The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  Like a well-oiled machine, his two platoon sergeants rode out four horse paces forward and drew sabres, the lancers forming the front line slipping their arms through the large leather thongs and tucking the shafts under their right armpits. Behind them, the second rank drew sabres and held them poised point upward for immediate action.

  Grigory wiggled his backside until he had the exact position he wanted, pressed his legs tighter against his mount, and smiled happily. His sabre dropped in the signal for the bugler to blow the charge.

  William Bedford Wilkenson, Doctor of Divinity of the Methodist Church, wiped the sweat from his eyes and. fired again, fully aware that he could not hit the side of a barrel if it were placed directly over the muzzle of his rifle, yet knowing equally well that he had to do something to defend himself.

  “Oh, Lord,” he cried, raising his voice above the yells and war whoops of the Indians circling the wagons, “hear Thy servant, William Bedford Wilkenson, Doctor of Divinity, who needs Thy mighty right arm to strike these heathens and to save Thy children. Blessed are those,” he roared as the shrieks of the attackers almost drowned his words, “who die for the Lord their God, but blessed are those who live in His sight. Do you hear, Lord?” he yelled. “Live, too! It says it right there in the Good Book, Lord, on page…”

  A man nudged him in the ribs. “Bout out of cartridges, Reverend.”

  Doctor William Bedford Wilkenson looked down at the man with indignation. “Did you not hear me praying?” he said gruffly.

  “Sure did, Reverend. Didn’t hear no mention of cartridges, though.”

  “The Lord will provide,” said Doctor William Bedford Wilkenson grandiloquently. He ducked his head as an arrow flew past.

  “He’d better provide right quick, cause they’re coming in on the other side.”

  Doctor William Bedford Wilkenson looked across the circle to see an Indian jump over a wagon tongue. The redskin let out a whoop as his tomahawk chopped down a man who tried to club him with his rile, but it was cut off in mid-air as a woman rose from under a wagon and shot him dead.

  Another Indian had just turned in to jump the wagon tongue when, suddenly, the ridgeline to Doctor Wilkenson’s front was filled with men! His eyes popped out as he saw a most garish array of cavalry race down the slope and across the open field towards the wagons. At first he thought it was another band of Indians attacking, then he decided it was a mirage and that he was losing his wits.

  The mirage became reality when the line of lancers exploded against the circle of Indians, their steel-tipped weapons tearing into the utterly surprised savages and forming a block. Moments later, a second line of riders, wielding sabres, crashed into the redskins piled up against the lancers, their blades gleaming in the sun as they cut down the stupefied enemy.

  An Indian drew back his bow and aimed his arrow at one of the Cossacks charging towards him. At the instant of release, the Cossack disappeared! The Indian straightened up, his mouth open in total amazement as he looked with awe at the riderless horse approaching him. Then he saw the trick and his bow rose - but too late! The Cossack straightened up from hanging on the far side of his mount, hit the ground with his feet to give him momentum to jump back into his saddle, and his sabre swung before the Indian could shoot or duck, The blade almost decapitated him.

  Another Cossack sped past, his sabre aimed at a huge Indian rider. The Indian drew a tomahawk from his belt and parried the thrust. Around in a circle they went, slashing at each other. Suddenly, the Cossack dropped his sabre and fell off his horse! With a shout of triumph, the Indian whirled his mount to cut down his foe. His eyes and mouth opened wide as he felt a hand grasp his ankle. The Cossack was not fully off his horse, but holding on to the pommel with one hand and tugging him off with the other. In desperation, the Indian struck at the arm, but it was too late - he felt his horse go out from under him. Still holding the Indian by the ankle, the Cossack hit the ground for momentum and swung back into his saddle, dragging the helpless redskin along with him. When he was unconscious, the Cossack pulled him back to where he had dropped his sabre, picked up his weapon, and ran him through.

  Grigory had the most fun of all and used the simplest tactics. He merely bobbed and weaved until he came upon an Indian, then rammed his horse into the other’s mount. When the Indian rose from the ground, Grigory cut him down.

  The battle lasted only eight minutes, for in the ninth minute the Indians were racing for their lives.

  Grigory inspected the horses first, finding four of them slightly injured but able to travel. He assigned their riders to four of the six extra horses which every good Cossack troop would have along. Then he inspected the men. One had an arrow in his side and would be out of action for a few days. Five others had scratches.

  While his men rode about dispatching the wounded Indians, he counted the bodies of his slain enemies. Eighteen. That made up somewhat for the wounding of four horses and six men, so long as the horses were only slightly injured.

  Doctor William Bedford Wilkenson led out his astonished, overwhelmingly relieved people, whose hysterical gratitude was only exceeded by their incredulous curiosity as to whether these horsemen were real or figments of their imagination.

  Their indecision was shattered only minutes after falling on their knees and giving thanks for their salvation when the giant of a Cossack officer told them curtly that he would borrow four horses until his in-lured animals recovered and that he would allow the wagon train to tend his wounded soldier and deliver him to Santa Fe.

  “But, my dear man,” spluttered Doctor Wilkenson. “We aren’t going to Santa Fe. We are on our way to El Paso.”

  “You won’t like El Paso,” said Grigory. “The people there are idiots. I think you’ll like Santa Fe better.”

  “We thank you for your succor, but, as I said, Santa Fe is in the opposite direction.”

  Grigory looked at his men, demonstrating plainly and emphatically how a true, civilized Cossack should hold his temper when visiting a friendly land.

  “Then you will not go?” he asked meekly.

  Doctor Wilkenson drew himself up stiffly. “I’ve already told you twice.”

  “Which is your wagon?” asked Grigory.

  “That one.” The eyes of William Bedford Wilkenson, Doctor of Divinity, finally opened. “No!” he said even before a word was spoken.

  Grigory motioned to two of his men. “Burn his wagon.” He called up Mikail. “Select the best six horses, not four. Sergeant!” The one who wrote English saluted. “Choose the best wagon - we will take it to carry our wounded man.” He turned to the other sergeant. “Burn half of the remaining wagons.”

  When the Cossacks set off again, they left behind a furious group of yelling, shouting people, cursing Doctor Wilkenson soundly for bringing down upon them the scourge of ingratitude.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, they were a few miles from Santa Fe. Grigory threw up his hand in a signal to halt. Racing towards him were four so dissimilar people that he nearly broke down laughing.

  One was short and round, the second was long and emaciated, the third was square up. and across, and the fourth was a woman of such beauty that songs should be written of her. Only the woman seemed capable of staying in the saddle long enough to reach them.

  When they drew up, the little round man seemed to be the spokesman. “Do I have the honor of speaking to Don Cossack Captain Grigory Kolkoff?”

  Grigory twirled his moustache at the girl, just in case.

  “I am he,” he said, sitting more erect in his saddle.

  “Don’t you remember us, Captain Kolkoff? We met you last year at the river in Russia.”

  “Ah, of course. The English solicitors. Where is my friend, Paul?”

  “This is Miss Laughton, a friend of Paul’s. She has been riding since yesterday to tell us that Paul is in grave danger. He has been trapped against a hill by a large number of hired killers.”

  Grigory bristled. “Where are these swine
?” he growled.

  Nora booted her horse closer. “Almost one hundred miles from here. My father and a Mexican friend of Paul’s have gone to his aid, but I don’t think they can do anything except delay the inevitable.”

  Grigory looked back at his men and shook his head. “One hundred miles! If only I had fresh horses.”

  “We have hired horses for you,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “Ever since your arrival in the United States, we have been receiving reports of your movements - until your erroneous detour south. We recently learned you had alighted at El Paso and were riding overland, and, expecting your animals to be fatigued, we took the liberty of obtaining fresh ones.”

  “Good, good,” rumbled Grigory. “Where are the horses?”

  “They are at Santa Fe,” said Nora. “But that is out of our way. We would make better time going directly across country.”

  “Sergeant!” boomed Grigory. The English writing sergeant rode forward and saluted. “Take Mikail and ten men. Pick up the horses and meet us along our line of march.” He turned to the wagon. “Petrov!” The wounded man came to the opening behind the seat. “Do you sleep or do you ride?”

  The wounded Cossack smiled. “Ride, my Captain.”

  A comrade led up two horses and the driver and the wounded man mounted them and took their place in the column.

  “Mr. Snoddergas will go with your sergeant, Captain,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “He knows the country quite well. With your permission, we will ride with you.”

  Grigory’s eyes twinkled. “You cannot keep up with us. We have one hundred miles to cover.”

  “We will keep up, Captain. His Grace is our friend, too.”

  Grigory looked at Nora. “And you, little lady----you have ridden all night. We would not ask that, even of a Cossack.”

  “My whole life is there,” she said softly.

  Grigory’s eyes became tender and he nodded his head in understanding. “Nicolas!” he called. A Cossack came riding up. “This brave lady is yours to protect - with your life.”

  “With my life, Captain.”

  Grigory rose in his stirrups and flung his arm forward. “Ride, Cossacks!” he roared. “Ride!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  The first cannon shot was fired soon after sunrise. It struck high. The second shot came minutes later, a direct hit on one of the boulders, blasting chips of stone in all directions. It wounded two of the Mexicans seriously.

  Paul looked around him with bloodshot eyes. They were defenseless against cannon.

  “Sanderson!” The call came loud and clear from the line of the gunfighters. He raised his head over his rock. Upjohn was seated on his tall red horse, a look of triumphant arrogance on his face.

  “I’m still here, Upjohn,” shouted Paul.

  “My gunners say they can kill everyone there with twenty rounds. The others aren’t important. I want just you. Come out and the others can go where they want - afterwards.” He puffed at his cigar. “You can even come out the way you did with the Birmans - between two horses.”

  “Why not just the two of us, Upjohn? Or is that a yellow coward sitting on that fine red horse?”

  Upjohn threw back his head and laughed. “You’re not worth the bother. You may be a duke where you come from, but here you’re a dead man. I’m giving you five minutes.”

  Paul turned to see Don Jose standing behind him. “Looks like that bitter cup of tea I spoke about,” he said, searching in his pockets for a cigarro.

  Don Jose handed him one, then lit it. “Can you break through, amigo?”

  “We can give it a bit of a try?”

  Don Jose drew designs in the ground with the point of his sword. “You do not have to go because of us,” he said. “We did not come just for the ride.”

  “The big man is right,” said Paul. “Twenty rounds will finish off everyone here.” He held out his hand. “What can one say, except vaya con Dios, my friend.”

  Don Jose turned his head away as he took the proffered hand. “Vaya con Dios, Don Paul.”

  “Jim! Ned!” called Paul trotting to the rear. “Give me two horses, quickly?”

  Silence settled over the battle area as Upjohn glanced at the gold watch held in his hand. “One minute!” he called out. He signaled to a dozen men grouped behind a boulder to his rear. “Move up. When he comes out, shoot his horses first.” The men moved to closer positions.

  “Two!” called Upjohn.

  He looked about to make certain all his men were alert.

  “Three!”

  Suddenly, from the left-hand side of the rocks, two horses, roped together, galloped out with the figure of a man between them, holding on to the pommels of the saddles! Instantly, the line of gunfighters opened fire! The horses went down as if they were poleaxed. Bullets poured into the figure lying on the ground.

  “No! No!” screamed Upjohn. “It’s a dummy!”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when another two horses ran out from the right-hand side, also tied together, the figure of a man holding on between them. At once, the gunfighters turned their fire on those horses, mowing them down.

  At this very moment, two more horses raced out from the centre with another figure between them. “There!” screamed Upjohn. “There!”

  And Paul it was, riding for his life, straight at the gunfighters. A hail of fire struck his horses! They went down in a great heap. Paul dropped clear the instant they fell and rolled against one for shelter as bullets rained all about him.

  “It’s him!” screamed Upjohn. “Get him!”

  Twenty of his men rose to their feet and started running towards Paul. He fired his carbine rapidly, knocking down four of the gunfighters. When his weapon clicked on an empty chamber, he threw it aside and drew out his knife, his lips tightened to a thin line, his body tense, his eyes a blue flame. Closer and closer came the gunfighters, their rifles poised, their eyes fixed only on the body of the horse, seeking their victim huddling behind it.

  Then suddenly, the high, demanding, indomitable call of a bugle split the air! Everyone froze. Slowly all eyes turned to the rear, to a low ridgeline only a few hundred yards away. Paul looked over the side of the horse and a soft, sweet smile creased his battle-stained face.

  A giant of a man sat there on a foam--covered horse, a naked sabre in his hand. Behind him stood a motionless line of uniformed men, also mounted on foam-covered horses, one holding a lance and the next a sabre and the next a lance and the next a sabre, and so forth down the line. To the rear sat three men and a girl.

  The giant pointed his sabre, and the line moved forward, the horses in perfect step, the men silent, utterly silent, with only the soft thuds of the horses’ hooves and the gentle creaking of leather to be heard.

  The giant lifted his sabre and the horses broke into a slow trot. Then suddenly, the giant’s sabre dropped and the bugle blared the charge!

  From the throats of fifty men a roar swelled, reverberating across the plain, lances flashed down to the strike position, sabres were raised high for the slash, and the line shot forward as if flung by a great catapult. Down they thundered upon the amazed line of gunfighters.

  “Shoot!” yelled Upjohn, waking at last to what was happening. “Cannoneers! Turn your guns! Fire!”

  His voice galvanized his men into action. They whirled about to face the new threat. The gunners began turning their cannons.

  But the Cossacks were on them! Lances pierced the gunners, flinging them back like, broken, tattered dolls. Sabres slashed at the tents, cutting through the canvas into the bodies of awakening men. Then the wild, screaming Cossacks plunged into the gunfighters. No longer sheltered behind rocks, the hired killers dissolved under the swift, murderous assault, firing rapidly, but only at weaving, bobbing targets which could barely be seen, let alone hit. Lances darted down to pin to the earth those who tried to escape by crawling away. Some of the gunfighters wielded their rifles and carbines to parry the forward blow of gleaming blades, then crumpled under the une
xpected backhand.

  Once the Cossacks had overrun the enemy, they whirled their horses up and down the line, trampling underfoot those who were lying down and stabbing or slashing those who stood to fight. A few of the Cossacks were shot from their horses. Those still capable of fighting snatched rifles off their backs and returned the fire. And as they had only single-shot weapons, they aimed carefully, returning mass fire with accuracy.

  Several Cossacks leaped from their saddles onto gunmen, their cruel nagaikas in their hands. Swipes of the braided whip broke wrists as the killers reached for sixguns, then fractured skulls on the return blows.

  Paul loaded his carbine quickly and picked off the gunfighters forced into the open by the howling Cossacks. His Mexican friends were suddenly by his side, vengefully ripping the killers to pieces.

  “The miracle, it comes,” shouted Don Jose, his eyes glinting.

  Paul turned to the small, rotund Mexican. “It is the most wonderful miracle in the world.”

  A huge figure loomed up in front of him and he looked up to see Grigory pulling his horse to a dust spattering stop. The Cossack jumped to the ground and clasped Paul in his arms.

  “My little friend!” boomed Grigory, holding him back to look at him. “So,” he laughed, his white teeth gleaming. “Hell has been cheated again.”

  “By ten seconds, you crazy, wonderful Cossack.”

  The smile on Grigory’s face faded as he looked at Paul’s hands. “I have heard about them, Paul. There is a woman who has ridden better than any Cossack to bring me here.” His jaw tightened. “Take off a glove.”

  “It is just a missing thumb, Grigory.”

  “I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  Paul took off a glove and a cloud of fury passed over Grigory’s face. “Where is the one responsible?” be asked through clenched teeth.

  Paul looked about the battlefield. In the distance he could see the red horse of Upjohn fleeing along with twenty or so of the gunfighters.

  He pointed. “Him.”

  Grigory’s eyes became slits as he watched them run away. “Once we finish up here, we pay him a visit, eh, Little Cossack?”