The lieutenant rode off, leaving the fuming Russian nobleman fidgeting on his wagon seat. Irena watched the handsome young officer ride off. She noted Valenko’s anger and giggled.
“Molyeaie!” the count snapped at her.
Irena shut up, but turned away still smiling. It seemed this American adventure was going to be more interesting than she had imagined.
Four
Irena Yakubovski walked toward the creek carrying two wooden buckets to fill with water. The containers were large-sized, and the amount of water they could hold would tax the strength of most men. But Irena had no doubt she could carry the double load as she walked in the steady, almost swinging gait common to large young women.
Irena was nineteen years old, and her presence in the world was the result of countess generations of sturdy Russian serfs reproducing themselves into an environment of drudgery and hardships. She, like her ancestors, took life’s hard knocks in stride, enduring the pain, the toil, and the grief with the belief that the hereafter would offer an eternity of reward for bearing such suffering.
Her round face, ringed by pale blond hair, was set above a sturdy neck that bespoke of the muscles in her shoulders. A bit dull-eyed, Irena was the type of woman who could give birth to a child, then, within a couple of hours of delivering, be back in the fields swinging a scythe at the thick, heavy wheat of the Russian steppes.
It was Irena and her people who were the backbone of the czar’s peasant economy. They did the hard labor, provided the soldiers, and kept their rulers’ country populated. In their serf society, it was not considered particularly bad for her to be bedding down with Count Valenko. In a way it was a bit of a compliment, though her father complained about it to his friends as a matter of keeping face. But they, like he, knew there was nothing that could be done about it. After all, since they were serfs, he owned them. They were part of the estate he had inherited when the elder count passed away. He, or any other nobleman who owned property and serfs, could claim any woman in his domain for his pleasure whether she liked it or not. It was not unknown for peasants to be trained as musicians or even acrobats and actors, in order that their master could provide entertainment for visiting friends.
At least Irena was pleased with the arrangement and would stay with the old man until he died or sent her away. Then she would settle down with some peasant lad and begin birthing yearly.
Now, after walking a ways from where the wagons were situated for the night, Irena went through some brush to the edge of the creek. She pulled up her skirt between her legs and secured it to the waistband around her middle. After kicking off her sandals, she waded out into the creek and submerged both buckets in the water.
It was late evening, and the setting sun had begun to redden the prairie prior to darkness. In a way, the place reminded her of Russia, except the mosquitoes were not quite so bothersome. When the buckets were filled, she waded back to the bank, effortlessly holding on to the heavy containers. As she stepped back up onto the dry land, Irena was startled to see two soldiers watching her.
Jack McRyan and Dennis Costello gave her bold looks. Jack nudged his pal, saying, “Now, I’d like a taste o’ that big ol’ gal, wouldn’t you, Dennis?”
Costello, his eyes half-closed and bloodshot, gazed at the Russian girl who was larger than they. He licked his lips. “That’s all woman,” he said under his breath. “Look at them legs.”
“It’d be nice to have ’em locked around your middle, wouldn’t it?” McRyan asked.
“I’ll say!” Costello exclaimed.
Irena could smell the liquor on their breath and knew they were both drunk. She scowled at them and said, “Prastityi.”
“You speak English, girl?” McRyan asked with a leer. “How’s about we roll in the grass here, huh? You give us two soldier boys a good time, huh?”
“Maybe she’ll do it for some money, Jack,” Costello suggested.
“Yeah!” McRyan said. He grinned. “Hey, I got a bunch o’ them cigar coupons when I bought a box o’ stogies in town a while back. This dumb bitch won’t know the differ’nce ’tween them and real money.” He pulled the near-worthless pieces of paper from his pocket and waved them in her face. “We’ll pay you real good for a poke. How’s that, big gal?”
Irena didn’t understand the words, but she could read the meaning in the tone of their voices. She stepped around the two dragoons to continue on her way back to the wagon.
McRyan grabbed her from behind, pulling the girl in close to his own body. “How ’bout it, sweetie? Wanta give ol’ Jack a little bit?”
Irena dropped the buckets and grabbed McRyan’s hands, easily pulling them away from their grasp around her middle. She spun around and hit him square on the nose, throwing every ounce of strength she could muster in her one-hundred-and-sixty-pound body.
“Ow!” McRyan yelled. He stumbled backward, grabbing at his smashed organ, feeling the warm blood pour down past his mouth and onto his chin.
“Hey, you Russian bitch!” Costello snarled. He swung a fist at her, but missed.
Irena grabbed the small, thin man and hoisted him up, then threw him into the creek. With flailing arms and legs, Costello went into the waist-deep water with a holler and a splash. He struggled to his feet, sputtering in surprise.
The sound of people crashing through the brush startled Irena. She turned to see Basil Karshchov and a couple of other Russians along with two other soldiers suddenly appear.
Sergeant Douglas looked at McRyan’s bloody face and the ludicrous sight of Costello wading out of the creek fully clothed and soaking wet.
“What the hell goes on here, then?” the sergeant angrily asked.
“We just asked this gal ifn we could help her with them buckets, and she hit us with ’em,” McRyan said. “I reckon she didn’t understand what we meant.”
Karshchov and Irena spoke to each other in quick, urgent tones. Then the Russian said to Douglas, “This girl tells me those two grabbed her.”
“That’s what I figgered,” Douglas said. “Costello, come over here and fall in beside McRyan.” He looked at Karschchov. “I’ll take care o’ this, sir.”
“Thank you,” Karshchov said.
“I’m sure the lieutenant will want to talk to the count when it’s convenient,” Douglas said.
“I shall see His Grace at the first opportunity,” Karshchov said.
Irena again hoisted her skirt and went back to refill the buckets. After leaving the water, she slipped into her sandals and followed Basil Karshchov through the brush toward the wagon train.
“Now you two are in for it,” Douglas said to the two dragoons. He sniffed at them. “And you’ve been drinking, too.”
“Aw, c’mon, Sergeant, the bitch led us on,” McRyan said. “Didn’t you see how she lifted that skirt and showed her legs off.”
“Shut up! You may end up with attempted rape charges against you,” Douglas snapped. “Right face, for’d ho!”
The sergeant marched the two men up from the creek bank and around the wagons toward the dragoons’ bivouac area. Lieutenant Gavin MacRoss had ordered Valenko to encircle the vehicles for protection against Indian attack. He and his soldiers would stay outside, keeping watch in teams when it got dark.
Gavin, enjoying an early evening cup of coffee, looked up when he saw the three approaching where he was relaxing next to the campfire. When he noted McRyan’s bloody nose and the fact that Costello’s uniform was dripping wet, he got to his feet to receive the report.
Sergeant Douglas quickly explained what had happened, summing up the report by saying, “The victim busted McRyan’s beak and flung Costello in the creek.”
Gavin’s temper snapped, and it was all he could do to refrain from punching and kicking the two soldiers. “Was the girl hurt at all?” he asked Douglas.
“No, sir,” the sergeant replied. He grinned. “She whipped ’em good, sir.”
Gavin glared at McRyan and Costello. “How long have you two been in t
he army?”
“A few months,” McRyan said.
“You’ll use the word ‘sir’ when you speak to the lieutenant,” Douglas growled, slapping the side of McRyan’s face.
“A few months, sir,” McRyan repeated.
“I don’t believe either one of you has been in the field before, have you?” Gavin asked.
“No, sir,” Dennis Costello mumbled. “We just got outta recruit training in the middle o’ winter.” Then he quickly added, “Sir.”
“I could make this a very serious issue,” Gavin said. “But since the girl seems to have come out of it victorious in dealing with you two ferocious soldiers, I’ll not bring any charges that could lead to a general court-martial. Also, from the smell of you, I’d say you’ve been drinking. That is true, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” McRyan said. “But we ain’t drunk, sir.”
“No,” Gavin agreed. “But you’ve still been imbibing while in the field.” He was thoughtful for a few moments. “I’m going to turn this over to Sergeant Douglas and let him handle the situation. But let me warn you. One more slip and you two are going to be facing a damned good and long term at hard labor in the guardhouse. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the pair said in unison.
“Take over, Sergeant,” Gavin said.
“Yes, sir,” Douglas replied. He saluted, then turned toward the dragoons, snapping his fingers at Corporal Murphy. “Take a look in these son of a bitches’ gear and search out the liquor.”
“You bet, Sergeant!” Murphy said brightly.
“When you find the rotgut, pour it out on the ground, goddamn it!” Douglas growled.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Murphy said in a more subdued tone.
Douglas turned his attention to the other dragoons, who stood grinning at McRyan and Costello. “Corporal Steeple and Private O’Hearn. Grab the ropes off McRyan’s and Costello’s saddles and join this formation!”
Then he marched the malfeasant duo toward the nearby woods that bordered the creek. The sergeant took the men into the trees just far enough to be out of sight of the camp. “Halt!”
Corporal Steeple and O’Hearn stepped aside to see what Douglas would want of them. Whatever it was, they knew it wouldn’t be to the liking of either McRyan or Costello.
Douglas was a compactly built man, heavy shouldered, and quick. It took but a fleeting instant for him to slam one fist into Costello’s face, then pivot slightly and smash a wicked backhand blow onto McRyan’s already damaged nose. Both men were slammed to the dirt.
“The lieutenant was too damned easy on you,” Douglas said. “I’d have you flogged ’til your backs were cut up into ribbons. But army regulations don’t give me that much authority.”
McRyan wiped at the blood now flowing once again from his nose. He snuffed and scowled while Costello rolled over on his hands and knees.
Corporal Steeple fingered the rope he held. “What’re we gonna do with ’em, Sergeant?”
“Throw them ropes over that tree limb there, then secure ’em to their wrists and pull ’em up ’til their toes is just barely touching the ground,” Sergeant Douglas said.
Steeple and O’Hearn went to work. Within moments, McRyan and Costello were hanging by their wrists while the tips of their boots hardly reached the ground. Both were moaning in discomfort within short moments.
“How long’re you gonna leave ’em here?” O’Hearn asked.
“Four hours,” Douglas said.
“Jesus Almighty!” Steeple said. “Four hours?”
“Not a minute less,” Douglas said. “If the Pawnees come calling between now and then, they’ll find these two son of a bitches waiting for ’em.”
The three returned to camp, leaving McRyan and Costello writhing at the ends of the ropes, the feelings in their hands already gone while deep within their shoulder joints a burning pain began to increase with each passing minute.
~*~
While Douglas was seeing to the punishment of the two misfits, Gavin MacRoss walked into the Russians’ circle of wagons to visit with Valenko. He found the count noisily consuming a bowl of soup that Irena had just served him.
“Good evening,” Gavin said. “I’ve come to see how Miss Irena is doing.”
Irena, hearing her name, guessed why the American officer had come calling. She smiled a greeting at him and gestured to the soup.
“No thank you,” Gavin said, shaking his head. “I’ve already eaten.”
Valenko translated for the girl, then looked at Gavin. “Irena is fine. I think maybe she hurt the two soldiers, eh?”
Gavin smiled. “She got the best of them all right. But I would like to apologize for my men’s conduct. I am very embarrassed.”
“I am tellink you before, I vas lieutenant like you in Russian army,” Valenko said with a shrug. “Best men not soldiers, eh? Sometimes, they bad. Don’t have the vorry. Irena is not hurt; she not even scared.”
“I am very happy for that,” Gavin said.
Valenko finished off the soup and broke off a hunk of bread. “If the soldiers rape her, she not hurt. Is no wirgin. Strong girl. Could take many men if she vanted.”
Gavin didn’t appreciate Valenko’s cavalier attitude, but he kept his feelings to himself. “Tell her I am sorry about the incident, please.”
Valenko laughed. “Vhy?”
“Because it is important to me,” Gavin said.
Valenko shrugged and glanced up at the peasant girl. He spoke to her in Russian, pointing to Gavin.
Irena walked over and smiled. She took a deep breath, hesitated, then said in halting English. “Thank—you.”
“You are most welcome, miss,” Gavin said.
“Ha!” Valenko laughed. “You make this peasant girl think she is czarina. Ha!”
“That would be fine with me,” Gavin said. He doffed his hat and bowed to her. “I wish you a good evening.” Gavin left the pair and walked across the perimeter between the wagons. It was dark, the light of the numerous fires offering a flickering illumination of the scene. In spite of himself, he glanced over at the wagon used by Natalia Valenko and Basil Karshchov. He saw a small bed outside on which Karshchov was reclining as he read a book. Glancing across the open tailgate of the vehicle, Gavin saw another narrow bed located inside. Obviously, the engaged pair did not sleep together.
One of the serfs played a quick and happy tune on a mandolin. Between the music and the sudden realization that Karshchov and Irena weren’t living as man and wife, Gavin felt almost giddy. Smiling to himself, he picked up the pace and walked along in time to the music.
The camp settled into the evening routine. One by one, the fires were allowed to flicker down to dying coals that would be brought back to life in the morning to cook breakfasts and take the chill off the early risers. The sound of murmuring and occasional laughter went on for a while, but soon that, too, was gone. The only sound was the posting of the first relief as Corporal Murphy took the sentries around the wagons and posted them on the perimeter designated by Sergeant Douglas.
The first two hours of guard duty were uneventful. When the second relief was taken out to replace the first, Sergeant Douglas left the dragoons’ camp and walked into the woods where McRyan and Costello hung writhing in the cruel tightness of the ropes around their wrists.
Douglas snorted. “Well! It seems the Indians didn't get you bastards, did they?”
“For the love o’ God,” McRyan begged. “Cut us down, Sergeant.”
“Are you uncomfortable?” Douglas asked, pulling the knife from the scabbard on his belt. “What about it, Costello?”
“Lemme loose,” Costello pleaded in a husky voice.
Douglas made two quick swipes with his blade, cutting through the ropes. Both men dropped to their knees and bent over groaning. The sergeant felt no sympathy for them. “On your feet!”
Fearful of more punishment, McRyan and Costello stood up. They waited as the ropes were untied from their wrists. Then, without being to
ld, they went to the proper position of attention as their shoulders pulsated with sharp pains. Douglas marched them back to the bivouac and halted them in front of their squad’s bedrolls.
“You two can forget it if you think you're getting any rest tonight,” the sergeant said. “Grab your carbines. You'll spend the rest of the night out on picket at the same place you was hung up. Get them weapons, hurry!”
McRyan and Costello did as they were told, then were paraded back to the woods. The weighty carbines added to their discomfort, but they held on out of fear of dropping them and earning more of the sergeant’s anger.
McRyan asked, “What’re we supposed to do, Sergeant?”
“Stay on picket duty here all night,” Douglas said. “You’ll not return to the bivouac ’til I send for you.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” McRyan said.
“Do you understand that, Costello?” Douglas asked.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Costello said. “How long’re we gonna be out here.”
“If I forget all about you, maybe ’til we come back this way,” Douglas said. “Now, wouldn’t that be a terrible thing?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked back to the camp.
“God!” Costello said. “I never want to go through that again.”
“I’ll tell you something,” McRyan said in cold anger as he rubbed one of his sore shoulders. “Lieutenant MacRoss and Sergeant Douglas are gonna pay for this. I swear they will!”
“There ain’t much you can do,” Costello said.
McRyan snarled, “I may be a new recruit in this damn army, but that don’t mean I’ve never killed nobody before.” He sat down under a tree and leaned against it. “Or that I won’t again.”
Five
The wagon train was close to the junction of the Republican and Kansas rivers at just past high noon on the sixth day out of Fort Leavenworth.
At that point, Gavin MacRoss called another halt. Count Valenko angrily and vigorously protested the decision, but Gavin would accept no arguments on the subject. He made the protesting count and other Russian immigrants wait while he sent his men on a wide-sweeping reconnaissance of the immediate area.
Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2) Page 4