“Well,” Slim said quietly, “we best pr’pare ourselves f’r the next go-around.”
Igor’s leg had been badly cut by a sword thrust, though he could still walk. And I had a dozen or so chunks of rock in the right side of my face. So a little later, around the low fire, Rostov and Nick were bandaging Igor’s leg while Shad was digging rocks out of my blood-covered face with the tip of his bone-handled hunting knife. Slim had gone into the hollow for more water and brought it back now.
Where Shad was probing hurt quite a bit, so I finally said, “Them Tartars’ll never have t’ lay a hand on me. I’ll be dead a’ sheer pain long b’fore they show up again.”
As Shad kept digging, Slim washed some of the blood off my cheek with a wet rag and said, “You oughtta be grateful f’r one thing, Levi. Considerin’ that face a’ yours, anythin’ Shad does is a big improvement.”
Before going back to work on my skin, Shad glanced at Rostov. “We hit those fellas pretty hard. I think they’ll hold back now until around sundown.”
Rostov nodded. “Then Kharlagawl will send every man he has. And the sun will be in our eyes.”
“If I was a prayerful man,” Slim said, “I’d sure be prayin’ t’ God f’r clouds.” He squinted up at the clear blue sky. “Baptist clouds, Mormon clouds, Methodist clouds, any goddamn clouds.”
Shad pried the last piece of rock out of a high part of my cheek. Then he poured some Jack Daniel’s into his hand and with it he rinsed the cut-up part of my face.
“Jesus!” I said as the bourbon sank in, burning and cleansing.
Shad handed me the Daniel’s and I took a drink, the warming heat on the inside kind of pleasantly easing off the fiery burning on the outside.
“Rostov,” Shad said, “ya’ think Kharlagawl will lead the main charge comin’ up?”
“I doubt it. He’s too important.”
Shad nodded thoughtfully. “That case, if we do manage t’ hang on until t’night, a couple of us oughtta try t’ git up among ’em an’ shoot ’im.”
Rostov studied Shad for a moment. “Cutting off the head of the serpent might help.”
“Sure wouldn’t hurt,” Slim said. “Could tend t’ maybe bust ’em up an’ confuse ’em.”
Rostov’s words about the serpent reminded me of the thoughts I’d had back in the mountains about our nearly dead but still dangerous Tartar prisoner. “A diamondback,” I said, “can sometimes kill a man even with its head cut off.”
Shad shrugged. “Only one man, Levi. An’ there’s more’n one of us.” Then he took a swallow of the Daniel’s and passed it on around.
A little later the huge drum began its slow, earth-shaking thunder again.
It was almost as though the regular, mighty sound booming down toward us was trying to let us know that not one damn thing at all had changed. That the earlier battle had been a lazy morning in the sun compared to the pure hell that was coming.
And for once, that drum was telling the truth.
A few minutes before sundown the massive war horn blasted powerfully and Kharlagawl’s entire army appeared on the top of the slope with the sun at their backs, shimmering again in the distant, blinding light like faraway phantoms.
There wasn’t time to make any count of them, but even with the men they’d lost that morning they were still jammed against each other shoulder to shoulder on that far thousand-foot-wide top of the slope.
I thought I had one squinting glimpse of Kharlagawl, and a moment later, the shrill noise of the giant war horn still bursting out against the sky, they roared down the slope toward us.
Some of them still had bells, some of them were blowing piercing, strange-sounding whistles, and most of them were screaming wild war cries, but the overriding, battering sound was the pounding thunder of countless horses’ hooves crushing the earth.
“When it comes time,” Shad called out to us, his voice calming and steady, “you take the middle keg, Slim, and you take the one on the right, Levi. I’ll go for the one on the left. If any of us have been hit, the man closest t’ their immediate right who c’n still shoot should take over. Rest of ya’ just keep poundin’ the hell outta them fellas.”
My first natural thought of maybe missing altogether was bad enough, but another horrifying thought occurred to me just then, too. What if I shot into my keg of black powder and the heat and friction of the bullet wasn’t enough to set it off? I could just picture myself shooting into the goddamn keg that was now my responsibility and simply scattering the whole kegful of gunpowder harmlessly all over the slope, while a thousand Tartars charged right on through that place that I was supposed to blow up.
But there wasn’t much time to pursue that line of worry. We all started firing sooner and faster this time. There were so damn many of them covering the slope that you could just about close both eyes and shoot and figure on somehow hitting something or other that mattered.
Yet with every one of us trying his level best to imitate a Gatling gun with his rifle, there was no way for our bullets to slow down or stop that massive charge of horsemen. Every time we’d knock down an entire front row of them, it looked like three more speeding front rows took their place. They were no longer in the direct glare of the sun now, but they were closing down on us with raging swiftness.
For a split second the thought came to my mind that that little red ant probably had the best of it after all. He ought, by now, to be safe at home somewhere in the ground, all things equal, unless some dumb bastard had stepped on him without knowing it.
Then Shad roared, “Hit the gunpowder!” and I shifted my gun sights, peering through the thick, swirling gunsmoke before us. I saw the keg and fired as a swarm of Tartars started to gallop over it, and my bullet slamming into it surely did create more than enough heat and friction.
All three kegs exploded within a moment of each other, their tremendous explosions almost combining into one gigantic thunder-burst that made a swelling wall of roaring flame and death.
I don’t know how many Tartars were killed in those three terrible blasts, but none of the leaders got through. And there was total chaos behind them, with panicky ponies lunging and screaming, some of them rearing completely over backwards in terror.
Before the smoke of that dreadful carnage had cleared, the booming war horn sounded once more from beyond the top of the rise. And then, as the mass of acrid smoke cleared slowly away, we could see the army of Tartar warriors retreating swiftly back up the slope, going away from us as fast as they’d come.
As the last of them disappeared over the distant rise, the sun was a little time gone and the sky was beginning to darken. But a moon that seemed to have grown a lot since the night before was already looming bleak and cool in another part of the clear evening sky.
With those three kegs of gunpowder blowing the hell out of that last charge, I didn’t think the Tartars had gotten close enough for any of us to be hurt.
I was wrong.
A bullet had smashed into Link’s right shoulder and passed on through, shattering the bone inside. He was in so much shock he couldn’t feel hardly anything, which was just as well. Shiny and Shad got the bleeding stopped and took what care of it they could. Then we put Link’s arm in a firm sling and bound it tightly against his body so that it wouldn’t move around too much and do more damage to the bone. Before the job was finished, Link had mercifully passed out cold, without ever saying one word.
By then it was full night. But it was one of those damned clear nights where you could read by the bright, silvery light flooding down upon the earth from the huge Siberian moon.
The measured, booming roar of the Tartar war drum started to slowly roll out again as Rostov turned quietly to Shad. “Their next charge will be the last.”
Shad nodded. “We was talkin’ b’fore about cuttin’ the head off a serpent.”
“The moonlight is against us. But Nick and I are going to make that attempt.”
“Let’s say the two best-suited men fro
m each outfit.”
“All right,” Rostov agreed.
“Shad,” I told him, “I’m goin’.”
“Like hell you are,” he said. “I’m takin’ Chakko.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
WHEN THE four men were about to go up the moonlit slope I spoke once more to Shad, just between the two of us. In a low voice I said, “I never went against you before, Shad, but this time I am.”
He looked at me for a quiet moment, and then he said, “Okay, Levi. You c’n come, but only partway.”
So it was that the four of them, Shad, Rostov, Nick and Chakko, started up the slope as silent as death, and I followed right behind, making as little sound as possible. Luck was with us, for some clouds began to drift across the face of the moon, giving us more dark to move within.
At the far top of the slope the five of us lay flattened out against the ground and looked over on to the flats beyond. There were a few mounted Tartars scattered out on guard not far away, but it’s doubtful they really expected any visits from our small group in the hollow. And a distance beyond the guards, strung far out on the flats, were fifty or sixty small fires, each one with a handful of men bunched around it. Toward the center of all those fires was a bigger fire near a large kind of round and flattish-topped tent. Several men were gathered around that fire, but it was too far away to be sure in the dark if Kharlagawl was among them. Next to that fire was the big hanging drum that was twice as tall as the fella who was slowly pounding on it.
Shad whispered, “This is as far as you go, Levi. Try t’ keep ’em off us durin’ the retreat. But don’t hang around forever.”
I readied my rifle and the other four moved as soundlessly and hard to see as shadows out onto the flats and toward the Tartar camp.
In no time at all, no matter how hard I strained my eyes, they were invisible off there in the dark. I found out later that they’d split up just outside the camp. They figured that way, sooner or later, somebody would get a shot at Kharlagawl.
Then, after what seemed a hundred years or so, I saw a big man stand up by that central fire and tent. Just from his size I guessed it might be Kharlagawl. Then there was the sound of a distant rifle shot and the big man fell down.
All hell broke loose instantly down there, and at that moment a large dark cloud completely blotted out the moon, making the night as dark as a bat’s wing. From out there on the flats there were the mingled sounds of men screaming, guns going off, and running hooves thudding against the ground. The only sound that stopped was the beating of the drum.
Finally I saw a deeper shadow materialize on the dark flats and realized it was a man running swiftly toward me. When he was about fifty feet away I knew from his size and shape that it was Nick, and racing after him was a Tartar on horseback. Just guessing more than aiming, I pointed my rifle and fired and the Tartar disappeared off the suddenly rearing horse. A moment later I stood up as Nick got to me.
There were some other dim, running figures farther along at the top of the slope and then the sounds of many horses galloping toward us.
“Back!” Nick said.
I hesitated, straining to see in the dark, but as the charging horses came nearer, Nick grabbed my elbow and spun me back and down on the slope.
“Now!”
And we ran like hell.
Going downhill, especially in the dark, my speed tended to get out of control. I almost went sprawling down half a dozen times, and then the cloud passed away from the bright moon, which helped a little. From below, now able to see, our men started shooting to discourage the Tartars behind us on the slope.
My lungs bursting, I sped down to the edge of the breastwork, and I was going so fast there was no way in the world to put on any brakes. So I just lunged on over and went rolling down into the hollow.
Nick landed right-side up, but the jar of it damnere broke both of his legs. When I got up and we stepped back to the breastwork Chakko was just leaping down, and even that tireless Indian was out of breath.
Looking up the moonlit slope, Slim said, “Cover ’im!”
Another shadowy figure was running down toward us, a bunch of Tartar horsemen behind him. Slim and the others put some rounds into the Tartars. Two of them went down and the others backed off.
The man racing down the hill was almost to us, and from his size and build, and that flowing, cougar grace, I knew it was Shad.
But for just that minute, I’d forgotten how much alike Shad and Rostov were.
And it was the captain.
Rostov leaped down beside us and I said, “Where’s Shad?”
He frowned at me, and then we all looked back up the slope, but there was nothing moving on it.
“Likely,” Slim said, “he’s just layin’ low out there somewheres.”
“No.” Chakko said finally and quietly. “He shot Kharlagawl.” Chakko was having real trouble going on. “The sound a’ his gun brought ’em to ’im.”
“You saw?” I said.
Chakko nodded.
“An’ ya’ didn’t go t’ help ’im?”
Chakko shook his head. There was no fear in his face, or guilt. Just common sense and sorrow. Then, slowly, he turned and walked away.
That left the rest of us just standing there silently, looking off at nothing, or maybe looking at the ground. Looking at anything but each other.
And then the drum started again.
Finally Rostov said, “Levi?”
I just looked at him. I didn’t yet feel quite up to saying “What?”
“Would you like every man here to mount up and charge the Tartar camp, on the possibility that we may still be able to help Shad?”
He meant it, and it was the hardest question anybody ever asked me. But after a long time I managed to say, “No.”
And Slim said in a low, gruff voice, “If them Tartars didn’t kill us, Shad would.”
Looking far up the slope now, Nick muttered something in Russian to Rostov.
At the distant top of the slope some Tartars were doing something, but even with the bright moonlight it was too far away to tell what.
Watching them, and listening to the boom of the Tartar drum, Slim muttered, “One thing. Losin’ their boss don’t seem to’ve slowed ’em down much.”
Rostov’s face became very hard, and he started to do a strange thing. He took two cartridges out of his belt, and for the second time that I knew of, he bit on a lead slug and pulled it out of its brass cartridge case. And then, similarly, he took the slug out of the other one.
Either he knew damn well, or he’d guessed damn well what the Tartars at the top of the slope were up to. For now a fire was lighted up there. The fire was all around a big post stuck in the ground, and Shad was tied onto the post.
Without even thinking about it, I started charging up over the breastwork to get to him. And then, for the only time in his life, Slim hit me. His big fist caught me alongside the head, and damn he could hit. I was flat on my back and still groggy as Slim leaned down to give me a hand back up again.
“You can’t help ’im, Levi,” he said in a toneless voice. “He’d be burned b’fore ya’ could get up there to ’im.”
And then, as my head got itself more together, I realized what Rostov was doing.
He was overloading one cartridge case, putting additional powder into it from the second one. That’s one way of making a real long shot, if you know what you’re doing.
Then, as the flames grew rapidly around Shad, the distant drum stopped and there was complete silence.
Nick said flatly, “They are quiet. So we hear his screams.”
In a low voice that was almost a whisper Old Keats said, “That’ll be the day.”
God knows what they’d already done to him by then, but Shad was still awake and aware enough to know everything that was going on. And from where he was, on that high post, he could pretty much see all around. Then, as the flames were halfway up around his body, he didn’t scream, but he sure as hell yell
ed, his roaring voice carrying all the way down the slope and to our ears.
“The arroyo!” His thundering far-off voice was dim but clear. “Use the herd!”
And then, as the fire raged higher around his body, Rostov took careful, steady aim and fired.
It was an impossible, and perfect, shot. It went right through Shad’s heart and stopped the searing pain of the fire.
And in the silence that followed, a far-distant, low rumble began.
“They’re chargin’ upon us down through the arroyo,” Slim said. “They’ll be down on us in a couple a’ minutes.”
Rostov slowly, so very slowly, now lowered his rifle. And it was as if he was now both a cowboy and a cossack, for he’d surely read Shad’s thoughts more clearly than any man ever could without having witnessed firsthand the power of a longhorn stampede.
Almost softly, he said, “They’re going to be faced with more than five hundred enemies. Slim, Levi, get out that last keg of black powder!”
So in about one minute, under Rostov’s directions, it came to pass that we were ready. Natcho and Crab had goaded Old Fooler partway into the arroyo, and a few of the other head sort of followed along, wondering where everybody was going. And Slim and I had spilled that final keg of gunpowder out in a long, thick little mound that stretched like an explosive string along the flat land behind the herd.
We were all asaddle. Nick was looking after Kirdyaga, and Shiny was helping to hold Link aboard, and nobody else needed any help.
From the front part of the hollow Rostov yelled, “Light it!” and I struck a match and tossed it down at the end of that long string of powder.
I never saw such a damn thing. That powder roared like something living and, without actually hurting anything, sent rolling sheets of booming flame blasting high into the air.
Buck and I were the closest ones to it and Buck, in terror, almost reared over sideways to escape the horrifying thing.
The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) Page 35
