The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  Twenty men had mounted horses, had drawn their sixguns, and were lining up to charge under cover of the withering fire of their comrades.

  Paul turned at the sound of a step behind him. Ned, looking pale and unsteady, was coming up, a revolver in his hand, his wounded left arm dangling by his side.

  “Feel up to a bit of target practice?” asked Paul.

  Ned managed a wan smile. Is there an option?”

  “Why, certainly,” said Paul. “We can attack them.”

  “Here they come,” warned Jim.

  The fire from the gunfighters grew in volume until it filled the ears. Bullets struck all about them, throwing splinters of stone into their faces, tearing up dirt like a windstorm, driving them flat against the rocks.

  Paul’s eyes narrowed and his tongue licked at his lips as he gathered himself. Abruptly, the shooting stopped!

  “Now!” he shouted, standing straight up, firing his carbine as fast as his hands could work the lever. The charging men were only one hundred yards away, racing full tilt at them, their sixguns already booming.

  He emptied four saddles before his weapon was empty, then, snatching up Pete’s rifle, he emptied two more. Jim had accounted for two with his rifle. Then the horsemen were among them! Paul jabbed his rifle into the face of a rider coming around the rock, toppling him from his horse.

  “Back!” he shouted, rushing to other rocks a few yards away, drawing his knife to make his last stand. Jim and Ned blasted their way to him, Jim limping badly from a wound in his leg.

  Suddenly, a volley of shots sounded and high-pitched yells filled the air! The horsemen hesitated, looking back. Seconds later, a number of them were shot out of their saddles. At once, the remainder spurred their horses and raced off to one side.

  Paul peered out from behind his rock, astonished. His eyes widened and his lips spread in a delighted smile. Thundering down on them, smashing through the gunfighters’ line, was a tight pack of small dark men wearing huge sombreros, yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs, firing rifles at the horsemen to drive them away from the helpless men behind the rocks. In the lead was a small, fat man waving an old sword.

  Then they were among the rocks, leaping from their saddles to shoot at the gunfighters.

  Don Jose Migulas Jesus de Castillion looked down at the flabbergasted Paul. “How does it go, amigo?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  Paul leaned back and pushed up his hat with a deep sigh. “It goes well, my friend,” he said softly. “Were you just passing by?”

  Don Jose raised his hands helplessly. “One becomes tired of hearing the grandchildren nag about visiting the beautiful Senorita Laughton. By chance, we came upon her man, Pete, who explained that you would be glad to have company for breakfast.”

  Paul looked about and saw that half of the twenty-five men with Don Jose were his sons and grandsons.

  “Thank you, Don Jose,” said Paul, helping him down from his horse. “But I think the breakfast may be short. There are more than one hundred men out there. Once some of them get on top of this hill, our little meal will be rudely interrupted.”

  Don Jose offered a cigarro to Paul, took one himself, then lit both of them, “They will not just walk up to the top. Senor Laughton and ten or twelve of his men are there.”

  “Wes up there! Since when?”

  “He should be there now. He decided to go there as he felt it would be the vital place.”

  Paul sat down and wiped his brow. “Now what, my friend?” he asked.

  Don Jose shrugged. “We pray, Don Paul.” His eyes lost their twinkle and became hard. “But we know one thing - they do not shoot down these men as they did my poor vaqueros.”

  The sun had finally set. Paul and Don Jose made an inspection of the line. The men’s faces were streaked with sweat and dust, drawn with the strain, many wore bloody bandages, and one of them was passing a canteen to the fighters, cautioning them to conserve the water. Further back in the rocks, they walked by the bodies of three Mexicans who had been killed during the day’s battle. Don Jose crossed himself as he passed. Further on were six men, too seriously injured to continue fighting. A Mexican was tending them,

  One of Don Jose’s men came up carrying a paper which had been wrapped around a stone. “This was dropped from above, Don Jose,” he said.

  Paul took it from him and read it. “It’s from Wes. He’s holding out, but Upjohn’s men are putting a great deal of pressure on him. Two of his men are killed and three wounded.” Paul folded the note. “That doesn’t give him very much to fight with.”

  “It is more than were here last night, Don Paul. Perhaps there will be more tomorrow.”

  Paul shook his head. “You believe in miracles?”

  “We all do. Even Senorita Laughton. When I last saw her, she was on her way to Santa Fe - to see your English friends. Perhaps they can obtain help.”

  “Don Jose,” called one of the men from the line. “Look.”

  Paul and Don Jose crawled cautiously to the foremost rocks.

  “Jumping Jupiter!” exclaimed Paul, pressing closer to the rock in amazement. There, in plain view, were two wagons coming to a stop, each towing a cannon capable of blowing them to Kingdom Come, “Well,” said Paul, drawing out a cigarro, “I would suggest that your miracle arrive within an hour after dawn tomorrow or there won’t be enough left of us to work wonders with.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Don Cossack Captain Grigory Kolkoff stepped down from the train and rubbed the small of his back, groaning from stiffness. He stared furiously at the people gaping at his size and uniform, then turned to the coach.

  “Dismount!” he roared.

  From the car came Cossack after Cossack, their rifles slung across their backs, each man carrying his saddle, every second man the long eleven-foot attack lance.

  They formed two rows on the railroad platform, laid their saddles directly in front of them, and stood stiffly to attention, the lancers occupying the rear rank,

  Grigory trooped the two lines of twenty-five men each, his moustache and beard bristling with indignation, his black eyes flashing. “How many times have I told you,” he shouted at them, ‘that you are not to throw the natives off the train or pinch the titas of the women or pull the seats apart to make beds? That you should act like you do at home, Tell me, you idiots? Tell me?”

  One of the sergeants gulped and stepped forward, saluting. “Captain, sir,” he said, in a low voice.

  “Speak up! Speak up!” roared Grigory, turning his furious eyes towards the people standing spellbound on the platform. “I want all these fine Americans to hear.” His glance stopped on a tall, strapping blonde woman and his fingers tugged at his moustache while he stretched his seven-foot frame another few inches.

  “Yes, Captain, sir,” shouted the sergeant. “You have told us a thousand times?” Grigory bulged his muscles at the blonde woman, who almost swooned. “But, Captain, sir,” continued the sergeant. “At home we throw the natives out of the windows and pinch the titas of the women and pull the seats apart to make beds.”

  “Silence? You idiot.” He looked closely at the sergeant. “I thought I demoted you to private during the last battle,” he growled.

  “You did, Captain, sir,” replied the sergeant. “But you promoted me before we came here. I’m the only one besides yourself who reads and writes English.”

  “Hmm, hmm…” rumbled Grigory. “Get back in line and don’t pull any more titas.” He beckoned with a huge hand to a townsman watching the proceedings. “Where are we?” he snapped.

  The townsman’s face turned pale. “El Paso, Texas,” he stuttered.

  “Where is this Territory of Mexico?”

  “Just down the street. You mean Mexico, don’t you?”

  “Of course I mean Mexico, you simpleton. Do you think I came all the way from Russia not to mean Mexico. Santa Fe, Territory of Mexico?”

  The townsman stepped back and debated whether to flee. He cleared hi
s throat. “You must mean Santa Fe, Territory of New Mexico.”

  “New Mexico, Old Mexico - why do you try to mix me up?” He sent a tentative smile at the blonde and stroked his moustache.

  The townsman looked about for help, but all eyes were on the giant Cossack. “There is no Santa Fe, Mexico,” he said almost in a whisper. “It’s Santa Fe, Territory of New Mexico.”

  Grigory tapped his riding crop against his boot, his eyes growing hard and cold. “When I say Santa Fe, Territory of Mexico, I mean Santa Fe, Territory of Mexico.” He groped in his pocket and drew out a telegram, thrusting it towards the townsman. “Here, you dunce, read this.”

  The townsman took a deep breath and walked up to the enormous Cossack, taking the paper from his hand. “Need help desperately,” he read aloud. “Please meet me at Santa Fe, Territory of New Mexico. Paul.”

  Grigory’s eyes widened. He tugged harder at his moustache. “Why must everyone confuse me?” he shouted. “How do I get to Santa Fe, Territory of New Mexico?”

  The townsman turned and bolted through the crowd, unable to face the storm brewing in the Cossack’s eyes. At that moment the short, fat station master limped up.

  “You got trouble here, mister?” he asked.

  Grigory exploded. “You bumbling imbeciles!” he roared. “I want to go to Santa Fe, Territory of New Mexico and this cretin of a train brings me here. How do I get to Santa Fe?”

  “Well, now,” said the little station master, tugging away at his straggly grey moustache. “You keep hopping around like that and you’re sure as shooting going to have a heart attack. And if you don’t I’m going to run the whole lot of you outta here. So just calm yourself down.”

  Grigory’s mouth dropped open and he stood transfixed.

  “Now, there’s two ways of getting to Santa Fe,” continued the station master. “There’s a train coming through in four to six hours, going back to Fort Worth. You change there to a northbound to Wichita Falls, then west again to Santa Fe.”

  “How long will that take?” asked Grigory, slightly subdued.

  “Goes pretty fast now. Only about six, seven days.”

  “Mother of God!” yelled Grigory. “I cannot survive another day on those trains.”

  “Well, there’s another way. You can ride up.”

  Grigory brightened. “How far is it to Santa Fe?”

  “About two hundred and seventy-five miles, as the crow flies. Best to swing a mite to the east, though. Injuns running loose about now.”

  “Injuns? What are they?”

  “Why, they’re Injuns. Don’t you speak English?”

  One of the onlookers stepped forward. “He means Indians,” he said, then darted back into the crowd.

  “Of course,” snapped the station master. “That’s what I said. Injuns.”

  “Indians!” laughed Grigory, flopping his hands in disdain. “Savages, with bows and arrows. We are Cossacks. We spit out arrows.” He rolled his eyes at the blonde, who was drinking in every word. “Where do we buy horses?” he asked the station master.

  “Down the street a ways.”

  Grigory turned to his men. “Attention!” He shouted. They stood even more stiffly, if that was possible. “Follow me.”

  The Cossacks grabbed up their saddles and trailed Grigory off the platform and down the street. The townspeople lined the sidewalks to watch them march by, agape at the spectacle of the tall men in their ten inch high karakul hats and dark blue tunics over matching blue trousers, bagged at the knees and tucked into black leather boots, their sabres dangling from their left hips next to their cruel nagaikas, their rifles slung across their backs, and the lancers holding their long, steel tipped wooden shafts under their right arms.

  There was a corral full of horses at the end of the street. Grigory halted his men and waved his sergeant forward to engage in the distasteful, undignified task of dealing with tradesmen. He leaned against the fence while his soldiers climbed on the rails to see the horses better.

  The sergeant spoke to two men who seemed to be the owners of the animals, then led them over to Grigory. He came to attention and saluted. “Captain, sir, these swine want forty dollars a horse.”

  “Is that too much money?” asked Grigory.

  “No, Captain, sir.”

  “Very well. But we must be allowed to pick the ones we want.”

  The two horse dealers grinned at each other. “Sure,” said one of them. “You pick what you want.” He winked at his partner.

  Grigory snapped his fingers. “Mikail!” he barked.

  A small, wizened, middle-aged man hopped down from the fence with an agility that belied his years and trotted up to Grigory. He came to attention and saluted. Grigory motioned him towards the horses. Mikail climbed back on the fence and peered at the animals. He pointed his finger at a shaggy, unkempt horse.

  “Hey,” said one of the dealers. “You don’t want that old plug. Why, it’s not worth twenty dollars.”

  “Give him twenty dollars for that horse,” rumbled Grigory.

  “Just a minute,” shouted the dealer. “I made a mistake. That’s the best horse I got. I turned down a hundred dollars for it yesterday.”

  Grigory ignored the fuming dealer. “Get it,” he ordered two of his men.

  At once two Cossacks leaped from the fence onto the back of another horse. They rode to the shaggy animal and jumped to the ground, one of them grabbing its tail and the other its ear. The dealers stood dumbfounded as they dragged the horse to the fence and threw a saddle on it, the horse remaining as quiet as a baby.

  Mikail pointed to a second horse and the dealers’ faces dropped. They opened their mouths to speak, caught sight of Grigory’s fierce eye on them, then sighed and shook their heads sadly.

  One after the other Mikail selected the finest animals in the corral, and in less than half an hour the soldiers were mounted and riding out of the town.

  They rode steadily, training their horses as they went along to respond to knee pressure and to become used to sabres whirling by their heads, kneeling on the saddles and then standing upright to accustom them to Cossack tricks, teaching them with gentleness and patience, but using a quick, heavy hand when discipline became necessary.

  At sundown, they stopped alongside a stream, pitched their canvas tents, lit a huge fire, and sang their songs of home as they ate. When dawn broke, they were already in their saddles, heading north.

  It was just before noon when they heard the shooting. Grigory raised his hand for the Cossacks to stop, then, beckoning his sergeant and Mikail to accompany him, he spurred his horse forward. At the top of a small hill, he looked down at the fighting.

  Ten wagons, formed into a defensive circle, were being attacked by a band of howling Indians. Grigory’s trained eye counted them swiftly, about ninety. He estimated the defenders to number about forty, of whom twenty-five or thirty were women and children. He folded his arms and happily watched the fighting, curious to observe the tactics of the Indians,

  “I give them half an hour to take the wagons,” he commented to his sergeant.

  The sergeant nodded. “What a strange way to fight,” he said. “Running around in circles. Why don’t they attack straight away?”

  Grigory pointed at the wagons. “They’re too close together. The Indians would have to come through one by one. That would put them at a disadvantage. But once they whittle down the resistance, they’ll go in.”

  “Look, Captain, sir,” said the sergeant. “The women are fighting, too.”

  “How unusual,” said Grigory. “What kind of women do they have here?”

  “It is said the Indians kill them and take off their hair,” explained the sergeant.

  “What a barbaric custom. Well, we’ll go around them and let them be! He whirled his horse about and started back to his men. “It’s good to see non-Old Believers fighting non-Old Believers,” he chuckled.

  “I heard someone say the Indians aren’t Christians,” said the sergeant. />
  Grigory stopped in his tracks and eyed the sergeant. “What did you say?” he snapped.

  “The Indians, Captain, sir. I heard they aren’t Christians. They worship water or some nonsense like that!”

  “Hm-m,” said Grigory, tugging away at his moustache, his brow wrinkled with thought. Not to be an Old Believer was bad enough, and it was the duty of every Old Believer to nudge them over the side of a cliff if possible. Not murder, mind you, for that would be against the teachings of the church, but simply to trip accidentally and knock them over the edge. One could explain that. As for the cursed Basurmen, the Moslems, it was not only an obligation but an actual duty to slit their throats whenever they were encountered. Indians, now, they were certainly not Basurmen, so one could tolerate them, but if they weren’t Christians, they were a step lower than Christians who were not Old Believers.

  It all became so confusing to Grigory that he began to get a headache. He took a deep breath and tried again to explain it to himself in a reasonable manner. Old Believers, like the Cossacks, were the Chosen Ones. Far below them were Christians who were not Old Believers, and at the other end of the spectrum were those cursed Moslems. Between these extremes were the rest of the lot, not really worth killing, as a matter of fact, and even less worth saving. However, if one was called upon to judge which one of the two groups deserved death quicker than the other group and there was not a priest nearby to deliver his God-given decision, then one was forced to consider things logically, and there was not the least shred of doubt that people who worshipped water were to be more despised than Christians who were not Old Believers.

  With that out of the, way, a glint of pleasure rose in Grigory’s eyes and he straightened himself in the saddle. He would never have admitted to himself that every nerve in his body was trembling to contest the tactics of the Indians and that if his sergeant had not offered him a reason to get into the fight, he would have invented one.

  His moustache vibrated as he drew his sabre and raised it above his head in the signal to prepare for battle.