The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  “That’s how Ned sees it, Paul,” said Jim.

  Paul sat thinking for several seconds. How to get out? He could sneak out after dark, but that would not solve the second problem of letting the Birmans know he had left, and he wasn’t about to stand in the middle of the snow-covered road and advertise loud and clear that he was no longer inside. He had to make his break so obvious that no one in his right mind could doubt who was making it. But how? How? Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his brain began clicking.

  “Jim,” he finally said. “Can the wounded Mexican manage to reach here?”

  “Yes. He’s just clipped, not hurt bad.”

  “All right, here’s what I want done. Have everyone slip over here as soon as possible, and bring all the food, guns, ammunition and water you can carry. One man will stay behind. When I give the signal, he is to set fire to the bunkhouse, then hasten here.”

  Jim nodded. “I have it.” He looked Paul squarely in the eye. “What shall we do with Emil, and the others?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “I would suggest that you prop them up at the windows - to pretend that the bunkhouse is still fully occupied.”

  Jim looked away. “All right,” he said softly. “I guess it don’t make any difference anyhow.”

  Li Chang was the first one over, dragging behind him two sacks of food. Mr. Poopendal was the next with water. The wounded Mexican was third with two extra rifles and three revolvers. Behind him came the last vaquero with more weapons and additional water. Last in line was Ned, painfully carrying the ammunition and more water. “Jim insisted on lighting the match,” he told Paul. “He’s got coal oil from the lanterns splattered all over the walls. She’ll go up quick once you give the word.”

  “Have the men knock out some extra holes in the walls,” he directed Ned. “You’ll have to fight from all directions once the bunkhouse goes up.” While that was being done, he drew Ned and Mr. Blatherbell into a. corner. “Ned will take charge,” he said. Mr. Blatherbell nodded. “Ned, once I go out, you’ll have to keep fighting until Cartright comes - or the Birmans leave. I think they’ll leave first.”

  “I agree with you,” said Ned. “How are the horses?”

  “One is wounded, but the other two are all right.”

  “The Mexicans didn’t stand a chance,” said Ned pointedly.

  “I know,” said Paul.

  “Then why not wait until nightfall and give yourself a break?”

  “No, they have to know it’s me. I’ll have to move fast - it’s getting dark. Come on, Ned, give me a hand.”

  Together, they went into the room where the horses were lying. Untying one, they led him into the living room and swiftly saddled him. “Now, the other one,” said Paul.

  Ned looked at him in surprise, then followed him back into the bedroom and helped him prepare the second horse. He appeared even more baffled when Paul cut two lengths from a lasso, each about four feet long, and tied one of them between the cheek straps of the bridles and the second to each of the horns of the saddles, linking the two horses together.

  He slung his rifle across his back, filled a pocket with ammunition and inspected the horses for the last time.

  Li Chang came over with a small sack in his hands. “Here,” he said. “You take. Maybe need food.”

  Paul grinned. “Thank you, Li Chang,” he said, slinging the sack next to his rifle. “You appear to be the only one who hasn’t lighted a candle for me.”

  Li Chang scratched his head, not understanding Paul in the least.

  “Ned,” said Paul. “I’ll try to get to Rijos. If I’m cut off, I’ll head for Wes’.” Slipping off his gunbelt, he adjusted it to fit outside his coat, shifted the Bowie knife from the rear to the left side then pulled down his hat.

  “What’s your signal for Jim?”

  “You’re to call me twice.”

  Paul went to the door. “Ned!” he shouted. “Ned!”

  A few minutes later, Jim scratched at the door and slipped inside,

  “How soon will the bunkhouse go up in flames?” asked Paul.

  “A couple of minutes,” said Jim.

  “As soon as it does,” said Paul, want you to pull open the door. Ned, the moment the door opens, hit the lead horse and yell as loud as your lungs will allow. Mr. Snoddergas, you will strike the rear horse at the same instant and also yell. The rest of you - go to the windows on this side, and when I start out, open fire to my front and immediate flanks. Don’t worry about the sides and rear of the house. Do you understand?”

  Mr. Blatherbell came up. “I speak for all of us, Your Grace. God protect you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blatherbell. I could use a great deal of His protection now.”

  “There is smoke coming from the bunkhouse,” warned Mr. Poopendal, looking out of a window. “I do believe it will ignite in a few seconds.”

  Paul climbed onto the saddle of the rear horse, his feet dangling loosely. He tied the reins to the pommel, then reached across to the other horse and tied its reins loosely to its pommel.

  “Get ready,” he warned everyone.

  “It is lit!” shouted Mr. Poopendal.

  “Go!” yelled Paul, grasping the mane of his horse.

  The door was jerked open, and Ned and Mr. Snoddergas struck the horses violently on their rumps, letting out a great yell at the same instant.

  CHAPTER XI

  The sudden emergence of two horses bursting out head to tail through the doorway, the totally unexpected flash of flame within the very bowels of the fortified bunkhouse, the withering fire from the windows of the house where only four men were known to be stationed, all this - no, the very audacity itself - gave Paul a start of several yards before the gunfighters could grasp its meaning and translate understanding into the need for action.

  Then as their fingers tightened on their triggers, a most astonishing performance took place which made them look up from their gunsights. Paul had leaped to his feet on top of the racing horse, had thrust back his hat on its chinstrap to expose his long, blonde hair, and was thumbing his nose at them! Actually thumbing his nose at them while laughing like a virtual idiot.

  Then he disappeared!

  The startled gunfighters looked behind the speeding animals, expecting to see his body lying on the snow, but there was no sign of him. They stared, incredulous.

  Then as the horses approached them, one of the men yelled, “He’s between them! He’s between them!”

  And so he was, his outstretched arms hanging on to the pommels of the two saddles, his head bent down and his feet drawn up to conceal himself, the animals linked together by the two lengths of rope.

  The gunfighters sprang to life, but held up firing as the racing horses entered their line, for to shoot would endanger themselves.

  “Ha-a!” shouted Paul, urging on his mounts. He was soon past the gunfighters, several of them swiveling around to fire in his direction. “Ha-a!”

  He had gained fifty yards when the right-hand horse twitched. It was hit, but still running! Seconds later, he felt it quiver. Immediately, he pulled on the rein of the other horse, forcing it into the wounded one and making it turn to the right to act as a shield between him and the gunmen.

  At this tangent he gained yet another fifty yards before he felt the exposed animal shudder violently as several bullets hit it again. Instantly, he let go of its pommel and drew his Bowie knife, slashing the rope holding them together. Then, gripping the Bowie between his teeth, Paul grasped the pommel of the uninjured horse with both hands, let his feet drop to the ground to act as a propellant, and swung into the saddle in the Cossack manner, leaning forward to cut the rope linking their bridles.

  His horse was now free of the staggering one! Bent low over its neck, Paul dug in his spurs and thwacked it with the flat of the Bowie’s blade, shouting at the top of his voice. He heard the crack of more shots as he thundered into the grey cover of dusk - then he was clear!

  He rode like one possessed for a few minut
es before slowing to a trot and finally to a walk, the horse’s lungs working like bellows, its sides heaving and shaking. Swinging down to the ground, he inspected it carefully for injuries, giving a sigh of relief to find it only temporarily winded. He led it for five minutes to allow it to rest, then remounted and started south towards Rijos, travelling cautiously as night closed in on him.

  He anticipated the Birmans’ actions simply because he would have done likewise in their case; so he was not taken unawares when he heard the sounds of men sweeping in from the direction of Rijos. Whether they were gunfighters from the assault on the ranch buildings or additional hirelings made no difference - they were blocking his progress in that direction and that meant giving up any hope of reaching Cartright for help.

  He wheeled his horse about and pressed it quickly on to gain distance, fully convinced that an attempt to outflank them would be to put his head in a trap, since the basic principle of a sweep was to have wide flanks and several roving patrols for the purpose of netting its quarry.

  He swung northwest to make a detour beyond the ranch buildings, then turned northeast in the direction of Wes Laughton’s. For half an hour or so he thought the impossible had happened, that the Birmans had left open a door to Wes’ ranch, but that hope was shattered when he heard the sounds of riders in his path.

  With a sigh, Paul turned back once .again. Now there were only two alternatives open to him - the first to go due east towards the open ground leading to the Canadian River and seek help along that route. That is what the Birmans wanted, he knew, to drive him into open country where their gunfighters mounted on relays of horses could run him down directly the sun rose by following his tracks as easily as a locomotive follows its own rails. Had he two good horses, he would go east without hesitation, sure in his mind that he could outride the Birmans and their randies no matter if he had to flee all the way to St. Louis. But he did not have two horses, and not only that, he was a goner if anything happened to the one he did have. It was also with misgivings that he conceded to himself that his present mount was far from being a very good horse, let alone a great one.

  He stopped and looked west towards his second alternative - the mountains. They were there, concealed by the blackness of night, and he was under no illusions of what to expect from them. There a man afoot was as mobile as a man on a horse - for a day or two. After that the effort of carrying a blanket, food, weapons, and just himself would slow him down to where the fresher man on horseback could catch up with ease. But there was really no option open to him, for the choice between east and west was not truly an alternative, since one was the course his enemy hoped he would take and the other an enigma as far as survival was concerned.

  One thing was certain, though: he would have to travel as far as possible before daylight, for the sun was now his greatest enemy, allowing speed to his pursuers and range to their weapons. He waited no longer, but turned his horse west and urged it to a fast walk, straining his eyes for the best ground to ride over so as to avoid the holes which could injure the animal. At intervals he swung down from the saddle and trotted for a few minutes to warm himself and to give his mount a respite from his weight. At midnight he stopped in a sheltered draw where only a little snow had piled up and kicked some away so his horse could reach the grass beneath. While it rested and grazed, he opened the sack given to him by Li Chang and took out half a loaf of bread, a small sack of flour, two cans of beans, a handful of coffee beans and a can of peaches. The bread was frozen hard. He chopped off a chunk, opened the can of peaches, and ate them slowly.

  Half an hour later, he was on the move again, with the mountains twenty miles or so away as his target, realizing that it would be impossible to reach them before daybreak, sensing from the tight feeling in the back of his neck that his trail had already been discovered by the Birmans, whom he remembered with apprehension as being part Indian and therefore experienced trackers. The moon had risen while he ate, and looking back he could see his horse’s hoofprints standing out as clearly as the phosphorescent wake of his ship when it had crossed the ocean.

  “Snow,” he prayed. “Snow like it’s never snowed before.”

  But as the hours passed there was no answer to his prayer. He alternated between fifteen minutes mounted and a few minutes afoot, his westward journey guided by the North Star. The snowdrifts became increasingly higher as the terrain changed from flat to rolling ground, and the cold of the night beat against his body, numbing his face and fingers and toes.

  Dawn came slowly, an easing of the blackness by a turbid cloud of swirling grey mist broken by patches of the moon’s reflection, revealing odd, diffused shapes and investing sharp projections with a polished smoothness.

  Dawn came in the form of sight to red-rimmed eyes, the dim outlines of rocks to avoid, dips to circumvent and draws to traverse. The mist stretched from a step ahead. of the horse to its own length and then outward inch by inch as if a circular curtain was rising slowly and reluctantly.

  It was seven o’clock when Paul stepped down from his weary horse and stamped his feet to bring feeling back into them. Taking the reins in one hand, be led the horse towards the mountains looming up before him, but still two hours away. At intervals, he paused to look back, gratified to see no sign of life, but not allowing himself the complacency of believing he had won clear.

  He reached the mountains at mid-morning and climbed for three hours, still amazed to see no riders following his trail, and it crossed his mind that perhaps he had fooled the Birmans yesterday by his movement towards Rijos then his about face in the direction of Wes’ ranch before starting west. It must be difficult for them to imagine a ’dude’ like himself deliberately seeking the massive obstacles and privations of an escape over the Sangre de Cristo Range rather than the more natural one over level terrain. He began to consider his next move, should he evade them completely and cross the mountains safely. From that side he could work south to the security of Santa Fe.

  Santa Fe must have been the evil word to bring all his dreams crashing about his ears, for suddenly he caught sight of movement far in the distance and he knew as sure as the sun rose in the east what it meant. He began pulling the horse along, urging it to trot behind him, knowing that his race was against the sun again, but whereas it was against its rising last night, now it was against its setting. His fate was linked with the blessing of darkness.

  Or snow.

  “Snow, damn you,” he muttered, his breath becoming an agony as he stumbled upward, slipping and sliding, dragging the exhausted horse behind him.

  But it didn’t snow. Instead, the sun’s rays grew stronger, softening the snow’s crust, making his climb more arduous.

  He looked back and saw exactly what he had expected - several riders, a number of them leading spare mounts, cantering along his trail, covering in fifteen minutes what had taken him an hour to traverse, transferring to fresh horses when theirs became tired so there was no slackening of speed.

  He checked his watch; 1:36 p.m. He had four hours until dark, and from the time they were making, they should reach his present position in two hours at the most. In his horse’s condition, whatever distance it travelled in the next two hours would be covered by his pursuers in forty-five minutes or an hour. If only he had half a day to rest his horse, and himself, with proper food and all that, the critical hour could be accommodated by an all-out effort. But there was nothing left in his horse to call on, and not much in himself, for that matter.

  Trying to slow them down by rifle fire would be the end of him, this he knew only too well, since he would have to expend valuable time finding a vantage point to fire from and would then have to let them approach to three or four hundred yards before his fire could be effective. To delay, he needed speed to move to a new position once his enemy closed in on him, and there was no speed possible in the mountain snow. The greatest danger of all was losing his horse, for in that one hour, they could flank him and shoot the animal. That would pin him to
the ground as surely as a needle through a butterfly, permitting the gunfighters to hack him to pieces at their leisure. Regardless of the condition of his mount, it would have to carry him those steps which could save his life.

  Still panting heavily, he stood there and considered his options. Then his mind fastened on the thought of speed. Was there a way to move more quickly in the mountains? Then it struck him - of course there was! That while his speed in climbing would be only half that of the pursuers on fresher horses, his speed downhill would be almost equal.

  Immediately, he began to study the mountain complex, a series of low hills that blended into higher hills with draws and saddles delineating the upper limits of each range, and escarpments forcing a climber to make detours. It would be a magnificent area to evade pursuit in the summer, but his tracks in the snow made it a vast trap at the present time.

  He selected a draw a few hundred yards away as his avenue of descent. Being unable to see its bottom, it was evidently deep enough to conceal both horse and rider, and it ran in a general curving line down to the very base of the mountain.

  Tugging on his horse’s reins, he continued uphill, seeking the entrance to the draw. It was much further than he thought and took an hour to reach. There he sank to the ground, unable to go a step further, his horse blowing heavily, its legs shaking. After a few minutes rest, he rubbed down the animal with his neckerchief until its shaking ceased and its breathing became more regular.

  It was almost three-thirty when he took the lasso from his saddle, cut off a fifteen-foot length which he tied to the reins, then looped the end of a second, slightly longer length around the horse’s neck to retain control should the reins break.

  Snubbing the two ropes around his waist, he forced the horse into the draw. Down they went, sliding, rolling, even tumbling end-over-end. Whenever the angle of descent became too steep, Paul dug in his heels and leaned back on the ropes to help slow the slide. When it leveled off, he urged the beast to keep up the momentum. Halfway down, he paused for a breather and crawled up to the lip of the draw. There they were, just below the position where he had stopped to make his decision. He glanced at his watch; it was five minutes to four. He had gained over fifteen precious minutes. Returning to his horse, he picked up the ropes and compelled it to continue downhill.