The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  Without another word, Upjohn whirled his horse and rode through his men. They turned and followed him for a hundred yards or so.

  Then, suddenly, as if it had been practiced time and again to reach a stage of perfection, the entire line spun about and opened fire with their rifles. Even Paul, who was the most alert, was fooled by the trick.

  Sam, Tom and Daniel died instantly. Jaydee, staggered by a shot in his side, levered his rifle and fired as fast as he could, emptying three saddles. Ben fell to his knees as a bullet bored through his stomach, fired twice, hitting one of the gunfighters, then dropped to the ground as his chest was riddled with bullets. Kit ran to the old man, bumped him to one side to get him out of the line of fire, then was whirled about like a marionette as a dozen shots tore him to pieces.

  At the first shot, Paul pushed Tina to the ground and dropped to one knee, firing furiously at the mounted men, knocking four of them from their saddles. Beside him, Tina had unslung her carbine and was also shooting.

  When his rifle was empty he grabbed up Sam’s weapon and continued firing, covering the movement back of Jamey and Luke who were dragging Jaydee between them.

  “Here he shouted, motioning to a sheltered place behind some boulders. As they turned in, Luke caught a bullet squarely in his face. His features disappeared in a flood of gore.

  Tina pulled open Jaydee’s coat to examine the wound, but he shoved her away and rose painfully to look over the rocks, his sixgun in his hand.

  Then the gunfighters charged! Whooping, yelling, they bore down on the group hidden behind the boulders, their guns blazing.

  Paul emptied another saddle, then, suddenly, his head exploded! From a great distance he heard Tina shouting, “Paul! Paul!” He shook his head, seeing only a churning, out-of-focus mass of bodies looming up in front of him. He fired and saw the figure of a man fall. Then his eyes cleared enough to see better. Jaydee was lying on his back, his eyes staring. Jamey was standing above him, his legs spread wide apart, his sixgun roaring as fast as he could pull the trigger.

  Suddenly, he heard a gasp behind him! Tina! She was sagging, blood pouring through her fingers pressed to her middle.

  “Tina!” he screamed, crawling over to her. “Tina!” When he reached her, he rose to his knees, the tears running down his cheeks.

  She looked at him, with all her love reflected in her deep, green eyes, then she fell into his arms.

  He held her tightly, sobbing, rocking her as he would a child, mumbling over and over again, “Tina, Tina, Tina.”

  And while he rocked her, the shooting stopped. He heard footsteps and looked up dumbly. Upjohn and Deke Howard stood there, revolvers in their hands. Paul looked down at Tina in his arms, still, the fire gone from her eyes, a trickle of blood coming from her mouth. He leaned down and kissed her with infinite tenderness, then as everything began to fade, he heard Upjohn say, “Hold your fire! That bastard gave a wrong signature on the bill of sale.”

  There was a pinpoint of light at the end of the long, dark tunnel, and it seemed to glow and recede as he rotated slowly backward and forward, the dank walls closing in and pressing together against his head. Suddenly they burst apart, sending him tumbling towards a flame that grew brighter and brighter until it burned through his eyeballs and into his brain.

  He opened his eyes and focused them, fighting off the waves of pain and nausea sweeping over him. He was lying on a bunk in a simple hut. In the centre of the room stood a table and four chairs. Upjohn was seated on a chair facing him. Leaning against the wall was Deke Howard and one of his men. Wood logs were burning in an open fireplace, warming the room.

  “Give him a drink,” said Upjohn.

  The man standing next to Deke filled a glass from a whisky bottle on the table and carried it to Paul, lifting his head to help him drink. Paul choked, but it revived him. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up, holding his head in his hands, touching with surprise a bandage over his right temple.

  “Can you understand me, Sanderson?” asked Upjohn in his soft, controlled voice.

  Paul nodded.

  “You pulled a good one back there, signing the bill of sale with Saul Panderson. What did you expect to gain?”

  “I shall kill you with my own hands,” whispered Paul. “As God is my judge, I shall do it very slowly and very painfully.”

  Upjohn chuckled. “You appear not to be in any position to make threats. But to get back to the signature on the bill of sale, what did you expect to accomplish?”

  “You’ll never get that land, you bastard,” whispered Paul hoarsely.

  Upjohn drew out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I’ve prepared another bill of sale. You will save yourself a lot of anguish if you sign it now.”

  Paul looked away.

  “Keep your eyes looking here!” snapped Upjohn.

  Paul ignored him. Upjohn signaled to Deke and his man. The two gunfighters grasped Paul roughly by the arms and flung him on a chair.

  “Look at me,” ordered Upjohn.

  Paul kept his eyes lowered.

  Deke grabbed him by the hair and pulled up his head, forcing him to look at Upjohn. “Help him make up his mind,” said Upjohn to Deke.

  With a mirthless smile on his lips, Deke punched Paul viciously on the mouth. Paul fell off the chair. “Get him up,” said Deke to his man. When Paul was reseated, his arms were held while Deke crashed his fists into his face. Blood ran from his nose and mouth as blows continued to rain on him.

  When his features were a shambles, Upjohn stopped Deke. “Don’t kill him. I want his signature.” He stood up. “Tie him to the table.” They roped Paul spread-- eagle, laying on his stomach, “Take off his clothes,” said Upjohn. Deke drew out a knife and cut them off. Upjohn selected a large branch from the corner and handed it to Deke.

  They beat him until his back and buttocks and legs were raw meat. He fainted often, and each time he was revived by a pail of water being emptied over his head.

  “We’re wasting our time being polite,” said Upjohn. He went to the fire and drew out a piece of flaming wood. Returning to the table, he thrust the red-hot end between Paul’s legs.

  Paul screamed in agony. “No! No!”

  Upjohn kept the burning branch pressed tightly against his genitals.

  Paul went out of his mind. “Sign! Sign!” he shrieked.

  Upjohn took the wood away. He motioned to cut loose the blubbering pain-racked man. Paul rolled to the floor, his hands covering his testes, moaning, unable to find relief.

  Deke and his man lifted him to a chair. Upjohn placed the paper in front of him and forced a pencil into his hand. “Sign, you bastard,” he growled, “or I’ll burn everything off.”

  With trembling hands, Paul scrawled his name. Upjohn inspected the signature and a smile crossed his lips. He strode to the door and opened it. “Hey, witness,” he called out, “Come here and sign this.”

  Paul looked up at the man entering the room and despair filled his heart when he saw - Deputy Marshal Dave Cartright. Cartright avoided his eyes as he witnessed the signature, then turned stiffly and went out.

  Upjohn folded the bill of sale and slipped it into his pocket. He took out a cigar and lit it, rolling the butt around contentedly in his mouth.

  “Kill him,” he said to Deke. Then he walked out of the room.

  Deke kept his burning eyes on Paul until he heard the sound of horses being ridden away, then he came over to the naked man. “You know something,” he said in a low, rasping voice. “I ain’t never killed a duke before.” He turned to his man. “You ever kill a duke?”

  The man laughed. “I ain’t even seen one, until now.”

  Deke’s lips twitched as a thought struck him. “You’re real good with a sixgun, ain’t you?” he said to Paul. “Beat out Sam Birman, hear tell.” He grinned at his man. “That’s what we’ll have - a gunfight.” He wiped his mouth. “But because this duke is so fast, we’ve got to make things a little more equal. Put his left hand on the
table.”

  When the man forced Paul’s hand on table, Deke shot off his thumb. Paul was too numbed with pain to really feel the additional shock of the bullet. He just shuddered.

  “Now his right hand,” said Deke, and shot off the other thumb.

  They lifted him to his feet and buckled a gunbelt around his waist, then Deke put a revolver into the holster. They left him standing in front of the fireplace, swaying back and forth, blood dripping from the reopened wound on his temple and his battered face and torn back and the stubs of his thumbs.

  Deke poised his hand over his holster. “Draw, Duke!” he snapped. Paul could barely keep from falling. He stared blankly at Deke, his bloody hands hanging at his sides.

  “Why don’t you draw?” yelled Deke. “Don’t the killing of that half-breed whore of yours put a spike up your ass? Or did Upjohn burn out all your balls?”

  The thought of Tina struck him like a splash of cold water. His hand rose to the holster, pulled out the sixgun - and it slipped through his fingers to the floor!

  Deke and his man laughed uproariously. “He ain’t got enough sense,” hooted Deke, trying to get his breath, “to know you can’t shoot a sixgun without thumbs.” They laughed louder as Paul dropped to his knees and picked up the gun, only to have it fall to the floor again. He tried with both hands, and again it slipped away.

  Finally he stopped and looked up at the two smirking men. An expression of peace settled over his face. “Finish it off, you bastards,” he said softly. “I have someone waiting for me.”

  Deke drew his gun and thumbed back the trigger, “Goodbye, Mr. Duke. Hope hell ain’t too hot.” As he aimed the gun, Paul closed his eyes.

  He jerked as the shot rang out. Then, unbelievingly, he heard another shot! He opened his eyes. Deke was turning towards the door, his hands held to his neck, blood pouring out. His man was lying over the table, shot through the head. Paul looked at the door and his eyes widened. Mr. Snoddergas and Mr. Poopendal were standing there, smoke curling from the muzzles of their revolvers. Mr. Snoddergas fired again and Deke was flung back before falling to the floor. Paul collapsed, his brain whirling.

  Then Mr. Poopendal was seated on the floor, cradling Paul’s head in his lap, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh, Your Grace, Your Grace,” he whispered, choking with grief. “What have they done to you?”

  An instant later, they were all around him, Mr. Snoddergas, Mr. Blatherbell, Ned and Jim Nesbitt.

  “Those bastards,” growled Jim under his breath. “Can we move him?” he asked Mr. Poopendal.

  “We will have to take a chance. They will be after him the moment they learn he is still alive.” He pointed at the bottle of whisky on the table. “Take that. We can alleviate his pain with it. Quickly now, prepare the wagon.”

  Paul came out of his semi-coma to find himself lying in the back of a speeding wagon and covered by blankets. Mr. Poopendal was still cradling his head in his lap, trying to cushion him against the bumps. Mr. Blatherbell and Ned were seated next to him, also trying to prevent him from being jolted. Mr. Snoddergas was driving, the horses running swiftly, and Jim was riding a saddle horse alongside the wagon, a rifle held in his hand.

  Paul groaned. At once Ned placed the bottle of whisky to his lips, allowing a few drops to trickle down his throat. “I’m sorry, Paul,” he said. “We won’t be able to do more until dark. Hold on, boy.”

  “Where did you come from?” whispered Paul.

  “We’ve been watching the Birmans ever since you left,” explained Ned. “We figured they would lead us to you sooner or later. We lost them yesterday, then saw Upjohn and his men coming back with you a while ago. We couldn’t make our move until his men left off guarding the shack.”

  “What happened to Walt?”

  Ned’s face grew tight. “We found his body less than a mile from the ranch - shot to death.”

  Paul didn’t hear the end, for he had passed out again.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The spring sun was balmy, the air alive with bees and butterflies and the snorts of horses as they nipped playfully at each other, interspersed with the sounds of mothers scolding their children in Spanish.

  Paul sat listlessly against the adobe wall of the small house, his eyes closed, his face lifted towards the sun. The wounds in his head and back had healed, the stubs of his thumbs had closed, but there were many scars, a long one over the temple, the grooves in his lip and cheek, the ridges on his back and legs, and the thin skin which had grown over his testes.

  He opened his eyes as Don Jose Migulas Jesus de Catillion squatted in front of him.

  “How does it go, my friend?” asked Don Jose softly.

  “It goes,” answered Paul.

  “The spring,” said Don Jose. “Things come to life in the spring.”

  “Living is sometimes just a prelude to what a man waits for.”

  Don Jose picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers while he turned the remark over in his mind. “Your friends worry greatly about you. They see the wounds have healed - but only on the outside.” He studied another handful of sand carefully. “Was there a woman, Don Paul?” he finally asked.

  He almost fell back as the color drained from Paul’s face. Paul’s hands began to tremble, so he crossed them over his chest and held them under his armpits. He drew in deep breaths of air before he could answer.

  “There was a woman,” he said, turning his head away to hide the tears.

  Don Jose took out a cigarro and placed it in Paul’s mouth, searching slowly through his pockets for a match to allow Paul time to gain control of himself.

  “Those men of yours,” he said, to change the subject. “They pay for themselves ten times over.”

  “What are they doing?” asked Paul.

  Don Jose said a short prayer of thanks under his breath. The golden-haired one had been here for over two months now, and this was the first time he had manifested interest in anything except wanting to sit by himself in a corner, not caring whether he ate or slept or shaved or washed.

  “Your English friends have turned my accounts upside down. What wizards they are with the books. Even my sons have finally become interested in the affairs of the hacienda. And Ned and Jim would please the heart of any cattleman. I have tried to steal all of them, but they say they wait only for you to recover.”

  “We owe you many thanks for sheltering us, Don Jose.”

  Don Jose waved his hands deprecatingly. “We have been honored, my friend. My two vaqueros told me what happened at the ranch. Your enemies are my enemies.” He picked up another handful of sand, “I have had a report a few minutes ago that a visitor is coming - a woman. She is now on my land and will be here in two hours or so.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I was told she is the Senorita Laughton.”

  Paul’s head drooped. “I do not wish to see her.”

  Don Jose gestured with his hands as he shrugged. “My friend, I do not think that a woman who has ridden this far will be put off by such a statement. As a man who is ancient enough to give advice without being challenged to a duel, I suggest that you allow my servants to prepare a bath for you before she arrives.” He grinned. “Not that the senorita would be offended, but her horse might object to you.”

  His heart lifted when Paul’s face relaxed in a smile. “Very well,” said Paul. “Just for once.”

  Ned and Jim came into the washroom as the servants began rinsing down Paul in a large porcelain tub. “Will you look at that,” said Jim, rolling a. cigarette. “That boy has gotten so ripe he can’t even stand smelling himself.”

  Paul splashed water at him. “I was told that Nora is coming,” he said to Ned, raising his face for the hacienda barber to shave him.

  “I hear tell,” said Ned.

  The barber almost cut his chin as he turned to Ned. “How did she know I was here?” asked Paul sharply, suddenly coming to life.

  “Well,” said Ned. “Might as well be fired
now as later. I wrote her you were here.”

  “Suppose Upjohn follows her?” asked Paul bitterly.

  “Don Jose has had her watched for the past twenty-four hours. Nobody is trailing her.”

  Paul chuckled. “Why, that bloody old reprobate. He told me he had just heard about her.”

  Jim lit a cigarette. “If he repeated what we told him to say, he said only that he had a report a few minutes ago that a visitor is coming. That’s the truth.”

  Paul splashed water at him again. “What is this, a conspiracy?”

  Jim struggled to relight his wet cigarette. Well, if it is, it got you up off your butt and washed.”

  He and Ned beat a hasty retreat before the rain of water Paul was showering over them.

  He was waiting at the great arch of the hacienda walls when she rode up, accompanied by her bodyguard, Pete, and another dark, unobtrusive rider. He helped her down from her horse and she looked searchingly into his eyes as they gripped hands. They had barely time to say hello when Don Jose and his family came charging up, turning Nora over to the ministrations of the women of the household, and her escort over to the servants.

  Paul waited patiently during the hour it took her to bathe, be dressed and questioned by the women before making her escape to the yard. She took Paul’s hand and led him off for a walk.

  “As Mother would say,” she chuckled, “I do declare that those females have us already married.”

  Paul laughed. “They were probably looking you over to match you up with one of the dark, handsome types.”

  She stopped by the wall and looked him over carefully. “Something is wrong, Paul. What is it?”

  Her comment made him remember what a perceptive woman she was and that she did not deserve to be deceived. “I was in the mountains for over a month after the fight at my ranch. Tina Birman was with me.”

  The stiffening of her back and the ebbing away of the softness in her eyes were barely perceptible. “I guess making an ass of myself has become a habit,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.