“Yes, my friend, we pay him a visit?”
The battle was soon over. Even Wes came down and shared in the mop-up. Thirty-nine of the gunfighters were dead, fifty-three wounded and captured. But the price was high; five of the Cossacks were dead, eleven wounded; seven Mexicans dead, fourteen wounded; three of Wes’ men dead, six wounded.
Everyone moved away from Paul when Nora rode up. She dropped down from her horse, her face lined with fatigue, her eyes red-rimmed, her shoulders drooping.
“You rode well, Nora,” said Paul gently. He handed her a cup of coffee, brought over from Upjohn’s chuck wagon.
She sat heavily on a rock. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Every mile I kept thinking we’d be too late. Then I saw you ride out between those horses and I was positive we were too late. Now I feel like crying.”
“I think the saddest part of not dying when one expects to is forgetting too quickly what one wanted to live for so desperately.”
“What did you want to live for, Paul?”
“A year ago, to be footloose and fancy-free. A day ago, for revenge. A second ago, to feel the warmth of just looking at you.”
“Will you forget it quickly?”
He took her hand and gripped it tightly. “No, Nora. At this moment I don’t even think of Upjohn, let alone hate him. All I can think about is what a most wonderful person you are. But I know that soon I must mount a horse and leave you to kill a man, and suddenly, I don’t want to go. I want to wipe the lines from your face and let you rest against me and kiss away the weariness from your eyes.”
She lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “When you come back, Paul, ride a white horse for me.”
“With a lance in my hand, Nora.”
He felt her tears as she kissed his hand. “Go, now,” she said.
He leaned down and kissed her lips.
The gunfighters peered out of the windows of the Gold Nugget Saloon on the main street of Rijos. Never had they seen the town so deserted, so completely void of people.
“Bad news travels fast,” remarked one of the gunfighters.
Upjohn came from a room on the second floor and leaned over the balustrade to inspect his men. “Keep an eye on the alley in the rear,” he said. “I’ve sent telegrams for help. The town will be full of men by nightfall.”
“What kind of soldiers were those, Mr. Upjohn?” asked one of his gunmen.
“Russian cavalry - Cossacks. I heard that Sanderson once served with them, but didn’t give credence to the story.”
“They sure are hellers,” remarked another of his men.
Upjohn was wise enough to recognize the danger of allowing his men to build up the Cossacks’ fighting prowess out of proportion. “They are open country fighters. Did you notice they carry only single-shot rifles? And not a revolver in the lot? Actually, they are no better equipped than Indians. So we’re quite safe here. Once new men arrive, we’ll take care of them quick enough.”
He turned back to the room, but stopped when he heard running horses in the street.
“Shoot the horses!” ordered Upjohn. “They hide behind them.”
Ten of the gunfighters lined the windows, their rifles at the ready. The hoofbeats came closer, then twenty horses came running into view, without saddles or bridles.
“They have no saddles,” called out one of the men.
“Shoot anyhow!” shouted Upjohn. “It’s a trick.”
The rifles of the gunfighters spewed out lead, slaughtering the horses as they approached. Only two of them got through the withering fire. Completely keyed up, the men looked up and down the street, sighing when they saw nothing but the dead animals.
Seconds later, the sounds of more horses could be heard. “Keep awake!” called Upjohn. “This is probably it.”
As the horses came into sight, also without saddles and bridles, the rear of the saloon blew up!
“They’ve got dynamite back here!” yelled one of the gunfighters. “They’re coming in the alley!” He began shooting wildly. The gunmen at the front windows turned towards the blasts of rifle fire at the rear of the saloon.
“The horses!” shouted Upjohn. “Shoot the horses!”
But the horses were already there. As they thundered by, dark figures fell to the ground from the opposite side of the animals.
“They’re here!” shouted one of the gunfighters at the front, leveling his rifle.
Twelve Cossacks, lying in the street, poured a volley directly at them, driving them away from the windows. An instant later, hoofbeats sounded from both directions of the street. Before the men inside the saloon could collect their wits, horses bearing shouting Cossacks burst through the glass windows and forced aside the swinging doors, rushing in on the disorganized gunmen. Sabres slashed as the Cossacks filled the room, driving the gunfighters underfoot.
Another loud cry rang out as Don Jose and Wes Laughton led in their men from the rear.
In the melee, Paul, riding with the Cossacks, looked about for Upjohn.
“Paul!” shouted Jim, riding next to him. “Up there!” Jim spurred his horse forward and fired at Upjohn standing on the balcony with a revolver in his hand.
Upjohn fired back. The bullet caught Jim in the centre of his forehead. He fell from his horse without a sound. Upjohn swung his revolver towards Paul. Paul snapped up his carbine. At the moment he fired, his horse was jolted by a man behind him. The bullet struck the railing at Upjohn’s side. Quickly he levered in another cartridge, but Upjohn was gone.
Cursing, Paul drove his horse to the steps, leaped off and ran upstairs. He kicked open one door and rushed in, his carbine ready. The room was empty. He ran to the next room and kicked open that door. Also empty. The window was open. He rushed over to it .and looked out. Upjohn was turning out of the alley riding that beauty of a red horse.
Paul dashed down the stairs and forced his way out of the saloon to spy Upjohn heading out of town. A riderless horse stood to one side. In an instant, Paul was in the saddle and racing after his enemy.
Once in the open country, Upjohn gave his horse the spur and galloped towards the mountains. Paul bent low over his mount’s neck, urging it on. Mile after mile they ran, the tall, handsome red horse pulling ahead steadily, Paul using every skill of riding to keep from falling back even more.
Paul threw away his carbine, then, drawing his knife, he leaned down and cut the cinch strap holding the saddle. Shifting his weight, he let it drop off the horse, lightening its load. Slipping the knife into its sheath, he tore off his jacket and shirt, then took off his boots, and finally his two gloves.
“Run, little darling,” he crooned to the horse. “He will tire, that big one. He’s too handsome. Run, my little sweet one, run.”
Foot by foot, he began to shorten the red horse’s lead, guiding his mount to the edge of ravines to cut corners and taking him over the easiest ground for better running.
Upjohn looked back and his eyes narrowed. Turning to the front, he spurred his horse cruelly, driving it to top speed. Gradually the big red one drew away again.
“Don’t worry, little darling,” said Paul. “We will eat him up. Go, my beauty, go.”
And go it did, as if Paul’s strength had entered its legs and a second wind had eased the pounding of its lungs, its ears laid flat, closing the gap at each step, the wildness of the rider flowing into its brain and filling it with the single thought of catching up with the tall horse.
When Upjohn looked back again and saw Paul only fifty yards away, he was thunderstruck. Drawing out his revolver, he fired at the rapidly nearing figure.
Paul stiffened as a bullet tore through the upper part of his left arm. Bending low over his mount, he kicked it sharply, driving it to peak speed, closing swiftly on the red horse.
As Upjohn aimed his revolver to shoot again, Paul leaped to his feet on the back of the horse and jumped! He struck Upjohn squarely, the two of them falling heavily to the ground.
In an instant Upj
ohn was on his feet, his jaguar-type muscles responding like well-oiled springs, his eyes searching for the revolver which had been knocked out of his hand when he fell. He saw it twenty yards away, lying in the open, and rushed towards it.
Paul got up at the same time and dashed for the shining piece of metal, his knife at the ready.
Upjohn reached it first. He dived to the ground and rolled, coming up with it in his hand. He rose on one knee and fired at Paul who was charging him.
The bullet struck Paul in his side, whirling him about, knocking him against a boulder. Upjohn smiled triumphantly as he leveled the revolver for the coup de grace.
In desperation, Paul threw the knife! It flashed through the air and sank deep into Upjohn’s right shoulder at the very moment he pulled the trigger. The bullet went wild and hit the ground at Paul’s feet as the big man dropped his weapon. Upjohn leaned down to pick it up with his left hand, but Paul snatched up a jagged rock and threw it. It smashed Upjohn directly between the eyes, driving him over backwards.
Paul pushed himself away from the boulder and staggered over to the dazed man. He kicked the revolver far out of reach. Bending down, be wrenched the knife out of Upjohn’s shoulder. With a groan of pain, blood pouring from his shoulder and the middle of his forehead, his eyes blinded by the gore, Upjohn scrambled away on hands and knees. Paul followed him up slowly, reeling from his own wounds, the bloody knife still in his hand.
Finally Upjohn stopped and drew himself up alongside a huge rock, turning to face his relentless pursuer. Paul halted a few feet from him. Upjohn wiped his eyes clear and peered at Paul. “So it ends like this,” he said in a barely-controlled voice. “In the middle of nowhere.”
“It ends like this,” said Paul, spreading his legs wide to keep his balance.
Upjohn smiled wryly. “I can’t get over it. A saddle bum of a duke cutting me down to size.”
Paul lunged with all the speed he could muster, plunging the knife to the hilt into Upjohn’s abdomen and then pulling it out. Upjohn grunted loudly, closing his eyes as a wave of pain beat at him. He bent over, his hands held tightly to the wound, and turned, walking away awkwardly, stumbling, tripping over stones.
Paul caught up and walked beside him, The blood flowing from his arm and side.
Upjohn slipped to one knee. Paul reached down and grasped him under the armpit, helping him to his feet. “Keep walking,” he said. “You’ll die easier that way.” They began walking again.
“Would the Birman girl have kept you from making trouble?” asked Upjohn, his face contorted by his agony.
“Yes. She was worth more than all the land and cattle.”
“That was a mistake - the killing of the Birmans.”
“No, not the Birmans - just Tina.”
Upjohn stopped and began to laugh. “What a helluva pair we would have made, had we found a common enemy.” He slipped again to his knees, his hands pressed more tightly to his stomach, the blood pumping out. “If you think I’m going to yell ‘uncle’, Sanderson, you’re as wrong as hell.”
“I know that. I’ve been wondering how to make your dying more painful.” He shrugged. “But you’re really not worth the bother.”
“Even after the Birman girl?”
“Because of her. You see, love is not a greedy thing. It doesn’t ask for that sort of revenge.”
He drove the knife into Upjohn’s throat.
He turned wearily towards the brave animal which had carried him there, and as his eyes fell on it, he gave a low chuckle. It was a white horse. He climbed laboriously on its back.
Then he saw movement in the distance, and soon Grigory and a few of his Cossacks raced up. A short way behind them was a slight figure on her horse. She stopped when she saw him alive and closed her eyes, raising her head skyward to give thanks. Her face was streaked with tears.
Paul grasped a lance from one of the Cossacks and began to ride towards her. He rode barely ten feet, then he toppled from his horse.
CHAPTER XX
Wes leaned across the bed and lit Paul’s cigarro. Paul was propped up against a large pillow, snow-white bandages covering his arm and side. It was Nora’s bedroom, reflecting her personality in the neat, soft femininity of the lace pillows and covers and the pictures of horses and cattle on the walls.
“The marshal found most of your cattle on Birman’s ranch,” said Wes. “It’s fortunate you knew they would be near the Twin Forks or he would still be searching. There’s about a thousand head missing. They must be the ones Birman sent to that ranch he set up in Arizona Territory. We’re checking all the brands registered there. It will be just a matter of time before we find one that resembles the Three Barbs and get them back, too.”
“What about the land?” asked Paul.
“That Mr. Blatherbell of yours spoke with the federal judge in Santa Fe. He said you should recover it in no time at all. It’s merely a matter of paperwork.”
He broke off speaking as Nora walked in with a tray holding a slice of apple pie and a pot of tea. “Can I get you some, too, Dad?” she asked, placing the tray on Paul’s lap.
Wes rose from the bed. “No, your mother fed me a while ago.” He stretched and arched his back. “Have got to be getting to work, There’s a lot to do to put things back to normal.” He tramped out of the room.
Paul shoveled a large piece of apple pie into his mouth and nodded his head approvingly. ”I’m going to steal that mother of yours,” he said. “Can’t have a person who makes pie like this running about loose.”
“That’s treason, stranger. I baked that pie.” She sat on a chair by the side of the bed. “Doc says you can be up and around in two weeks or so. Where to, now? Madrid, Riviera, Baden Baden?”
Paul chuckled. “Why, that rascal. Who told you - Mr. Blatherbell?”
“The Laughton intelligence system - the best in the west.”
“Come here,” he said,
She leaned over the bed.
“Closer,” said Paul. When she was near enough, he reached out with his good arm and pulled her crosser to him, pressing his lips to hers. Her eyes were shining when they drew apart. “Wouldn’t dream of spoiling that noble gesture - white horse and lance and all that. Anyhow, I’ve found all of Madrid and the Riviera and Baden Baden right here - and apple pie to boot.”
There was a knock at the door. Nora rose and opened it a fraction, listening to someone. She nodded, and opened the door wide. Pete and three of Wes’ cowhands came into the room, two of them carrying a rocking chair.
“What’s going on here?” asked Paul as they lifted him, clad only in long, woolen underpants, from the bed and seated him on the chair.
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Nora, placing a blanket over his shoulders and a robe over his legs.
Pete and the hands carried him out to the porch and set him down. Paul smiled when he saw the line of small dark men riding up, Don Jose in the lead, his sword buckled to his waist. As Don Jose came by, he took off his sombrero.
“Adios for now, Don Paul,” he called out. “Bring your first son to see me.”
Nora blushed.
Paul laughed. “I will, Don Jose, and we shall have a fiesta - a long one - when I do.” He saluted him. “Thank you, amigo, and go with God.”
Don Jose winked at Nora and waved a farewell. As his men passed, they swept off their sombreros in salute.
When they had gone by, Paul turned to Nora. “That was thoughtful of Don Jose. We must not let him wait too long.”
Then, in the distance, they heard the sound of men singing and they looked up. They were coming, those Russians, in their tall black karakul hats, their dark blue tunics over matching blue trousers that were slashed by red stripes on the sides, bagged at the knees and tucked into black leather boots, their sabres dangling next to their nagaikas, their rifles slung across their backs and the butts of their steel-tipped lances resting in stirrup sockets. With them were horses bearing the empty saddles of those who had fallen.
They were singing the “Camarade”, the French Chant de la Liberation.
Grigory drew his sabre and saluted as he approached. “Goodbye, Little Cossack,” he called out, “Bring me the first boy. I will love him as I love you.”
Paul’s eyes were moist. “He will be named Grigory, my dear friend.”
Grigory blew a kiss to Nora.
As the Cossacks passed by, the lancers lowered their shafts and the others presented sabres in salutation.
Paul threw back his head and laughed, for at the end of the column were his three solicitors, dressed in Cossack uniforms.
Mr. Blatherbell drew out his sabre and waved it. “Goodbye for now, Your Grace, My Lady. God bless you both.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blatherbell,” said Paul. “Come back soon -our door is always open.”
Mr. Poopendal pulled out his sabre and saluted. “Farewell, Your Grace and My Lady.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Poopendal,” called out Nora. “Please visit us again.”
Mr. Snoddergas whipped out his sabre - and sliced off his ear!
END
Lester S. Taube
Lester Taube was born of Russian and Lithuanian immigrants in Trenton, New Jersey. He began soldiering in a horse artillery regiment while in his teens, where in four years he rose from the grade of private to the exalted rank of private first class.
During World War II, he became an infantry platoon leader and participated in operations in the Bismarck Archipelago, was attached to the 3rd Marines for action on Iwo Jima, and finally combat on Okinawa, the last battle of the war.
After leaving the army and recuperating from wounds and malaria, he became general manager of a 400 employee electronic company in California, manager of a 450 employee paper stock company in Pennsylvania, and finally opened a logging and pulpwood cutting operation in Canada.
Called back to duty during the Korea Police Action, he served as an advisor to the Turkish army, then as an intelligence officer and company commander in Korea.
The Cossack Cowboy Page 28