by John F. Carr
“It’s an antique from America, called a Winchester Model 94. The mark shows it was made in 1961. I took it apart, cleaned and inspected it. They are much prized among Americans. The stock is black walnut from America, a hardwood they like.” Ganzorig held out a small pouch. “These are .30-30 shells. I gathered these Winchester cartridges from our people. Their share of the gift.”
Chuluun nodded. The tribe’s firearms and ammunition were a haphazard collection, whatever they had taken from the mining camp when they had escaped. “Where did you get it?”
“I took it from an officer of the guard at the mining camp—after I killed him. Some CoDo Marine officer probably brought it to Haven and then bartered it—just a guess. It has quite a kick. The original lacquer finish was wearing off the stock, so I stripped it and shellacked it the best I could.”
“I’m honored,” said Chuluun. “Why do you give it to me?”
“For my Khan.” Ganzorig drew himself up with pride.
Chuluun embraced his friend. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome, of course.” Ganzorig swung back up into the saddle. “Chuluun Khan, we must leave.”
“I need only a moment. Tell Naran.”
Captain Naran of the Second Troop, whose name meant sun hero, was not as dynamic as Ganzorig, but he was a disciplined, steady commander who had once been a junior CoDominium Marine officer. Naran was the man who had established the two troops with four patrols of twenty-five riders each, and organized the drill for riding and shooting. He had recommended Ganzorig as captain of the First Troop, for his personal dynamism.
“I’ll summon the patrol,” said Ganzorig, as he reined away. As always, when the riders were not practicing their war arts, they were herding and farming.
Chuluun, broad-shouldered and muscular, strode toward the stony bluff, his leather del flowing with his walk. With the men and women of his tribe, nearly all miners, he had chipped, blasted, and dug a cave in the bluff for his home. Other caves were being carved out, for the greater protection from the cold than yurts or wooden huts could provide. Smoke rose from the chimney built from the rock broken out of the bluff. A wooden door was centered in the mortarless stone wall that fronted the artificial cave.
His wife, Tuya, whose name meant light, sat before the fireplace bundled in her del, made of muskylope leather like his own. Pretty with a petite frame, she was now large in her seventh month of carrying their first child. If she had a son, they would name him Bataar, meaning hero, after Chuluun’s mentor. If she had a daughter, she would be named Bayarmaa, after Tuya’s mother.
A table full of used brass shells of varied type and size stood near her. She passed her time repacking ammunition for their sizable yet limited supply.
His ray of light, as he thought of her, looked up with a smile, as firelight flickered on her shining black hair.
A young woman attending her withdrew to give them privacy.
“I heard the hoof beats,” said Tuya. “He let you win again?”
“He did.” Chuluun allowed himself a grin. “I wish he had more trust in me. I’d never be angry about losing a fair race.”
“Everyone knows he’s your closest friend. It’s nothing to anyone else.”
Warming his hands at the fire, Chuluun frowned. “He finally arranged that meeting with the Americans. We’re about to go.”
“What do you want them to do?” Tuya avoided his eyes as she asked, instead gazing into the fire.
“Ganzorig is right,” said Chuluun. “We must raid Purity. Our tribe cannot last here without more livestock, tools, and weapons. We need grain and seed. And we need more explosives to blast out new homes. We can’t get these any other way.”
“Tell me you will not steal the women.”
“What?” He turned from the fire to look at her.
“I would not have you kidnapping their women.”
Chuluun was puzzled. “Why would we take their women?”
Tuya looked him in the eye. “We have three times as many men as women of child-bearing age. Haven’t you thought of this?”
In truth, he had not. The threat of slow starvation overwhelmed his thoughts. He had to keep his people alive now.
“Birthing on Haven is difficult enough,” said Tuya. “If our tribe is to live after us, then our numbers must grow.”
Chuluun nodded, his mind on Tuya. Whether or not the Americans joined the raid, Tuya and the twelve other women whose time for childbirth was approaching would soon travel down to the Shangri-La Valley where they had a better chance of success and survival in giving birth. He would lead his troops to escort them, and raid Purity if possible on the same journey.
“What is this?” Tuya nodded toward the Winchester.
“A gift from Ganzorig. I’ll show it to you when I return.”
“And what of the Americans?” Tuya asked.
“They’ve been good to us. They traded grain and seed for stud service with our stallions. You remember.”
“I do. When we arrived, I thought they would fight us. They let us pass through their valley to come here.”
“Their colony has been in that valley almost twelve years. They’re self-sufficient, herding as we want to do. They hate Kennicott and Dover. The Americans were among the first to flee from the mining companies on Haven. They named their town Independence.”
“But why are you meeting with them?”
“The town, and their homes around Independence Valley, have almost four thousand people now. Families live in cabins. Compare that to our two troops of one hundred riders each. We are so few.”
“I wish I could ride with you,” said Tuya. She had ridden and carried a rifle at his side during the escape from the mining camp. “You want the Americans for their numbers on this raid?”
“We need their help,” said Chuluun. “Purity is not far from the Dover shimmer stone mines and the company guards who protect them.”
“What do they want from you?”
“I must find out,” said Chuluun.
By arrangement, Chuluun rode with his two troop leaders and a single patrol to a place in the open grassland at the south end of Gobi Valley, where a narrow cleft led down to Independence Valley. They and an equal number of Americans all carried their personal weapons. The open terrain ensured that if others of either side approached in a treacherous move, they would be seen from afar. However, it was merely a precaution among cautious neighbors.
The Americans had a big fire blazing in a deep pit.
“Howdy, fellas!” The Americans’ mayor was Red Kelter, a short, wiry man whose hair was now gray. In a sheepskin coat and a gray cowboy hat, he was clean-shaven and gave them a big smile.
“Hello,” Chuluun said in English. He cradled the Winchester in his arms. “How are you?” He had learned some English phrases from men of his tribe who also knew only a few words and phrases.
Ganzorig exchanged Russian greetings with a tall, young American named Yates Harrow, their interpreter.
“I’m fine, Khan,” said Red, shaking Chuluun’s hand. “Sit down, everybody.”
As they sat on boulders or just the hard ground, Ganzorig and Yates introduced each man by name on both sides.
At Chuluun’s signal, Naran brought out a gift for the American leader. Naran was a short, blocky man with a beard along his jawline. Unlike the garrulous and charismatic Ganzorig, Naran spoke little but observed a great deal. If Ganzorig was Chuluun’s right hand, Naran was his rock.
Chuluun presented Red with a newly polished, sharpened saber that he had taken in the rebellion from the mining camp. It was a modest gift, but he had little to give.
“Why, thanks, Khan,” said Red. He stood up and held it aloft, showing it to his companions. “That’s right nice, isn’t it, guys?”
The other Americans spoke out, agreeing, and he passed it around for them to see.
“Now I got something.” Red opened a leather bag and pulled out a handgun and two boxes of shells. “This here’s a Model
1911 Colt .45 semi-auto,” he said. “It’s an antique, a real source of pride where we come from. And there’s some shells, ‘cause it won’t do you no good without ’em.” He held out the weapon handle first. “And it’ll go just fine with that Winchester! She’s a beauty!”
“Thank you,” Chuluun said carefully in English. “Thank you very much. I am honored.” He accepted the weapon in both hands, then worked its mechanics to show both his appreciation and his knowledge. “It’s a beautiful gift,” he said in Mongol, and waited for Ganzorig to translate.
Chuluun was honored but also embarrassed. A clean, polished Colt .45 with shells was a much greater gift than the sword he had given. “Ganzorig?”
In response, Ganzorig brought out jugs of kumiss, their people’s traditional drink of fermented mare’s milk.
“Hidey-ho! I know that stuff.” Red grinned and waved to one of his men. The other man handed him a big bottle of clear fluid. “This ain’t exactly smooth. It’s moonshine, new and rough.” He uncorked the bottle, took a swig, and held it out.
Chuluun accepted the bottle as Ganzorig took a drink of kumiss and gave the jug to Red. The swallow of moonshine burned Chuluun’s throat, yet the heat it brought was welcome. He smiled and passed the bottle to Naran.
“This handgun is a treasure,” Naran said quietly to Chuluun. “Their gift has meaning. They want an agreement with us.”
“Yes, but why?” Ganzorig whispered pointedly.
After each man had tasted each drink, Chuluun and Red were ready to “talk turkey,” as Red put it. Even Ganzorig’s translation confused Chuluun, but he saw Red take on a solemn demeanor.
“Here’s what’s on our mind,” said Red, pushing his gray cowboy hat back a little from his face. “I know you folks have had a hard time up here. We need more seed grain and livestock and I’m bettin’ you do, too. Your man here, Ganzorig, talked to us about a raid. We all hate those Dover Mining bastards. I’m here to tell you, we’re all in, if you and I can make a deal.”
Chuluun nodded calmly, but excitement raced through him. This was what he needed. “What terms do you suggest?”
“Well, pard, I see it real simple. Ganzorig says you can bring about two hundred men. We got more guys, but we also got more families to protect. So a lot of our guys gotta stay home.”
Chuluun waited for the translation. “Of course. We must leave men at home, too.” His tribe, however, could only afford to leave behind the young, disabled, and elderly. He chose not to say that, nor that thirty-seven of his riders were hard-riding women.
“So I figure I can bring in four hundred guys,” said Red.
Chuluun’s excitement dropped. He could not come close to matching that number. His share of livestock and other loot would be proportionally smaller, he supposed. He could live with that.
Red leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “Khan, I got a problem. I got me a bunch of hotheads, know what I mean?”
Eventually Yates and Ganzorig worked out a translation.
“How can I help?” Chuluun asked courteously. Between the greater gift Red had given, and the bigger numbers of American cowboys, he would be the junior partner in any agreement.
“Did you know a bunch of new livestock is coming toward Purity? It’s a month or more off, which is just right for us if we start moving soon. Horses, muskylopes, whatever else. Fact is, we don’t need hundreds of men to drive the herd, but we might need ’em to fight our way out if those CD Marines catch up to us.”
“We do need livestock,” said Chuluun.
“So here’s my problem. A lot of my guys want revenge on Dover Mining. They want to attack the mines and free more miners. Trouble is, that’s where CoDo’s got its troops stationed. I say we ought to stay away from them troops.”
“That’s wise,” said Chuluun. “We should not try to fight CoDo Marines. We must strike fast and return home again.”
Red grinned when he got the translation. “Now you’re talkin’! So here’s what I was thinkin’. First, we do a fifty-fifty split on everything. That way it don’t matter who does what. What do you say?”
“That’s fair,” said Chuluun, though now his spirit soared. He wondered why Red was being so generous. “I agree to these terms. How shall we plan this raid?”
“Here’s the thing, Khan. I gotta keep my guys as far from Dover Mining as possible. If I don’t, I think them hotheads’ll just ride hell for leather on Dover no matter what I say. And the herd is coming toward Purity from the far side, where we could get ’em without goin’ too near Dover Mining and the Marines. So, how ’bout you raid Purity, and we hit the livestock outside of town? Each one’s a diversion for the other.”
When Ganzorig finished translating, he grinned at Chuluun.
Chuluun would have preferred the opposite arrangement. He still hated the idea of raiding ordinary townspeople. However, he also had hotheads among his people, including Ganzorig.
“We raid the town for everything we can take and you bring back the livestock,” said Chuluun. He liked the plan more as he realized the two groups would act separately. That would avoid friction between their men. “We will do this.”
“So, we got a deal?” Red grinned.
“Yes,” Chuluun said in English. He stood up and held out his hand. “We have a deal.”
Red got to his feet and took his hand. “Let’s drink on it.”
Chuluun grinned in return. “Let’s drink.”
On the ride home, excitement drove Chuluun’s thoughts. The women with child would have to leave soon because the wagons moved slower than the riders. Chuluun and his captains would lead the two troops of riders. The women would stop in a safe place to wait while Chuluun led the raid on Purity.
“We shall destroy Purity,” said Ganzorig, as he rode on Chuluun’s right. “I’ve lived for this day.”
“The spoils will keep our people alive,” said Chuluun. “We just need to get away again.”
“That accursed company town. We’ll pick them clean.”
“Do you trust the Americans?” Chuluun asked.
“I trust no one,” said Ganzorig. “I trust their desire for our help. We made an alliance, not a friendship.”
Chuluun turned to Naran, who was not likely to speak unless he was asked. “What do you think?”
“They want allies. That’s why they let us pass through their land when we first came here. They did not want trouble with us.”
“Americans fear no one,” said Chuluun.
“Not fear,” said Naran. “In earlier times, they were desperate. They understand hunger—and they hate CoDo and the mining companies as much as we do. They have enough enemies.”
Ganzorig threw back his head and laughed into the cold wind. “Hatred makes strong alliances, my friends.”
Chuluun thought again of the scars on his friend’s back from the Reynolds lash and said nothing.
At home with Tuya, Chuluun watched as she shifted her weight in her padded chair. “You will not take their women?”
“Of course not,” Chuluun said angrily. “After we surround the town, I will send an offer for them to surrender.”
“What offer?”
“If they surrender the town, we will take what we need, but we will not hurt anyone. No killing, no burning. No dishonoring their women. That will be my promise.”
“That’s the promise given in olden times by the great khans on their wars of conquest.”
“Yes, I learned this from our history.”
“And if they refuse?”
“We must take what we need. We will not dishonor the women.”
“I hope the townspeople surrender.” Tuya sighed. “Now I want to see this rifle Ganzorig gave you. I’ll pack more cartridges for it if we have them. It’s a good weapon?”
“It’s good. I’ll show you what my friend gave me.”
Chuluun led the way on the long, rugged trip down to the Shangri-La Valley. Each rider led a string of two or three free mounts, each with empty pac
k saddles, panniers, or manties to carry the loot from the raid faster than wagons could move. Along they way, Chuluun often led hunts, as much to keep the men occupied as for food. He hunted with the Winchester and found that it fired true.
Taking the extra mounts was an act of desperation. Chuluun’s order had nearly deprived his people at home of any mounts on which to tend their herds. While he and the troops were gone, the remaining livestock would dwindle even more. If Chuluun failed to return with his share of a big, new herd, his people would starve or go begging, maybe to become enslaved again.
Chuluun’s route first took them west from the Girdle of God Mountains, then south. In the first return since their escape, the Free Tribe journeyed through the Karakul Pass down into the Shangri-La Valley. At last they reached the region where the women would wait for their time of labor. Chuluun sent scouts ahead to rendezvous with the Americans and learn when the Dover Mining herd would approach Purity.
Every day as they waited, Ganzorig and Naran drilled their riders afresh. The First Troop, under Ganzorig, was aggressive and enthusiastic, following the personality of their captain. The Second Troop, in its tight discipline and crisp movements, showed the imprint of Naran’s command.
During every dinner time in the long Haven nights, Chuluun walked with his two captains from one cookfire to another, greeting his riders. Their handshakes and shouts of welcome heartened him. They offered him kumiss from their private caches and told ribald stories to pass the time. Ganzorig would tell stories and joke with the riders in his turn. Naran shook hands and asked after the riders’ well-being. The thirty-seven women riders, scattered among the patrols of both troops, greeted Chuluun and asked if Tuya was well, knowing she carried the first heir of the Free Tribe.
Every night, he reminded his riders of the offer he would make: If the people of Purity surrendered, the riders would harm no one and leave the town standing when they left with their spoils.
