The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  They were followed by a girl, and Paul knew immediately that here was the only woman he had ever seen whom he could truly love.

  He also realized that the Birmans had arrived.

  CHAPTER VII

  Tina Birman was a tall woman, only two or three inches shorter than Paul’s five feet ten, and she walked as erect as a soldier but with an animal grace that held all eyes. She had long, slender legs sheathed to the knees in soft, Mexican-style boots, and firm thighs under a fringed doeskin skirt molded to her lithe, rounded hips, with a matching doeskin jacket decorated with tiny silver bells which tinkled as she moved. Under the jacket she wore a cream-colored silk blouse with pearl buttons that concealed not one iota of full, perfectly formed half-moon breasts thrusting out proudly and proclaiming loudly the nature of this woman.

  Above her square-set shoulders, she was dusky, with a slim dusky neck, dusky jaw, chin, cheeks, forehead. But not her lips and eyes, for one barely noticed her long face with its firm chin and narrow, tipped-up nose and high, wide cheekbones when one stared at those full, soft, sensitive lips that were mobile, expressive, even when at rest. Her intense green eyes burned with a flame which seemed to devour everyone they turned on, a sudden, explosive green that cut like the blade of a sabre at one moment and seared with jungle heat the next.

  He was glad her hair was braided and hung to her waist, for it was the finishing touch that perfected the image of a magnificent animal. Even the light-brown, flat-topped Stetson hat hanging by a draw cord to her back emphasized the fact that her hair was sparklingly alive, thick, and of the dark chestnut color reserved only for those of utter beauty.

  In her right hand she carried a heavy whip, its long lash coiled for instant action. He had heard of the bullwhip, but it was his first sight of one.

  He could not prevent himself from staring at her, even to the point of observing how she affected others. His eyes remained riveted on her, his hand feeling the sleekness of her body, his lips tasting hers, his senses whirling in the total sensuality of this dusky woman.

  The thought of Ned following her about like a lost puppy brought him under control. He looked round the room. All the men were trying to keep from gaping at her, none were succeeding. He turned back to his stew, forcing himself to avert his eyes from the Birmans who seated themselves at a nearby table.

  Then the silence of the room grew more intense and he put down his spoon and took a deep breath. It was corning! He could feel it in the nape of his neck and sense it in the utter hush in the room. It was in the eyes of the solicitors as they stared at someone coming up to him, and soon he heard the light catlike steps approaching his bench. The man stopped directly behind him. Paul placed his hands on the table and waited.

  “Hear tell you’re the new owner of the Three Barbs,” said a soft voice.

  Paul recognized the voice. He bad heard it in the alleys of Marseilles, the back streets of Rome and along the canals of Amsterdam. It was the voice behind a sharp blade, a stout club or a strangler’s rope, and he wished desperately that he had a weapon of his own.

  He turned on his seat, then slowly stood up to free himself from the confines of the bench.

  It was one of the younger Birmans, about his own age, so like his father that had he grey hair and a seamed face Paul knew he would be dealing with the old one himself.

  “I am the owner of the Three Barbs,” he said.

  The Birman rocked back on his heels. “Hear tell you’re one of them English Lords or something,” he went on in his soft voice.

  “I am one of those English Lords - or something,” said Paul.

  The glint in the Birman’s eyes grew brighter. “You’re pretty sassy for a foreigner,” he said, slowly, setting himself on the balls of his feet, the fingers of his hands twitching slightly.

  Paul stared levelly into his eyes. There is where it will come from, he reminded himself. From the eye to the brain to a muscle to a weapon or a blow. Without the least sign of warning, his fist whipped out and sank deep into the stomach of the Birman. A great gush of air exploded from his lips and he doubled up in pain. Paul’s stiffened hand chopped him at the base of the neck, sending him crashing down like a poleaxed steer.

  Paul did not wait to watch him sprawling on the floor - he was already walking towards the other Birmans. They had got to their feet at Paul’s first blow, but his approach mystified them for the few seconds he needed to step in front of the father.

  “I do think your son has forgotten his good manners,” he said loftily. “Bothering people during mealtime and all that. You shoul…”

  His head nearly exploded as he was suddenly struck from the side! The blow sent him reeling back against a table and then to the floor. He shook his head to clear it. An older Birman, about thirty years of age, had hit him with his fist and was drawing his revolver from its holster.

  “Sam?” came the old man’s command, “No gun. Cut him.”

  Sam’s thin lips spread in a mirthless grin as he pushed his sixgun back into its holster and drew out a long, gleaming knife from a sheath on a belt.

  Paul climbed quickly to his feet, his head still ringing. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that Sam was going to kill him where he stood, armed or unarmed. “I’ve always heard that you half-breeds are cowardly dogs,” he snapped out at them with obvious disgust in his voice. “Now you can prove it. I have no knife.”

  The anger in Sam’s eyes burst into hate. His body tensed as he gathered himself to leap.

  “Sam!” came the cold command. The furious man hesitated.

  The old man’s hand rose and steel glittered as his knife flashed through the air to thud into the floor at Paul’s foot. Paul snatched it up, his pounding heart jumping with joy that his strategy had worked.

  “Go get my knife, Sam,” said the old man. Sam instantly moved in, but stopped abruptly in his tracks as Paul’s blade slashed a hair’s breadth from his stomach. Paul almost smiled when he saw the arrogant look leave Sam’s face and a curious, uncertain expression replace it.

  “Come on, Sam,” jeered Paul. “Come get your father’s knife.”

  It didn’t work, and he knew it the moment Sam bent his knees and lowered the blade to stabbing position. He had hoped to provoke Sam into a foolish move, but the taunt had only put him on guard, had alerted him to the fact that his opponent knew how to handle a knife and was not afraid of him. It was totally unexpected, especially from a pretty boy who was dressed like a dude.

  Sam feinted to one side, then thrust swiftly for a thigh. Paul parried and slashed at Sam’s eye, the tip of his blade raking his cheek. Sam stepped back, a look of the most profound astonishment spreading across his face when he touched his cheek and saw the blood on his fingers.

  “I still have your father’s knife,” mocked Paul, thanking his lucky stars for the knife-fighting lessons he had taken from his wine-guzzling French companions during the year he had spent along the docks in Marseilles. But he didn’t delude himself into thinking that a single parry and lucky riposte had won the battle. His opponent was taller, had a longer reach, and had probably played with knives all his life. Paul knew he had to goad Sam into making a grave error.

  But Sam retained strict control of himself. He crouched down into a stabbing position and closed in warily on Paul. Paul feinted, stepped to his left, feinted again, then thrust for Sam’s right side. Steel clashed against steel and his knife was almost torn from his fingers. Instantly, he went back into a defensive position, his left hand held out in front of his chest to deflect the coming riposte. And come it did, like the strike of an angry cobra. Paul’s hand pushed the blade aside in the nick of time, and back in he went, hard and fast, at. Sam’s stomach.

  For a moment he thought be had broken through, but then he felt his wrist caught in an iron grip and the blade deflected. He didn’t even try to pit his strength against his opponent’s - immediately his knee rose viciously into Sam’s groin!.

  It was perfectly timed and flawlessly executed
and no man could have taken it without flinching. A gasp whistled out through Sam’s lips and his hand unconsciously relaxed, Paul pulled his wrist free at once and tensed to thrust in the blade.

  Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, something snatched the knife roughly from his hand! He stepped back, startled, trying to watch Sam sink to the floor and at the same time to see what had disarmed him. Then, just as unexpectedly, his face was slashed from ear to eye, almost blinding him, He threw up his arm to protect himself and turned.

  She was standing in the middle of the floor wielding her bullwhip. It snaked out again like lightning and smacked his forehead, driving him against some men seated at a table. Before he could move, another stroke cut across his arm and the uninjured side of his face, hurling him to the floor. He rolled to avoid the battering blows, but the lash sped across the room like bullets, beating down on his head and arms.

  In desperation be scrambled between the legs of the seated men, and when they fled out of the way, he crawled beneath the table, half blinded.

  Breathing heavily, he could barely hear the cold voice of the old man saying, “That’s enough, Tina. Ben, you take him now.”

  Paul slid to the far side of the table and rose to his knees, gasping, his mind reeling. Painfully, he pulled himself up by a bench and stood there, staggering, looking about dazedly for the man approaching him.

  “Just hold it there, Ben,” came a strange, cool voice.

  Paul felt himself being supported by friendly hands. It is us, Your Grace,” whispered Mr. Blatherbell.

  Paul focused his good eye about the room, On the other side of the table stood another of the Birman brothers, a revolver in his hand, looking towards the doorway of the restaurant where a tall, lean, hard faced man was standing, his legs spread wide apart, a double-barreled shotgun in his hands aimed directly at him. On the left breast of his jacket was a star.

  “This here’s a private fight,” came the cold voice of the old man to the officer. “Butting in ain’t none of your business:

  “Call off, Ben, Jaydee. This fight has stopped here and now.”

  They must have known each other, for the old man abruptly sat down. “Ben,” he called. “You and the boys help Sam and Daniel to the table.”

  Paul didn’t think his feet would support him as the three solicitors grabbed up their cloaks and half-carried his stumbling body out of the restaurant,

  The cool air cleaned away his dizziness at once, and he stood upright, allowing himself to be led to the hotel and up to his room. The three solicitors undressed him, sat him on a chair, and washed his wounds. Paul winced as they treated the weals and lacerations.

  “How is the eye?” he asked, fighting waves of pain.

  Mr. Snoddergas held a lamp closer to his face. “I think it is merely bruised, Your Grace. It does not appear seriously damaged.”

  “Those insane people!” exclaimed Mr. Blatherbell, visibly relieved that Paul’s wounds were not worse. “How can they allow them to run loose? Is there no law in this country?”

  “Who was that man at the door? The one who helped me?”

  “I do not know, Your Grace-. It must be that deputy marshal whom Ned spoke about,”

  Paul let out a long breath through pursed lips. “He came at a most interesting moment.”

  They tensed at the sound of a knock at the door. Mr. Snoddergas held up his hand for silence, then walked over to it. “Who is there?” he asked softly.

  “Deputy Marshal Cartright,” came the voice of the man they were just speaking about.

  Mr. Snoddergas unlocked the door and allowed the hard-faced man to enter. He nodded to all in the room, propped his shotgun against the wall, then carne over to examine Paul’s wounds.

  “Reckon there’s nothing serious,” he said in his tight, cool voice.

  “Thanks for your help,” said Paul, extending his hand. “I’m Paul Sanderson, and these gentlemen are my lawyers, Mr. Blatherbell, Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas.”

  “Dave Cartright,” said the deputy marshal, nodding again.

  “Did you arrest those killers?” asked Mr. Blatherbell indignantly.

  “Arrest them?” said Cartright. “First of all, ain’t nobody going to arrest a Birman unless he got more guns behind him than the number of men in that room.” He turned to Paul. “And second, if Jaydee Birman didn’t expect to shoot you down the next time he lays eyes on you, he’d have had you arrested.”

  “Me arrested!” exclaimed Paul. “For what?”

  “Well, it seems to be common knowledge that you punched Daniel Birman first.” He raised his hand to stop any argument. “I know what happened, and I also know that if you hadn’t hit him first, Daniel would still be kicking your head off.” His eyes twinkled. “You’re a right smart fighter for a man all the way from England.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Blatherbell stiffly.

  Dave Cartright chuckled. “I guess you do have a point, Mr. Lawyer. But the people who come to the Territory from the outside, well, they’re not too handy with their fists or a knife.” He took out the makings and offered them about, then when the others politely refused, he rolled himself a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke trickle slowly from his nostrils. He eyed Paul closely. “I hear tell you’re the owner of the Three Barbs. Are you figuring on staying awhile or are you just passing through?”

  “I’m really not quite sure.”

  “Then I’ll give you some advice. There’s been some gossip running loose that the Birmans don’t take kindly to the Three Barbs.”

  “You mean, like stealing its cattle and burning its buildings,” said Paul hotly.

  “Well, Mr. Sanderson, I’d be a mite careful about saying that out loud. Be it true or not, there is no proof - and there isn’t a judge in the west who would find against a Birman if he shot you down like a mad coyote for saying it publicly. But getting back to my advice, I’d keep myself from being gulled into a fight with any of them, and I’d go only where there are people, so nothing can happen accidentally.”

  “Are you saying,” said Mr. Blatherbell, “that the law offers no protection to Mr. Sanderson? He is a British Peer of the Realm, and Her Majesty’s government would take immediate action if anything should befall his person?”

  “Sure we have law, Mr. Lawyer. Right after Mr. Sanderson is killed, we’ll have a trial, and if the man who killed him is not found guilty of murder, why, he’ll buy beer for everyone and they’ll celebrate all night. But if he is found guilty, we’ll hang him right quick, all legal and proper.”

  “A lot of good that will do Mr. Sanderson,” retorted Mr. Blatherbell.

  “Exactly,” said Dave Cartright. “That’s why I gave him the advice I did. The Birmans may put a hole in him here or there, but they aren’t about to kill him without a fair fight in front of witnesses. So just keep in mind what I said.”

  He touched the tip of his hat and started to leave. “Deputy Cartright,” said Paul, stopping him. “I’m grateful for you assistance . It’s worth saying twice.”

  Cartright raised a finger in salute. “You didn’t seem to need any help until Tina Birman began using that bullwhip. Tell me, you were just about to cut up Ben when she pulled your knife away; how far in were you planning to go?”

  “I think the hilt might have stopped me,” said Paul without hesitation. He rose from his chair and faced Cartright. “Now, tell me something else, please. If I brought up some cattle from Mexico, what protection would my men and cattle have during the trip and after they are on my land?”

  “Mr. Sanderson, the government doesn’t pay me to nursemaid a drive or guard a herd. The best I can do is come by now and then when your beef is on your range. But if you are raided and can catch one of the rustlers, and he says that the Birmans are behind it, I’ll round up every lawman I can get and we’ll bring them in for trial.”

  He nodded once more and left the room.

  There was a long silence when he had gone. Paul res
umed his seat and leaned forward wearily, his hands held limply between his knees. The solicitors stood quietly about, staring at the blank walls.

  Mr. Blatherbell finally pulled himself together. “It does not make sense, Your Grace, to subject yourself to beatings and perhaps, death, at the hands of these deranged people. Nothing is worth that, least of all a piece of land in such an uncivilized place as this, where even the law cannot protect its citizens.”

  “That fight in the restaurant was planned by the Birmans,” mused Paul. “At first I thought they intended to kill me, but I’m not so sure now.” He turned on his seat to face the solicitors. “Here is my opinion. If Upjohn is the instigator of the thefts and the destruction of the buildings on the ranch, the Birmans would merely be trying to frighten me into selling and leaving the country. But if the Birmans are acting alone and want to kill me for some reason of their own, they would not seek to do so in a public establishment. Therefore, I believe that we are in no actual danger unless we refuse to sell or if we attempt to rebuild the ranch.”

  What do you wish to do, Your Grace?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

  “One thing I’m certain of - I will not be forced to sell my land. Whether the profits we can obtain from rebuilding a ranch are worth the risk and effort. I don’t know. I want to look over the land, see what we have to face and learn a little about raising and selling cattle. After all, I’ve never been a tradesman.” He suddenly chuckled. “It’s just struck me - the only thing I have been is a fighting man.” He rose and stretched, wincing as his aching muscles complained. Well, let’s get some sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll purchase some proper clothes and look over the land.”