The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  Paul almost chuckled. “Don’t be too hard on Ned. He did expect it, and we were ready for them.”

  The flush on her face deepened to a blazing scarlet as she realized how very obvious she had been. Paul reached inside his coat and took out a small package, handing it over to her. “I saw this in Mexico and it seemed to be made just for you.”

  Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she opened it and took out a finely worked silver chain with a silver locket decorated with scrolls.

  “I didn’t have a photograph of myself to put inside, so I slipped in a few hairs from my chin,” he said sonorously.

  That eased the tension. She threw back her head and laughed with her clear, beautiful voice. “Thank you. She stopped abruptly. “What do I call you anyhow?”

  “Try Paul for a start.”

  “I like that. So, thank you, Paul.”

  “And many a welcome to you.”

  Her grin became broader. “I was making a bit of an ass of myself back there, wasn’t I?

  He shook his head. “Not at all. If you hadn’t appeared so fetching, I would have kissed you.”

  “Why would that stop you?” she asked in surprise.

  “I’m awed by beautiful women.”

  Her sparkling eyes looked like dancing imps. “I will rub ashes on my face and not comb my hair the next time we meet.”

  Paul kneed his horse close to hers. “I’ll burst if I have to wait until then.”

  She stopped her horse. “So will I.”

  He leaned forward and took her in his arms, his lips closing softly on hers. She came up to meet him, her hands pulling herself tighter to him, her lips warm and tender.

  There was a strangely quizzical look on Paul’s face when they drew apart, as if a chemical reaction he had never experienced before was taking place inside him, gripping at his very vitals. He kissed Nora again, and the chemical reaction grew more intense. He could identify it now. It was like having stuffed himself with good food and having had a deep, restful sleep and having felt the play of supple muscles at a sport he enjoyed and having all the beautiful clothing and superb horses he desired and the sway of a ship on a calm sea and the stars shining so bright that they seemed within hand’s reach.

  He sat back on his horse, dumbfounded. None of this really made sense, his coming from Russia to England to an insignificant speck on the map three hour’s ride north of Rijos in the American wild west, a third of the way around the world, to sit on a horse sixteen hands above the ground in falling snow and suddenly have a chemical reaction take place after kissing a two-footed, two-eyed, two-handed girl whose eyelashes were glistening from the snowflakes gently settling there.

  That Nora was experiencing the same reaction was as obvious as the fact that they would soon be buried in white if they didn’t get moving, so, holding hands tightly, they kicked their horses and rode along with silly smiles on their faces and behaving exactly like a twenty-five-year-old man and twenty-one-year-old girl falling in love.

  Bess Laughton was baking apple pies; the mouth-drooling aroma” struck Paul the moment he entered the house. Wes Laughton brought out his special bottle of ‘mountain dew”, Bess Laughton declared right and left how fine Paul looked after his two months on the trail, and Nora Laughton tried to keep from blushing every three or four seconds. Wes Laughton, whose jovial manner masked a keen intellect and a precise knowledge of everything that went on about him, was at a loss to explain the sudden transition of Nora from being a level-headed ranch girl, who could tell to a split hair what ailed a cow two mountains away, to becoming a ninny who almost dropped pie plates and nearly spilled coffee into his lap. His confusion was increased by the fact that Nora’s “bodyguard”, the unobtrusive, wraith-like, quarter-Indian cowboy, Pete, who had been assigned to watch Nora since the trouble started on the Three Barbs, had reported to Wes that the golden-haired Englishman had kissed Nora just minutes after they met, and not only that, but had kissed her a second time, and all this had happened without Nora pulling out the carbine from her saddle boot and shooting him on the spot. Actually, said Pete with a semblance of awe, she had even kissed him back both times. Well, this could make a girl like Nora flutter a bit, but almost dropping plates and spilling coffee - that was another matter. After all, even though that Duke fellow was a fine-looking boy and seemed to have a head on his shoulders, and Wes would be the first man in line to give Nora away if she wanted him, they hadn’t spoken six sentences together since they met, and that didn’t call for all this mooning about.

  Wes drained a second glass of mountain dew while his mind dwelt on the probable result of Paul restocking his ranch with a new herd of cattle. In spite of all his braying that Upjohn would want only a strip of his land to put through his railroad, he knew quite well that he was next on the list as soon as Upjohn had title to the Three Barbs. He also knew that Upjohn wanted their ranches for more than just the right of way for a railroad and for developing the land into farms and villages and all that rubbish. Sure, he would do all those things, for Upjohn was a right smart businessman and had all those millions of dollars to prove it, but there had to be more to it to make a man push as hard as Upjohn was pushing. It could be gold or silver or that oil which was making Pennsylvania the richest state in the union, but whatever it was, Wes couldn’t tell, even though he had ridden his range from end to end, ostensibly searching for strays, but actually seeking a clue to what Upjohn wanted.

  And Wes Laughton wasn’t about to sit there and let Upjohn and his Birman killers pick him off like they’d done with the Three Barbs. That’s what came of trying to run a ranch from five thousand miles away, so the only regret Wes had in watching the Three Barbs go under was knowing that he was losing a buffer before he was ready to fight back. For fighting back meant men, and that meant money, and the only way he could build up hard cash was by selling cattle. But there was a limit to how many head he could sell and still have enough left to keep his ranch going. He had twenty-three hands to pay and feed, and those costs could only be met by. selling off the surplus each year, for once he dipped into his breeding stock there would not be enough new cows each year to replenish his herd, let alone increase its size, which is the primary goal of all cattlemen. The best he could do was run his ranch with the utmost efficiency to squeeze out extra funds to build up a war chest. He needed five years to accumulate enough hard money to wage war, and Paul’s purchase of cattle to restock his ranch was the same as gaining a year of grace, since he would be the target.

  Had his neighbor been his type of man, experienced, accustomed to the powerplays which beset all enterprises, Wes would have formed a common front in an instant. But the Three Barbs had been doomed from the start, and even a man as good as Ned Fenton couldn’t alter that. fact, especially since he lacked the authority to take immediate action when Upjohn began the nibbling process which resulted in its collapse. And to volunteer his aid would have been to offer himself as a target before he was ready to fight. As far as Wes Laughton was concerned, the Three Barbs was finished, and it was just a matter of explaining to the corpse that it must lie down and remain still.

  He looked across the table at Paul digging in with undisguised joy at the massive piece of pie on his plate, licking at every crumb like he was tasting the nectar of the gods, Bess crooning and mumbling, “Well, I do declare,” while shoveling more and more on his plate, and Nora all thumbs as she spilled the coffee over the table trying to refill his cup, Wes felt a pang of regret that this fine-looking boy was going to go through the grinder as surely as if he were scraps in a butcher shop. He gave Paul credit for trying, since a report from one of his town contacts had mentioned the presence of three hard-bitten characters among the trail crew, toting well-cared-for sixguns, which implied that the young Englishman had an inkling of what to expect. But three good guns, or a dozen, for that matter, were not going to dent the twenty killers who comprised the Birman gang nor the hundred gunfighters whom Upjohn could gather together overnight.


  He brought his mind back to the present to hear Nora speak like she was coming down to earth again.

  “How much did you pay Don Jose?” she was asking Paul.

  “Nine dollars and seventy-five cents a head, including the use of six vaqueros to help drive up the herd.”

  “How many cows?”

  “About half.”

  “What are the cows like?”

  “Mostly three and four-year-olds, with an average weight of three hundred and fifty pounds each. A hundred or so of the cows are carrying calves.”

  “You did well,” said Nora. Did you buy any bulls?”

  “No, I thought it would be best to buy them here.” He turned to Wes. “Have you any for sale?”

  Wes scratched his head. Well, I reckon I could sell John Hancock and Tom Jefferson. They’re eleven years old and right in their prime.”

  “They won’t do,” said Nora firmly. “They sire large calves. Paul’s cows are Mexican. He’d lose too many calving.” She turned to Paul. “You’d be wiser to build up your stock in two stages, starting with smaller bulls first then using large bulls like John Hancock and Tom Jefferson later on. I know the ones - Andy Jackson and Daniel Webster. Their calves aren’t too large and in three years they’ll add fifty pounds to your breeding stock.”

  Wes nodded. “That makes good sense, Nora. It’s been so long since I had Mex cows that I forgot how much trouble they have with big calves. I’d let you have Andy Jackson and Daniel Webster for four hundred dollars each.”

  Paul glanced at Nora, who gave an almost imperceptible sign of agreement.

  “Thank you, Wes,” said Paul promptly. “I’ll be glad to have them. Will two bulls be enough?”

  Nora made choking noises as she held in her laughter and Wes filled their glasses with mountain dew to keep from reacting in the same way.

  Well,” he said when he finally had control of his voice. “Reckon Andy Jackson and Daniel Webster will do just fine.”

  “But don’t put them in with any of the cows Walt and your cowhands rounded up while you were gone,” said Nora. “Those can carry bigger calves.” She eyed Wes levelly. “Maybe you could loan John Hancock to Paul now and then?”

  Wes massaged his nose for a few moments. He wasn’t at all happy with the suggestion. Moving bulls from place to place was not the wisest thing, since they grew accustomed to familiar surroundings, just like humans. But who was going to argue with Nora when she eyed you like that? “I guess we can work something out,” he said.

  Paul looked at his watch; it was almost 1 p.m. He rose to his feet. “I’d better be on my way. It gets dark here quite early.”

  “Why, I do declare,” said Bess. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Cook is holding lunch for us.”

  “After all that pie!” exclaimed Paul.

  “You just come along and see what you can do with crumb-fed chickens and dumplings,” said Bess, chuckling.

  It was mid-afternoon before Paul climbed laboriously onto his horse and sat there puffing as Nora swung up on hers. “My, my,” he groaned as they started off. “I didn’t think I had room enough for all that food.”

  “You did Mama proud,” said Nora, grinning. “She told me to ask you over again soon.”

  “I’ll do so when I recover.”

  “Dad and I will come by next week to look at your herd. We’ve moved ours closer to the mountains for the winter. You see, both of our ranches have eastern exposures, which means less snow on this side and more sun to melt it. Allows the cattle to dig down to grass.”

  “You certainly know ranching,” said Paul with admiration.

  “I’ve spent all of my life on a ranch. Something should rub off.”

  Paul stretched contentedly in his saddle. “It’s so beautiful here. A completely different world.” He began whistling.

  “What is that tune?” asked Nora.

  “It’s the French Chant de la Liberation. My Cossack troop adopted it as its battle song. We called it ‘The Camarade’, and sang it at the end of every battle. Our way of saying goodbye to our comrades who died.”

  “It’s such a lovely tune. Such a haunting melody. Tell me about the Cossacks, Paul.”

  Time passed so quickly as he talked that they were at the boundary before they knew it. Paul leaned over and kissed her soundly. “You’d better hurry back before darkness falls.” He waited there until she rode out of sight, then kicked his horse into a canter and hastened home.

  That night it snowed like it would never stop. At the first light of dawn Ned and his crew removed the wheels from the wagon and replaced them with the runners that Mr. Poopendal had bought along with two second-hand sleighs. Loading all the vehicles with hay, they broke a trail to the cattle sheltered in the draw three miles away and placed the fodder in several bins.

  “They’ll be all right,” said Ned to Paul. “They’re still able to dig to grass if they have to.”

  Back at the ranch, Paul entered the office where Mr. Blatherbell and Mr. Poopendal were discussing inventories and making notes in a journal.

  “Do those three cowboys you hired know about our trouble here?” he asked Mr. Poopendal.

  “Yes, of course, Your Grace. I told them of it right at the outset. They seemed almost eager to be involved in violence.”

  Paul went to the door and called through the swirling snow for Jake. The chunky man came into the room, stamping his feet and blowing on his hands. “Jake, I want you to start instruction for everyone here with the rifle and sixgun.”

  “In this storm?” asked Jake.

  “Use the bunkhouse - for the present. Teach them aiming, squeezing off the shot, and everything there is to know. We’re in for a long winter, so we might as well take advantage of it. Let them practice dry firing - without cartridges. When the weather is better, they can do live firing.”

  “Do you have enough cartridges?” asked Jake.

  Mr. Blatherbell turned to a page in his journal. “We have four hundred rifle cartridges and two hundred cartridges for handguns.”

  Jake snorted. “That’s not enough to keep us in meat.”

  “I’ll go to Rijos for some when it stops snowing,” said Paul. “How many should we purchase?”

  “Five hundred more of each will do it.”

  It continued to snow for two more days, some of the men cutting wood to last the winter while others dragged logs over the trail to the draw to keep it open for the sleighs. Jake and Jim and Emil conducted the rifle and sixgun classes, giving individual instruction to each man. Everyone, even the solicitors, attended. The only one exempt was Li Chang.

  For security reasons two men were sent out each afternoon to inspect the herd. “That’s enough of a check,” said Ned. “Nobody’s going very far with cattle in this weather.”

  On the third day, the snow stopped falling so Paul, Jake and Jim saddled up and rode into Rijos, the horses laboring to get through belly-high drifts that piled up here and there in the white expanse covering the road.

  Chilled from the ride, they stamped into a saloon and drank a couple of shots of whisky to warm themselves. The saloon was half-filled with cowboys and townsmen, their work curtailed by the storm.

  Paul looked at his watch; it had taken most of the morning to ‘reach Rijos. “We’ll eat lunch here,” he said. “The horses will be glad of a bit of rest anyway.”

  Buttoning up their heavy leather coats, they crossed over to the Palace Restaurant and sat at one of the long wooden tables. Paul chuckled to himself when he realized it was the same table he had been seated at when Daniel Birman started the fight.

  The fat woman recognized him at once. “Hello, Mr. Sanderson. I hope you get through a meal this time without any ruckus.”

  Paul grinned up at her. “It’s that delightful food you serve here. Makes men fight over it.”

  She laughed as her towel made a feeble pass at wiping the crumbs from the table. “Hear tell you’ve got yourself a herd again. I want you to know that the townspeople
are all rooting for you. The Three Barbs was an important . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  Paul looked round to see Upjohn standing behind him. He nodded. “Hello, Mr. Upjohn. Care to join us?”

  Upjohn sat down beside him. “You’re looking like a New Mexico rancher now, Mr. Sanderson.”

  “I am one now.”

  “I’ve heard the news about your new herd. I suppose that suspends any plans you have of selling your land.”

  “Suspends! That’s a rather unusual choice of word to use. Wouldn’t terminate be more applicable?”

  “Terminate is always so final sounding, and businessmen like myself don’t believe in closing doors on a negotiation.” He looked across at Jake and Jim. “Where did you pick up these saddle bums?”

  The abrupt change of tone shocked Paul and his eyes flashed to his two men, expecting them to leap to their feet with guns drawn. Instead they were staring towards the door as if they had turned to stone. Paul swiveled round. Upjohn’s scar-faced gunman was standing there, flanked by the same two men who accompanied him at the meeting on the road, an eager, almost hungry look in his black, beady eyes.

  A smile played over Upjohn’s lips. He leaned towards Jake and Jim. “Your Mr. Sanderson didn’t answer my question. Where did he pick you up, saddle bums?”

  Jake’s eyes lowered to the table and he moistened his dry lips. “Don’t push,” he said softly. “I know your boy over there and I don’t want to fight him. But just don’t push.”

  Upjohn chuckled as he rose to his feet. “Goodbye, Mr. Sanderson. Remember where my office is in case you change your mind.” He started out of the restaurant, his tall catlike form seeming to defy anyone to get in his path. Once through the door, his three gunmen immediately turned after him.

  Jake and Jim let out their pent-up breaths.

  “Who is he?” asked Paul.

  “Deke Howard,” said Jake, almost in awe. He expelled another long breath. “Deke is the fastest sixgun slinger in the Territory - maybe even the whole country.” He shook his head. “If we’ve got to tangle with him, it will have to be with a rifle or shooting him from ambush. I just won’t do it with a sixgun face to face. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”