The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  Mr. Snoddergas received his wound just after midnight. A furious burst of shots tore into the house and bunkhouse, continuing for several minutes. At first Paul thought Jaydee Birman had ordered his men to charge the defenders and that they were creeping up behind a curtain of lead. But when the gun flashes remained at the usual distances, he wondered if Walt had made his attempt and had been discovered. It was next to impossible to look out of the windows except for quick peeks, as the bullets were buzzing about like flies over molasses.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a grunt; Mr. Snoddergas was holding his leg. Paul and Mr. Blatherbell helped him down a short ladder into a cellar, lit a lantern, and examined the wound. It was a deep gash in the calf. Mr. Blatherbell tore strips from a tablecloth and drenched them with whisky from a jug. Mr. Snoddergas’ ears stood out even further when the bandage was placed on his leg.

  Mr. Blatherbell poured some of the whisky into a cup and handed it over. “Drink this, dear Mr. Snoddergas. It is the only thing I can offer you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blatherbell,” replied Mr. Snoddergas through clenched teeth. “It will be quite adequate.” He swallowed the drink in a gulp and tears came to his eyes as he tried to regain his breath.

  “Hey, Paul!” called out Jake. “Come up, quickly!”

  Paul climbed the ladder and crawled to the window where Jake was crouching. He didn’t need to look out to know what was happening, for a glow was lighting up the area. Standing far to one side to avoid the bullets tearing at the windows, he saw flaming arrows rise into the sky and come thudding down on the enclosed lean-to holding the horses and on the bunkhouse and through the canvas covering the hay stored in the former main house. The glow came from the lean-to, now ablaze. The shrill whinnies of the terror-stricken horses could be heard above the cracks of exploding cartridges.

  Suddenly, the door to the bunkhouse opened. Framed in the light from within was Ned holding desperately to the jacket of one of the young cowboys. With a tremendous jerk the cowboy pulled away from Ned’s grasp and raced across the yard towards the lean-to. Bullets chewed up the snow about him, but miraculously he reached the door. His hand rose to pull the bolt. Then his body smashed against the building as a volley of bullets caught him squarely in the back. As he slowly sank to the ground, fusillade after fusillade ripped into him, tearing him to pieces.

  Paul leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” was all he could say.

  While the horses were dying ,in agony, Ned and his men fought the scattered fires of the bunkhouse. They were in no real danger, not with the pump inside, for putting out the fires was merely a matter of throwing a bucket of water on the flames once they ate a hole through the boards.

  Paul thought of his herd when he saw the hay stored in the main house go up in flames.

  “What will become of the cattle?” he asked under his breath, a sad, wistful look on his face.

  Jake heard the whispered words. “You don’t think Birman is going to let them starve, do you? Why, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find your cows five miles further away from here right now.”

  “You mean . . .?”

  “Of course. He wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like that, even for a fight. After a week you’ll never find your cows again if you spent ten years looking.”

  “He’ll hang for murder and rustling,” said Paul through his teeth.

  Jake shook his head. “Paul, you got an awful lot to learn. If that boy, Walt, ever does get back with the deputy marshal, you can’t charge the Birmans with anything.”

  Paul stared at Jake, incredulous.

  “First of all, who drew on who at the store?” asked Jake.

  “I was provoked into that fight.”

  “That might go in an English court but not here in the west. The one who draws first starts the fight here. According to the code in the Territory, Birman is only after revenge, and you ain’t hanging him for that.”

  “What about the cold-blooded murder of the two Mexican vaqueros?”

  “Birman’s men will likely come up with some story that they saw guns in the Mexican’s hands. They have the bodies and can put guns next to them. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “But coming out to a man’s ranch and killing everyone! Birman could have got the deputy marshal to arrest me if I were at fault. Your reasoning is absurd.”

  “You were running. There was no time to go for John Law. He had to act quickly. That’s how he’ll explain it.”

  “Your Grace,” broke in Mr. Blatherbell. “Mr. Inglesby does have a point. As a solicitor I must explain that law is a very complicated matter. It appears to me that their laws and customs are similar to Her Majesty’s Laws. If that is true, citizen’s arrest is permitted.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped out Paul. His eyes narrowed. “But if he takes the cattle…”

  “Who took them?” said Jake. “Can you prove it? Why, Birman will stand up straight as a tree and swear that some dirty thieves must have run off with your herd while he was trying to capture a criminal who shot up his sons.”

  “The store owner will testify that I was provoked.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. What I’m trying to say is that you ain’t going to hang Birman just by wishing it.”

  “Deputy Marshal Cartright will know the truth.”

  “Is that his name, Cartright? A tall, hard-faced character? Carries a shotgun?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know of him. He’s a hard-nose - he’ll probably do everything by the book. Sure, he’ll know the truth, and he’ll probably turn a deaf ear to any complaints against you, but if you think he’s going to tangle horns with the Birmans over this, you’re going to get a jolt.”

  “My God,” said Paul softly. “I’m beginning to feel I am responsible for what is happening here.”

  Jake shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, Paul. I was only jabbering about the law, not the truth. This fight was coming whether you drew first or not. If they hadn’t found an excuse at the general store, they would have found one someplace else. The Birmans were in Rijos to start trouble. They didn’t come up twenty miles from their ranch just to pass the time of day. And getting all those men and wagons together as quickly as they did - like they pulled them out of a hat. They had something already planned. That fight in the store only made things pop a little quicker than they expected.”

  Paul leaned against the wall. “I think I have to take the law into my own hands,” he said softly.

  Jake ginned in the glow of flames. “You did--the day you hired us.”

  They took turns standing guard during the night. Paul tried to order Mr. Snoddergas to rest, but he would have none of that.

  “The discomfort in my leg will keep me awake anyhow, Your Grace,” he explained, “and I may think less about it if I have something to do.”

  Paul stood watch with Mr. Snoddergas for the first three hours, then Jake and Mr. Blatherbell took the next three hours. By the time the second watch was up, the grey of dawn was thrusting away the darkness of the night.

  There had been little action during the night, but at first light the gunfighters again began their deadly pulverizing fire.

  Paul shouted over to Ned. “Is everything in order there?”

  “Not too good,” came Ned’s laconic reply. “Li Chang’s flapjacks are like leather. You want some?”

  Paul chuckled. “Later on. Did you get rid of that item you had last night?”

  It took Ned a few seconds to understand that Paul was talking about Walt. “Yes,” he shouted back. “Right before the lean-to caught on fire.”

  So Walt had made his attempt before midnight. Paul calculated where he would be now if he had gotten through Birman’s lines - a few miles from Rijos. A mile and a half per hour at night in the snow would be the best he could do. He should reach Rijos by ten o’clock. Allowing Cartright an hour to organize his own force and two hours to ride to the ranch, he should be here by one
o’clock in the afternoon – three o’clock at the latest. That was zero hour in his mind - three o’clock. If Cartwright wasn’t here by three o’clock, then Walt hadn’t gotten through.

  “Well, will you look at this!” exclaimed Jake.

  Paul came to his window and peered out, his heart leaping with relief at the sight of a force of over thirty men riding swiftly down the road, the sunlight gleaming on the rifles in their hands.

  “It must be Cartright,” said Paul, hard put to keep the exultation out of his voice. “Walt probably travelled faster than I thought.”

  Jake took a closer look, then shook his head. “They’re Upjohn’s men.”

  Paul’s face tightened in disappointment, “What makes you think so?”

  “Look at that randy on the bay - the third man back. He was standing next to Deke Howard at the door of the restaurant when Upjohn came to our table.”

  Paul suddenly realized that Jake was right, and his face grew grimmer. “I wonder how many more men they’ll need,” he said bitterly.

  He watched as the riders dismounted at the chuck wagon and lined up for breakfast. Once fed, they joined the gunfighters on the line, relieving some of them while they went to eat.

  Emil Block died just before noon. The news came in the person of Jim Nesbitt, who crawled along the fold in the ground that Walt had discovered and knocked at the door. He also brought a pot of beef and beans that Li Chang had prepared.

  “I’m sorry about Emil,” said Paul. “You and he were together a long time, weren’t you?”

  “Nigh to seven years,” said Jim. “He was a good friend and I’ll miss him sorely.”

  “What happened?” asked Jake.

  “You know that knoll right behind the bunkhouse? About two hundred yards away?” They nodded. “Well, some of Birman’s men are positioned there. Its almost a blind spot for us, and the randies just shoot at the wall. The bullets come through the boards, so we keep real low on the opposite side. Anyhow, Emil bored a hole in the wall and sat by it most of the morning hoping one of the randies would get careless. I guess one of them stood up to go to chow, and Emil shot him good and proper. Some of them must have started shooting blindly at the same time. Emil caught one plumb in the middle of his head.”

  Paul was unable to speak.

  “How are the rest of them?” asked Jake for him.

  “That wounded Mex is a goner - I don’t think he’ll live out lunch. The rest are all right.” He looked directly at Paul. “Ned asks if you have any orders for him?”

  Paul shook his head. “No. Do you think Walt got through?”

  “I think so. There weren’t any sudden bursts of fire for an hour after he left, and they would have shot like crazy men if they had spied anybody trying to get away.”

  “Can all of you hold out there?”

  “Why, sure. Everybody who got hit so far got shot because of carelessness. Even Emil. We’re all right.”

  “Tell Ned if Walt got through safely he should be back with help before three o’clock.”

  “That’s what Ned figured.”

  “If he isn’t back by four at the latest, I want you to return here - so we can make plans.”

  “I’ll be here.” He waved a small salute to everyone, then slithered out through the door.

  The Birmans attacked at 2 p.m. It was so sudden and so totally unexpected after almost twenty-four hours of long-range sniping that most of the defenders were caught unawares. Seventy or eighty men rose from behind the knolls and out of ravines in a swift charge across the open ground, shooting rapidly as they approached.

  Jake Inglesby died instantly. When he slid to the floor, Paul thought he had merely lain down to reload, then he saw the hole where Jake’s left eye had been.

  Shouting the alarm to the others, he leapt to the window and saw the men running towards the buildings. They were open targets and Paul made the best of it. He emptied his rifle in seconds, bringing down four of the attackers, then, grabbing up Jake’s rifle, he killed another and wounded one. When that was empty, he started shooting with his sixgun.

  Mr. Blatherbell was at the rear window when the charge started, thoroughly alert and ready for action. But at the sight of his enemy, his eyes widened with astonishment, for although he had fired at them several times during the past twenty-odd hours, it was an impersonal sort of thing, not at all like facing these huge, howling figures who were growing more immense at each step. They were halfway to the house when the spell broke. Raising his rifle, he followed word for word the instructions he had received from Jake. “Line up the front sight with the rear sight, hold your breath, then squeeze your trigger.” He was thunderstruck to see one of the attackers fall. He squeezed the trigger again before he remembered that he must feed in a new shell. Quickly working the lever, he fired again, dumbfounded to see another man stumble. Then without the least warning the blood lust surged in his veins, and he raised his small round body upright, stood squarely in front of the window and worked the lever, fired, worked the lever, fired, and continued pulling the trigger until he was suddenly struck by something.

  At first he thought he had been shot, but when reality returned, he saw that Mr. Snoddergas had pushed him away from the window and was coolly firing at the enemy.

  “Reload your rifle, Mr. Blatherbell,” said Mr. Snoddergas quietly, dropping his now-empty weapon and drawing a revolver to continue the fight.

  Mr. Blatherbell flushed when he realized that he must have been aiming an empty rifle when pushed aside by Mr. Snoddergas. Steadying his trembling fingers, he reloaded by the numbers, then stood up.

  “I am ready to relieve you, Mr. Snoddergas,” he said.

  Mr. Snoddergas immediately stepped aside. Mr. Blatherbell fired only once more before the attack abruptly stopped and the gunfighters retreated. Mr. Blatherbell looked at them withdrawing and almost fell over in a faint. Biting his lip, he controlled himself.

  “I wonder if it is cricket to shoot them while they are running away?” he asked Mr. Snoddergas.

  Mr. Snoddergas nodded. “I do believe it is quite acceptable to do so over here, Mr. Blatherbell.”

  “Hmmm,” said Mr. Blatherbell. He raised his rifle - but the attackers were out of sight.

  Paul came running into the room and his eyes filled with relief when he saw Mr. Blatherbell and Mr. Snoddergas alive and unhurt. He looked out of the window.

  “Well, I never…” he started. “Did you two shoot them?” he asked, amazed, pointing at the three figures lying motionless on the ground.

  “I am afraid we did,” said Mr. Blatherbell thinly, on the verge of fainting again.

  “Good show,” said Paul. “But you bad better get down - they’ll be shooting at us again.” Leaving the room, he went into the bedroom where the horses had been taken. Jake and Jim had tripped them to the floor and tied their legs, keeping them as low as possible. He examined them carefully. One had suffered a gash in its rump and had kicked a bed nearly to pieces, but the other two were unhurt.

  Returning to his window, he looked out at the seven bodies lying on the ground in his sector of responsibility and three more in front of the bunkhouse.

  Mr. Snoddergas came to his side. “Excellent shooting, Your Grace.” He gazed down at the body of Jake. “Poor man, I think I will miss Mr. Inglesby.”

  “We all will,” said Paul. He walked to the door. “Ned!” he shouted.

  Ned answered immediately. “Everything is fine here. We see you planted some flowers over there.”

  “Tell Jim we had to water the garden to do so.”

  It took Ned a full minute to interpret that Jake had been killed. “I understand,” he shouted. “I’ll pass on the message.”

  Paul looked at his watch. It was only twelve minutes after two o’clock. Twelve minutes for fourteen, maybe more, men to die. He was not surprised at this, not after having been in battles where scores had died in twelve minutes. But he had to admit to himself that this had been the most touch and go fight of
all, for had one window been cleared of defenders, the gunfighters would have swarmed inside and painted a completely different picture. It was next to impossible to believe, even now, that the staid and correct Messrs. Blatherbell and Snoddergas had held the fort, so to speak, Not only held the fort, but had outgunned three trained gunfighters to boot.

  Minutes later, the blasting, punishing gunfire began again. Paul sat by his window, ignoring the bullets tearing bigger holes in the walls, peering out every now and then to make sure no sneak attack was being attempted once more. He counted the seconds until three o’clock came, and during the next hour he looked at the road a hundred times in vain.

  At four o’clock, Jim scratched at the door. Paul unbarred it and let him slide inside.

  “How are the men in the bunkhouse?” he asked immediately.

  “Both of the young cowboys are dead. One of the Mexes is wounded, but nothing serious.”

  Paul sat down heavily on the floor and rubbed his face wearily. “I’m going out,” he said simply.

  Jim sat down beside him. “I guess it’s the only thing left to do.”

  Mr. Snoddergas turned from his window. “I do not understand, Your Grace. You are not surrendering, are you? You would be murdered on the spot.”

  Paul smiled wryly. “I do not exactly intend to walk out with my hands up, but I must attempt an escape. They are only after me, so they will probably leave if they should get me - or if I should get away.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Mr. Snoddergas. “I suspect that all of us would be killed to conceal the facts.”

  “I doubt it. “The Birmans have a good excuse for the attack - at least that’s what Jake thought. If that’s true, they will want witnesses to prove that I was the principle target. What better proof than leaving you free once they have me.”