by Harold Lamb
“Nay, Sir Cossack. I said if you won from Balabash you could have them back. You did not win. They are mine. Does an ataman break his word?”
Scowling, Borasun fingered the wallet.
“Listen to me, you greasy-fingered flesh-seller,” he said at last. “These animals saved me my life back yonder in the wilderness. I’ll not have them thrashed by a fellow like you. How much do you want for them?”
“From you, nothing. If they are worth so much to you, they are to me. I have some Osmanli lords of Chatagai coming to look at the women your fellow soldiers have transferred to me in trade. They have never seen such deer. They will pay a good price. I will not sell them to you—”
“You rat!”
Borasun’s saber was out in a flash. Cherkasi had been waiting for that. He shrank back, calling over his shoulder. Desire for revenge for the hard name Borasun had given him in public outweighed even the chance for gain, at present, in his mind. A half-dozen armored soldiers, retainers of the merchant, ran forward at his signal.
“U-ha!” shouted the Cossack. He warded a blow from one of the servants, and cut the man down. A pistol cracked from the group, but Borasun advanced on them, his lean face dark with rage.
“A Cossack fights!” There came a shout from behind him. “Cut, slash!”
And the old Colonel Balabash jumped across the serai wall, swinging his saber. Cherkasi raised a cry for help and men were heard running toward the place.
“What is it?” demanded Balabash, ranging himself beside Borasun.
When he heard—for the retainers had drawn back a pace, reluctant to match blows with the two warriors—he became thoughtful.
“This is a knot you can’t pick with your sword, ataman,” he whispered. “Cherkasi is a dog, but he bought the reindeer. If you kill him or his men, he will appeal to the governor of the town. You struck the first blow—”
“One of his men struck first, on my oath!”
“No matter. The governor and the merchants do not love us Cossacks, after they have bought our spoil. They’ll hang you off the walls for the kites to dine on. Sheathe your sword and come away.”
He was forced to pull the slender Cossack off toward the gate. Borasun called back:
“Harm those beasts and a curse is on you, merchant. That was the word of a magician, Chilogir—”
He shook off the elder’s hand and strode past the tents of Cherkasi. The flap of one fell open, and a pretty brown face peered out at the two warriors.
“Chilogir!” Borasun heard a whisper. “Ai-a, you wear the belt of Chilogir, my lord. Tell me, what of him? I am Chi-li.”
Borasun paused and scratched his head, without heeding the snarls of the merchant at his back. He could not remember where he had heard the name Chi-li. Once, when he had been drinking, it was. She was said to be pretty, he reflected. Well, so she was.
He surveyed the wasted brown cheeks, and the quick eyes under which were deep circles. He could not remember who Chi-li was.
“Whose woman are you, little sparrow?” Balabash asked, twirling his mustache.
“Mine,” cried the shrill voice of Cherkasi. “Mine, bought from one of your own comrades, Borasun, for three hundred and twenty thalers. Get along with you! She is my slave and I will sell her to the Turkish lords who pay well for women of other races—”
Perceiving the mute appeal in the eyes of the girl, Borasun could but shake his head. Something that he had meant to do for Chi-li—well, he must have dreamed it.
Seeing that she was staring at his broad leather girdle ornamented with iron images, Borasun unbuckled it and handed the belt to her.
“Keep this thing, then, Chi-li,” he grunted.
“So, Cherkasi,” murmured Balabash, “you would sell this handsome little mouthful to a Turk, eh? Have you any bowels?”
The merchant refastened the flap of the tent hastily, muttering under his breath. Balabash watched him angrily, and observed
“How much will you take for her?”
Cherkasi spat and was heard to say to himself that he would have no dealing with such dogs of the steppe.
“Dogs!”
Balabash had his saber half way out, when Borasun, grinning, caught his arm.
“Have you forgotten the governor and his kites so soon, good sir?”
“True!” The colonel shrugged and linked his arm in that of his comrade. “Cherkasi, you call yourself a Christian, may the devil eat me if you don’t. Some day the devil will call you a liar.”
So they went off to the inn, being hungry. Already Chi-li, if not the reindeer, had passed from their minds although their hands itched to get at Cherkasi. Behind them a trembling girl stared from the belt to the slit in the felt tent through which she could see the picketed reindeer.
It was toward the end of the second watch of the night and even the bazaar dogs were quiet when Pan Pishnivitz knocked at the inn door. Being a mild man, a Pole, with a secret sense of his own importance as lieutenant of the voevod—the governor of Tabagatai, the knock was discreet yet firm. Amid the babble of voices from within it was not heard. Pan Pishnivitz knocked again, more loudly, and felt of the priming of his pistols.
True, he reflected, he had a dozen men at his back, halberdiers and musket men from the governor’s castle. And the handful of Cossacks in the tavern were little better than vagabonds—since the country was not at war just then. If Holy Church and the voevod and the Empire had been at war and in need of Cossack sabers matters would be different.
So the lieutenant entered with a steady tread and fixed his eye on the hawk-like face of Borasun.
“Cossack,” he proclaimed, not without importance, “his excellency the lord governor of the town and province of Balkash has placed you under arrest to answer for a manifest crime and be punished accordingly.” He nodded solemnly, adding: “Be a good fellow, Borasun, and don’t stir up a rumpus. If you are to be hanged, you no doubt deserve it; it’s your Christian duty to obey the law.”
Borasun’s black eyes twinkled while he tried to think which of his numerous misdeeds had come to the notice of the governor.
“Is it on account of that dog of Cherkasi’s I struck down just before sunset?”
“Not at all, Borasun,” replied the lieutenant soothingly. “The dog was a Kirghiz; and he made a pass at you first, I am told. Nay, this is a crime.”
Borasun sighed. Luck was a mischievous jade. Already that day Cherkasi had thrown dirt on his beard—or at least on the beard of old Balabash—and he was helpless to take revenge. Moreover Cherkasi was exhibiting his cherished reindeer. Now Borasun was accused of a crime.
He rose.
“What is the charge, Sir Fish—Pish, or whatever your name is?”
“Thieving.”
At this the ataman’s face flushed dark and the other Cossacks looked up. A group of Muscovite merchants motioned for the innkeeper, to settle their score. Because if there is one thing more than another that a Cossack does not like it is to be called a thief. Blaspheming is the worst crime on his calendar, but stealing is a good second.
A Cossack takes spoil at will; he may fight—preferably with his mates—until the sun is red; he may drink himself staggering, but he will not steal.
So the revelers at the inn stared at the full wallet in Borasun’s hand, the gold with which—contrary to Cossack custom—he would not gamble. His mates from the Ukraine knew that it was borrowed, but others did not.
“It is the governor’s order,” repeated the lieutenant uneasily. “Testimony has been given—”
“What was stolen?”
“The two reindeer bought by Cherkasi, the merchant, and a woman named Chi-li. You and the merchant were at blows about the reindeer, and you were seen by a score of townspeople to talk with the girl and pass something to her, into the tent. Just after nightfall the three vanished as if by witchcraft. You are known to have a quarrel with Cherkasi. Where have you taken his goods?”
“Cherkasi! Does he charge that I am a thief?”
&nb
sp; The veins stood out on Borasun’s forehead and the whites of his eyes turned red.
From the center of the group of men-at-arms Cherkasi, the merchant, lifted his voice defiantly.
“Six hundred—a thousand thalers, I must have out of this Cossack. He swore that I would receive an injury because I kept the reindeer; the girl wore his belt—she has an understanding with him. After nightfall my guard at the serai entrance was bowled over by horned beasts and lashed with a whip. Food, furs were taken from the tent of my slaves—most costly furs, gentlemen, I swear. Who ever heard of a slave girl—”
“Oh, we’ve heard all that before,” muttered the lieutenant, who had no liking for the merchant. “And the sledge with the girl went away from all the roads, out on the steppe to the east—”
“This Cossack plotted it, to do me harm. A thousand thalers will not pay for the harm.”
Colonel Balabash rose from his stool by the hearth; his limbs were not as warm as in his youth, and he liked a fire of nights. “Lieutenant Pishnivitz,” he said, “the ataman Borasun has been by my side since we left the slave sty of Cherkasi. He has had no hand in the escape of the slave. We have been sitting here at the inn since before dusk. Now, sirs,” he waved his hand at the Muscovites, “is not this the truth?”
He folded his arms, and his black beard bristled. All those in the room hastened to say that it was the truth. Pishnivitz scratched his head. He had no wish to cross the path of the old colonel, but there was Cherkasi’s charge to be disposed of somehow.
Seeing his hesitation, Balabash thrust himself through the soldiers until he faced the merchant, who shrank back as far as he was able. Extending the hilt of his saber under the wrinkled nose of Cherkasi, the colonel roared:
“Smell of that, you jackal-sired spawn of the dung heap. And say whether Balabash lies!”
Cherkasi clawed at his beard and was silent. Satisfied, Balabash returned to his seat by the fire, calling for hot mead to be brought for the soldiers.
After drinking his mead, the lieutenant wiped his mustache and came to a conclusion.
“Good health to you, Colonel. I hope the worthy Cossacks are not angry. I had my duty. Now this is what happened. The escape of the woman was the work of magic, of course—”
“And Chersaki would have sold her to a Turk,” muttered Balabash.
“White magic, assuredly,” nodded Pishnivitz.
“That’s it!” roared Borasun, who had been thinking. “I remember now. Chi-li is the child of Chilogir, the Tatar magician. He is calling his reindeer and his daughter to him, a thousand miles away. Cherkasi, the merchant, picketed the reindeer under the nose of the girl who has been their mistress for ten years—”
The Cossacks laughed and piled from the inn to watch Cherkasi, almost beside himself with rage, calling on his servants and armed men to get horses and take up the pursuit of the reindeer somewhere out in the dark steppe.
“They will never overtake reindeer,” growled Balabash, whose good humor was restored at sight of Cherkasi’s vain search for six hundred thalers.
“I remember, too,” assented Borasun, “that Chilogir said misfortune would come upon one who mistreated his reindeer.”
“It is true,” nodded Pishnivitz sagely. “That was good mead.”
“Undoubtedly true,” assented Balabash. “Let us have some more of it.”
So they departed, singing—
“When the war begins, brave chap, when the war begins,
You will find, brave fellow,
That princes give you gold,
And the priest says, ‘Benedicite.’”
Beyond the Altai, Chilogir, the Tungusi sangar waited in his tent, until the reindeer he had marked with his mark and sent with the warrior bearing his belt to the place where he knew his daughter would be—waited patiently until his reindeer should return. He knew that they would do so.
Because it is a peculiarity of reindeer that they will not stay with the master who beats them.
THE ROAD OF THE GIANTS (1922)
CHAPTER I
An Account of How Captain Billings Lost His Luggage
“He who sets forth upon the road knows not what the road will bring; nor does he know the hour of his return.”
—Mongol proverb.
“God go with you, my excellent sir. Keep to the highroad, by all means and don’t fail to watch the verst-posts, my good gentleman. It’s a matter of some twenty versts to Zaritzan, maybe thirty or forty.”
The stranger who had stopped to eat a hasty supper at the frontier post on the highroad from Astrakan to Zaritzan sprang into the saddle of his pony and pulled the fur lapels of his greatcoat up around his ears. This made the soldier curious, for in the year of our Lord 1771, in the beginning of February when the ice on the Volga was solid enough to support a coach and six, few travelers ventured alone along the frontier between Russia and the Tatar tribes.
“Take my advice, sir, and hire a troika with three fine horses that will pull you like the wind and a postillion to guide you over the way. Just beyond these windmills a woman and her baby were gobbled up by the cursed wolves. True, I assure you, by the holy pictures. If you lose your way you are done for, quite. Devil take me, sir, it’s cold work standing here talking to you—Ah, my grateful thanks, well born!”
Captain Minard Billings, of Edinburgh and late of the high seas, tossed the Russian a silver shilling. It was one of his last, and he had not hired a sledge because the supper had nearly emptied his purse.
“Remember,” the man called after him, “keep due north along the right bank of the Volga. On the other bank begins the great steppe where you would lose your way at the first turn. Then the men from over the river would rip you up like a fish and leave you in the snow. Mind my words—” his hoarse voice grew fainter—“if you see a Tatar from over the river pistol him at once.”
Passing the windmills at the end of the hamlet, Captain Billings smiled. A cheerful road this, he reflected.
It would have been better, of course, to have lain the night at the post and gone on by daylight. But Captain Billings had an appointment that evening at Zaritzan and he meant to keep it. There was a commission awaiting him at Zaritzan, and he meant to have it.
Captain Billings had been stranded at Astrakan, after completing a survey of the north coast of the Caspian for Governor Beketoff, of that town. Beketoff had been most polite, but being out of funds and likewise out of favor with the territorial ministry at St. Petersburg, Billings was not paid. Nightly he had played chess with the governor and sampled every vintage of wine the castle boasted.
The wine was not good, and Billings tired of putting Beketoff to bed every evening under the table. So he had borrowed a good pony from the governor, and—since he could not pay for a sledge—had entrusted his luggage to a detail of Cossacks under a sotnik, bound up the ice-coated Volga.
Now this luggage of Captain Billings was very valuable, to himself at least, it was the first time he had parted with it, even for a few days. It was a peculiar thing, that luggage. But the Cossacks traveled more slowly than he, and Billings had sent word ahead by courier that he would be at Zaritzan before midnight. He had a habit of keeping his promises.
From time to time as he rode, he tried to catch a glimpse of the gray sheet of the Volga, somewhere to his right. But the forest had set in again and the spruces made a corridor of the road that was merely a narrow track in the snow.
Already the sun was behind the pines, and a cold wind stirred up the fine snow into a dust that stung his face. He pulled down his sheepskin cap and fell to beating his arms across his chest. And he did not notice that the verst posts were no longer to be seen. In fact the trail he followed had narrowed down to the track of a single horse.
“My faith, it’s cold as—when the devil’s gone to mass,” Captain Billings assured himself. “And not so much as a tavern to break the hedgerows.”
His gray-greenish eyes, spaced wide, surveyed the shadows of the forest slowly. His h
igh cheek bones were reddened by long exposure to the sun of the Caspian. Billings was of middle age with a back like a pikestaff and a swagger to his shoulders that concealed his lack of height.
Since boyhood—and a thankless one—he had grown up with weapons, lived by his wits. He wore no wig, and his yellow hair had been bleached by the sun to the color of tow. School had been, for him, the apprenticeship at the table of a master navigator, and the salle d’ armes of a French swordsman, now unhappily dead during the vicissitudes of that changeful lady, Paris. He had not always found bread in plenty, but there had been no lack of fighting.
“A pox on these misbegotten Muscovite charts!”
He had noticed the absence of the verst posts. These, however, had been covered for the most part by drifting snow. The moon had risen on his right, and by its light he scanned the lines of the map of the frontier. According to it he should have been at Zaritzan by now.
Instead, he was off the highroad. He could go back to the last post, or turn out into the river and wait for the sledge which should be along that night. But neither choice was to his liking. He tore up the worthless chart and plied his pony’s flanks with the black Cossack whip he carried, resolved to follow the track of the horse in front of him so long as it led to the north.
As if in answer to his decision, the howl of a wolf came up the wind. Billings steadied the pony, and settled himself in the saddle. He no longer needed the whip. His eyes narrowed against the cut of the wind, his glance thrusting into the shadows on either hand, to pick out the yellow gleam of eyes.
Drawing off a glove, his numbed fingers felt of the priming of the long pistols in the saddle holsters; the snow had dampened the powder.
Now the trees were thinning; curling wraiths of snow danced in the shifting moonlight as the wind came with a sweep across the dunes of the open. A moment later he drew in his horse. Beside the trail a figure appeared, standing over a dead pony.
“Zounds!” cried Billings under his breath. “Here’s a merry go.”
The other, in a long kaftan and a tall sheepskin hat too large for him, seemed to be no more than a boy, a swarthy boy with eyes like black jewels. He held a simitar that dripped blood upon the white surface of the snow. Billings observed that the throat of the horse had been cut.