that Rostov and Shad were each slowly beginning, somehow, to damnere be able to know, or at least guess, what the other one had on his mind. Maybe, even seeming so different, they were that much alike. In any case, right now they were already talking back and forth about something that hadn’t even been said out loud yet.
Frowning, Bruk spoke for the rest of us. “Just what is it that we would all raise hell over?”
“Verushki’s men,” Rostov explained, “will be watching us from a great distance, and on broken terrain. Therefore, aside from our normal movements, from time to time we will all put on American clothes and deliberately show ourselves all at once against the skyline. At other times, we’ll all wear cossack uniforms and do the same thing. That way there will sometimes seem to be thirty cowboys. And at other times, thirty cossacks.”
“Rostov’s chess ain’t too bad,” Shad said. “When Verushki’s already been buffaloed up front, thirty an’ thirty sure add up fast t’ sixty.”
Slim started pouring again, glancing off toward the Imperial Cossacks. “Them two games do have one thing in common.”
“What?” I asked.
Slim shrugged. “T’ play either one like a real champion, looks like ya’ got t’ be slightly crazy.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS a good while later before the Imperial Cossacks finally got up to leave. We’d already decided not to take off until after they did. We were bound and determined to be more relaxed than they were if it killed us.
As they gave us hard looks and started to go out, Old Keats and Nick were pouring from our last two bottles, which were both getting fairly empty by now. There weren’t many people left in the place, and the girls were sort of straightening things and cleaning up in general.
The Tzar’s men went through the door and Shad said, “We’ll give them a couple of minutes, then bust out.”
Bruk said, “They’re probably waiting to follow us.”
Nick nodded strongly. “Yes. They follow.”
“Won’t matter.” Shad looked at Rostov. “It’s too dark t’ count anything tonight, and we’ll move ourselves an’ the herd out t’ the flats b’fore daylight.”
Again they were understanding each other’s thoughts without words. Rostov just looked at Shad, silently agreeing, and then turned and
called out in Russian, obviously asking for the bill.
We started to get up and the tablecloth girl, Irenia, came over and said something that was nice, in a low, happy voice, smiling all the while at Rostov. And after all that niceness of hers, she was no more prepared for Rostov’s sudden anger than I was. If a man could ever speak quietly and yet carry a lion’s roar at the same time, Rostov did it then. Whatever it sounded like to her, she rushed away, frightened half to death.
Appalled, I said to Rostov, “What was all that?”
Rostov was still too angry to answer, but Bruk did. “She let those two big men pay for everything.”
Shad spoke to Rostov, his eyes harder than any voice could ever try to match.
“The broken glasses?”
“Yes,” Rostov said angrily. “Those too.”
And then the tough older lady came hurrying up to the table to talk to Rostov. As they spoke, Bruk translated, with Old Keats nodding in agreement whenever he got the gist of it.
“She says this is a matter of honor,” Bruk said, having a hard time listening and talking at the same time. “And the captain just told her the honor belonged here at this table. She says no, the honor belonged at both tables. And”—Bruk hesitated—“she says both of those men have spoken out against the Tzar already, and with no free cossacks around to help them speak out.”
The tough-looking lady suddenly put her hand over her eyes as if she were holding back quick tears of her own, and then she too rushed away.
Rostov was touched by her. “Our bill seems to have been paid in full,” he said quietly.
Shad had already taken a big handful of silver dollars out of his pocket. “How ’bout payin’ it twice?”
“No,” Rostov said. “Let’s just let it go.”
Shad studied Rostov and then said, “All right. Let’s get back and move the herd.” He put the coins back in his pocket, and we all started for the front door.
The tablecloth girl came out of the kitchen just then, and I couldn’t help but notice her and slow down in following the others. She was standing there, not too far away, looking unhappy as hell, and I said to her, “Thank you, Irenia.”
She only understood the word “Irenia” and my tone of voice. But that was enough. She knew the way I felt and she smiled, so there was a good feeling between us.
Then I turned and went on out through the door.
Outside, we all mounted up and followed Shad and Rostov out of the dimming lights of the town into the ink-black darkness beyond.
That big group of Imperial Cossacks followed us, which was kind of silly. About a half mile out of town we just pulled off and sat our horses quietly. They rode on by, bits and spurs jingling in the dark stillness and the leather of their saddles creaking, and pretty quick they had gone on their noisy way. If you don’t happen to want to make all that racket, you simply take off your spurs, reach up and hold the bit gentle, and don’t shift the weight of your butt around in the saddle. We did that until we reached the herd. And then, as the others gathered around in the pitch-black night, Shad said, “We’re drivin’ the herd over t’ them broke-up flats. As of now, make all the noise ya’ want. Matter a’ fact, it’d help some if each one of ya’ sounded like five or ten.”
So with that encouragement there was a lot of whoopin’ and hollerin’ and yah-hooin’ as we woke up the sleepy, resentful herd and started driving it up over the sloping mountain and down the far side.
We got the herd to the breaks two miles outside of Khabarovsk and had it bedded down long before sunrise.
There were two problems that came with sunup that morning. One was trying to explain to the Slash-Diamond outfit and to Rostov’s cossacks about how it would be an advantage for one and all to wear each other’s clothes once in a while. This plan met with quite a bit of disapproval.
The second, and killing, problem had to do with the two fellas who’d befriended us and paid our tariff in Khabarovsk the night before.
That morning those two big men were both hanged by the neck until dead. And finding out about that hit us like a sledgehammer.
One thing came on top of another pretty fast.
Just about to a man, our fellas hated the idea of wearing any kind of cossack clothes and therefore refused.
“It—it ain’t American!” Rufe said.
“Fuck it,” Mushy said simply.
“A nigger cossack?” Shiny demanded.
“Shit, boss!” Dixie grumbled. “Ain’t there some better way t’ protect them dumb bastards?”
“I ain’t gonna be no clown f’r nobody,” Crab said, and Chakko grunted “Uhh!” in a way that meant something more negative than all the “no’s” ever said.
Big Yawn stood up to his full height. “I like them fellas enough t’ fight for ’em! But pretend t’ be one, never!”
I got the feeling that Rostov was having somewhat the same sort of hard time with his men, who’d camped right next to us in the dark. But his cossacks were better disciplined than our bunch, so he seemed to have the situation more in hand.
And then Lieutenant Bruk, who’d been on lookout with Old Keats, came galloping over a twenty-foot slanting bluff and rode quickly down to us.
Bruk, who’d been watching Khabarovsk through Rostov’s telescope, handed it slowly back to him and said something in a choked, twisted voice.
The cossacks knew first, and then we finally learned.
The two big men, recognizable by their size and their clothes, had just been hanged from an oak tree on the outskirts of Khabarovsk. Being big and strong, they’d struggled quite a lot, and Old Keats and Bruk had watched them through those long, long moments of death.
We all knew it was because of last night, because of them taking up for us, and someone, some terrible little person there, who had told about it.
And looking at Shad, I could see that all he was thinking of was the toast he’d made.
“Vostrovia!” his powerful voice echoed in my mind.
“Vostrovia!” both big men had roared back, meaning so much more than simple good health.
And now, with all the good, strong things they’d intended, those giant-hearted, generous, free-spirited Russians were dead.
Rostov and Shad now looked at each other for a long, quiet moment, their eyes meeting and locking in silent thought. And the way their look was, even the other men who hadn’t been with us the night before could see how hard and deeply both of them were hit.
Finally Shad turned a little and said in a low voice, “Purse, go up an’ relieve Old Keats.”
Purse said huskily, “Yes, sir, boss.” And he mounted and rode off.
Rostov stepped over to stand near Shad now, though still neither of them said anything. They both looked down thoughtfully at the ground about halfway between them, as though that little patch of dirt was worth a lot of quiet study.
Igor and Bruk and some of the other cossacks came over now, sort of following behind Rostov so that we were all standing pretty close together.
It was Slim who finally spoke, his low, quiet voice just barely breaking the silence, like a pebble dropped gently into a quiet pond. And his words were as easy and soft as the ripples spreading out. “Darnest thing. None of us never ever said but that there one word t’ them, an’ them t’ us. But somehow it’s just like they was one of us. And, sort of, always was.”
My voice wasn’t that low or controlled, but I tried my best to at least keep it level. “Verushki did that outta pure, crazy meanness. Just f’r nothin’. What’re we gonna do back?” That was as far as I could make it without my voice going out on me altogether.
Shad gave me a quiet, hard look that managed to hide the pain he was feeling inside. “Not one goddamn thing.”
Even though I knew he had to be right, my face must have showed something else. Anger maybe, or disappointment, or both.
Old Keats now rode back and joined us, touching Bruk’s shoulder with brief warmth because of the grim sorrow they’d just shared.
Slim said grimly, “Shad’s right, f’r hard-rock sure. We don’t do nothin’.”
Rostov looked at Old Keats and Bruk, who were still standing near each other, silently seeming to think and even look a little bit like each other. “Do you think it was meant as a lesson to us, or the people of Khabarovsk?”
Old Keats, his narrowed eyes still filled with what he’d seen, said bitterly, “Both.”
Bruk nodded. “Most of the Imperial Cossacks were there, and they’d gathered many, many people to watch.”
“Captain?” Igor said, and I could see he felt the same hopeless frustration that I did. “Two good men have been deliberately murdered!”
Rostov said quietly, “That’s exactly right. So then, in the interest of justice, what would you suggest we do?” He glanced from Igor to me. “Or you?”
Igor and I looked at each other, and we both knew that between us we couldn’t come up with a decent answer.
“Well—maybe,” I said lamely, “at least if they had families, maybe we could—”
“No.” Rostov cut me short. “If we helped their families, they would be the next to suffer.” Off to one side, in a low voice, Sergeant Nick translated to the other cossacks what Rostov was saying. “There’s nothing we can do for those two men.” He paused briefly, filled with his thoughts, and then went on, speaking as movingly for the first time to all of us as he had once spoken to me alone about swans. “Nor is there anything we can do for the millions, beyond counting, who have died in Mother Russia over the years in the name of the Tzar.
“What we can do, and will do, is what we started out to do. We’ll get these cattle to Bakaskaya, so that that town, and the movement toward freedom that it stands for, will have a chance to survive.” It’s just possible that Rostov felt even more deeply about the deaths of those two men than Shad and us others. Because in his voice and his eyes, as well as what he was saying, he was sure sending chills up a lot of spines, including mine. “There is an ancient philosophy that gives us the choice of weeping in the darkness or lighting a candle. Bakaskaya is our candle. And to keep it lighted against the day when there will no longer be a Tzar is everything.” He paused, and when he went on, his voice was almost harsh. “We will survive here until we can cross the Amur. Some of us will make daily visits into Khabarovsk for supplies and relaxation, and while we’re there we will not only show the Imperial Cossacks no fear, but to the contrary, rather superior and casual disdain.
The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) Page 16
