by Harold Lamb
"They've gone into the balka," he thought, "and I may have a shot at them if they turn up the side."
He hurried after the pig into a long gully, full of high grass and brush. The bottom of the gully was in deep shadow, only the steep clay bank on his left being in the moonlight. Upon this Koum kept his eyes as he went forward, twisting among the brushwood. He could still hear a faint scampering.
The balka turned first one way and then the other. Once Koum thought he saw the pig far ahead up the bank. He walked slowly now, his wet boots making no noise in the sand. Among a nest of boulders he stopped to listen. Then he laid his musket down, and squatted over it. Squinting up into the sky, he held his breath and began to count.
Along the moonlit bank, clear against the luminous sky, mounted men were picking their way toward the river. And Koum did not trouble his head about the pigs any more. A single glance at the shaggy sheepskin cloaks and turban head wraps—the dark round shields and thin ponies— showed the hunter that these were Turkomans.
Koum counted fifteen and thought that a couple more were riding off to the side. Half of them carried long flintlocks, not slung over their backs. Tartars would not move at night, and only the prospect of a raid would bring out Turkomans before daylight. They were arguing in low voices and as they passed over his head he caught a few words. "Choupak bir Ko-zaghi—those dogs of Cossacks. . ."
What devil of ill omen could have brought a war party to this place on the river, at this time? They must have seen the smoke of the sergeant's fire, and watched the Cossack detachment at sunset. Now, when they thought the Cossacks would be deep in sleep, they were going to cross the ford and rush the camp.
Suddenly a chill chased up Koum's back. The Cossacks were all asleep, even Ostap. Why in God's name hadn't he roused the youngster when he went off after the pig? Now here he was, cut off without a horse.
He did not move until the riders had disappeared down the bank, and he had made certain no more were coming after. If they had been Tartars he might have whined like a vampire in the darkness, and scared them back to their tents. But these were gray wolves, following the scent of blood. Well, the omens had given warning that blood would flow before sunrise.
Koum could only see one moon in the sky now. Getting to his feet, he scrutinized the bank of the gully to his right, in shadow. Slinging his gun on his back he began to climb the highest point, pulling himself up by roots but keeping his feet clear of stones. At the edge of the clay bank he turned his head cautiously. Nothing was to be seen except the summits of the dunes and the dark patches of brush. The Turkomans had reached the river bank.
Scrambling out, he crawled up among the rocks of the height and peered toward the river. He could see it clearly, some three hundred paces distant, between the masses of rushes. But he kept his eyes upon the stretch of moonlight in the center of the ford. Quickly he thrust his gun forward, powdered the priming, sighted it, and waited.
No help for it. He had been on watch, and the detachment was asleep. He had forgotten to call Ostap when he went off, and now he must shoot off his musket, to give the alarm. If he fired, the wolves would see the smoke. They would come back, find his tracks easily in this accursed light. Some of them would watch the ford, while the others would ride him down like a hare.
A rider appeared in the ford. Then others after him. Koum's head buzzed as he sighted his gun again. Too far off in that half-light!
"To the Father and Son!" he muttered, and pulled the trigger.
At the crash of the musket behind them, the heads of the Turkomans turned toward him. They remained motionless, while he peered at them under the smoke cloud—they were astonished no doubt, and hesitated whether to go on or turn back. Then a red flash came from the darkness under the poplars where Ostap had been sleeping, and Koum saw the Turkomans turn their horses toward the gully.
Without waiting to reload, he ran back from the rocks, down one long slope and up the next. He headed away from the river, keeping close to the balka, until he dared run no longer for fear of being seen. He glanced down into the gully, and saw that it had become shallow, opening into a kind of bowl filled with poplars and brush. Well, he had no choice. He must head in here.
Digging his heels into the dry clay, he ran down the slope, leaped through the brush and plunged in, under the first trees. As he did so the hunter swerved. Something light had flashed before his eyes, and when he threw himself to the side, he felt steel rip through his loose sleeve.
"Ghar!" A hoarse voice screamed into his face.
Swiftly Koum swung forward the muzzle of his heavy musket. It struck something yielding—knocked it back. A second time he dodged a knife slash, stumbling over broken ground as he did so. Grasping his musket in both hands, he leaped high in the air and smashed the butt of the gun forward as he came down. It struck fair upon something that crunched under it. And that something fell heavily to the ground, moving jerkily.
Koum steadied himself on his feet, and swung the butt of the gun down again with all the strength of his shoulders. Bones snapped under the impact and he heard a deep groan. Stepping aside and paying no heed to the spasmodic movements of the wounded man, he bent his head and listened intently.
By the river shots boomed out, but the hunter was listening for the tread or stamp of a horse. The Turkoman who attacked him would not have gone far from his mount. Koum could perceive no sign of a horse. He saw, however, something else.
In the center of the poplar grove the ground was clear, and in the shafts of moonlight a small horsehide tent was visible. Koum reloaded his musket and strode forward. He came upon trampled ground, strewn with bundles of sheepskins and furs, and a few pots. And he swore under his breath.
"Eh, it was a hunting party," he thought. "They camped here, and saw the Cossacks. Well, it's true they will come back."
He heard a scattering of shots and a faint shouting. He started to make his way out of the depression, but stopped and shook his head. Useless to go up on the steppe with the horsemen coming in. And when they came, they would find their wounded comrade. Nothing for it but to hide in the grove until daylight, and then trust to luck. Yet his luck had been bad—
Hoofs thudded closer, and a shrill voice hailed—
"Ai-a, Ahmet!"
Koum stepped into deeper shadow, gripping his gun. Then horses galloped by, tearing through the brush. The grove seemed to be filled with them, going past. A shadowy rider leaned down, and caught up a bundle of furs and swerved away. A white horse plunged to a stop in the flecks of moonlight so near he might have touched it with the muzzle of his gun. Backed against the bole of a tree, Koum did not move.
"Ai-a, Ahmet, shaitan chavassar! Hey, Ahmet—may the black devil ride you!"
The lank Turkoman on the white horse shouted angrily, and flung himself to the ground. He darted into the tent, and Koum leaned his gun against the tree, pulling his knife from his belt.
He strode toward the horse, which snorted and drew away. Then the tribesman ran out of the shelter, carrying a bundle in his arms. Even in the gloom he saw the Cossack, and dropped his burden, leaping forward with a curved sword swinging in his hand.
Koum turned on his heels and flung himself at the Turkoman's knees, as the sword and long sleeve swished over him. And as he struck the man, he thrust up with his long knife. The blade stuck in flesh, but came out as the two men rolled on the ground. Koum buried his knife again in his antagonist, under the ribs. The man choked and curled himself up, while the Cossack felt on the ground and picked up the sword the other had dropped.
"You won't get up, shaitan," he muttered, running his hand over the bundle the Turkoman had dropped. Nothing but stinking robes. The sword, however, felt like a good one. Koum put it under his belt and picked up his gun, listening the while. Other men were riding past.
He went over quietly to the horse, and this time caught the bridle. Swinging himself into the saddle, he found the flat stirrups, as the horse sidled and reared. Tightening the rein,
he felt the neck and shoulders of his new mount.
"A good one," he thought. "A real steed." Now, at least, he could risk a dash down the balka to the river.
Near at hand a gun roared. Hearty voices cried—
"Strike, strike, brothers!"
Koum turned his head, astonished.
"By God, the village girls have come over the river. The fools!"
Lifting his deep voice, he shouted:
"Cossacks! This way—down in the balka. Here is their nest!"
A moment more and horses pushed in under the poplars. Ostap trotted in front, peering from side to side.
"Hi, Cossack!" he called. "Where is that nest?"
"This way," Koum answered, and drew back quickly as the young Cossack struck out at him, suddenly. "Can't you see, you wildcat?"
"Ho, Uncle," laughed the youngster, "I didn't know you had a horse. Look, brothers, there's the camp!"
Some of them flung themselves from the saddle to ransack the tent and the ground. Finding the dead Turkoman, they began to pull off the best of his garments.
"There's another back of you, five lance lengths," Koum told them.
"What devil brought you here, Koum?" demanded Kirdiak, panting. "Did you see us chase them? We shot one up on the dunes, and Borchik has his horse. Omelko was shot in the ribs as we came over the ford—he's back on the other side with Andriev who lost his horse."
Koum made a quick reckoning. If two Cossacks were out of it, they had only six, with himself, against about twice their number of tribesmen.
"Essaul," he said earnestly, "don't be stubborn now. Give the order to go back to the camp, at once."
"By God, can't you see they are running from us."
"They were afraid of a trap, because they were shot at from behind, at the ford. They had not counted your heads, yet. Now they will turn back on both sides, and cut you off from the ford. Harken!"
Kirdiak lifted his head. On the dunes above him he heard a wolf's howl, then another, and a third. They came from different points, and the sergeant knew that they were not wolves. Scattered in groups of twos and threes the tribesmen were calling to the others. They had halted and soon they would turn back. Probably this man Koum had killed was their khan—such a fine horse he had. Aye, the Turkomans would be drawing a ring around the sunken grove. Kirdiak tried to remember how many they were—he had seen a score or so. Well, if seven Cossacks rode against them in the open, that would be bad. Worse to hide in the trees, until they were surrounded. He scratched his head and tried to think of a plan.
"Come on, Kirdiak," muttered Koum impatiently. He had been examining the saddle under him, and had found to his satisfaction that it was a good one. "I'll show the way."
"Where?" demanded the sergeant.
"Down the balka."
Kirdiak nodded, relieved. He rounded up the five Cossacks who were turning over everything in the camp, looking for more trophies. When they were all in the saddle, tying bundles on their cruppers, he bade Koum lead the way.
"Shut your mouths, lads, and don't fire off your guns."
In single file they trotted out of the wood, into the brush of the ravine. No saddles creaked and no scabbards clacked against the riders' legs. Their figures merged into the obscurity of the ravine. Behind them shaggy heads appeared at the edge of the balka, and the howling of the wolves changed to strident calls.
Koum felt his way down to the spot where he had first seen the Turkomans. Here he was sure of his ground, and cantered on through the tall rushes, splashing across the ford. As the Cossacks followed, a dozen muskets flashed from the dunes behind them, and the balls whistled harmlessly overhead. Kirdiak remained to watch the ford with the oldest of the Cossacks, but Koum, after turning into the poplars to pick up his coat and other things, rode on to the knoll where Borchik was stirring up the fire again.
The moon had vanished into haze, and the air had grown cold. A thin mist hung over the water, and in the east the sky was lightening, before sunrise. The men's faces could be seen under the dark kalpaks. Standing about the fire, they talked and laughed excitedly, gazing enviously at the white horse the hunter had brought back with him.
"Eh, Uncle," cried Ostap, "it's a Kabarda—a steppe racer. It must have been the khan's."
Koum looked over the horse with satisfaction. It was much better than the one he had lost, although he did not say so. He took off the saddle which was covered with red morocco and ornamented with silver coins. His left arm was dark with dried blood where the Turkoman had slashed the skin.
When he had put a halter on his Kabarda and tied the horse with the others, he poured some powder from his horn upon the slash, and bound his torn sleeve around it. Then he glanced up at the sky and yawned.
"Hi, Ostap," he called. "Here's a sword for you, a nice blade. I took it from the khan over yonder but I don't want it."
Stretching himself out in the grass beside the badly wounded Cossack, he put his head on the saddle and pulled his coat over him.
"Ostap," he muttered, "don't let the sergeant take my horse. You lads can watch now, without harm coming of it—"
He was asleep almost at once. The men of the detachment looked admiringly at the shaven head and powerful body of the Zaporogian who had gone alone, somehow, over the river and had killed the Turkoman khan with a knife by his own tent.
The red sun seemed to leap over the line of the dunes, and the gray surface of the river became tinged with fire. The veil of mist shredded away, and all the uncertain, fantastic shadows of the last hours vanished, revealing only ordinary sand and tamarisk clumps and rock buttes from which a warm red glow grew, and faded into plain daylight. After the night, the wide steppe became quiet and drowsy again.
Kirdiak walked up, with the white-haired Cossack, and went straight to his jug, which now lay in its place by his sheepskins.
"Well, lads," he said, "we drove the Turkomans and killed three of them, we took two horses and some other things. We got a knock or two but that's nothing. And as for these omens, you see that the sunset and the cork in the jug meant nothing at all." He glanced around triumphantly. "Nitchogo—nothing at all. And now, lads, we'll drink a health or two. No harm now."
He caught up the big jug, frowned, and shook it hastily. Then he jerked out the cork—shook it again close to his ear, and turned it cautiously down. A single drop fell from it.
"As God lives, Father," cried one of the men, "we have not looked at it. Not one of us has gone over to it."
Slowly Kirdiak's brow grew red, and he began to snort. But the other men swore they had not laid hand on it.
"Then it was you, you hedgehog!" he cried at Ostap. "You had the watch."
The young Cossack shook his head. "How could I, when I was asleep?"
Kirdiak turned on his heel and glared down at Koum snoring gently under his coat.
"May the devil take him! Eight men's rations of brandy he had, down his gullet! The son of a dog is full! Look here, Ostap, I didn't see him cross the river—how did he get over?"
Ostap wiped at the blade of his new saber with a greasy rag.
"Allah knows—I don't. I was asleep when his gun went off—bang! I sat up and there were the Turkomans sitting their horses in the ford. 'To the Father and Son,' said I, and fired my musket. Then I ran back, and you gave command to chase the Turkomans. But I didn't see Koum until—"
"He was drunk, the hog's belly. And if we had not chased the Turkomans he would have left his hide over there."
"But we found him on a horse, a good horse," objected Ostap. "He was all right. He waited and called to us—"
"Well," grumbled Kirdiak, "then he is a wizard."
"Nay." The oldest of the Cossacks came forward with his clay pipe in his hand. He leaned down to pick a burning stick from the fire. "Don't you see, Father, and you brothers? It's not like that at all. Koum changed our luck."
"How—changed our luck?"
The white-haired Cossack held the brand to his pipe and puffed.
Kirdiak looked at the white Kabarda, and said nothing more. But the old Cossack shook his head pensively.
"You're a good officer, eh, Father. You say build a fire here, and go on sentry post there, and charge, lads! That's what an officer should do. But luck settles the thing for us, and that's the end of it."
The listening Cossacks nodded, and a murmur of assent ran around the fire.
Over the River
Koum sat on the oven. He wore only a shirt, and his powerful bare legs hung down the side of the oven, which felt pleasantly cool. The big Cossack was sewing up a tear in his breeches, pushing a bodkin methodically through the soft leather and stopping work at times to sing in a voice that reverberated in the walls of his small hut.
It was a hot afternoon, and both the Cossack and the hawk on its perch beside him were drowsy. There was nothing to do until the evening meal.
The hut was comfortable enough, with its thatch roof keeping out the heat. A gallon jug buried in the sand of one corner held plenty of cool river water. Dried fish hung from a roof beam, with strings of onions and some pungent herbs. A fine saddle covered with red morocco leather stood on its peg, and to the wall beside it were nailed skins of the white and black steppe fox, with sables and wolves. Boots, firewood and a sack of barley occupied the other corner.
Over the head of his cot Koum had placed a picture of the wonder-working Saint Nicholas, framed in gilt and imitation silver. On a long shelf beneath it, with some tallow and a tin of powder and bullet mold, lay the Cossack's most prized possession—a bagpipe.
This bagpipe had belonged to a fellow Cossack of the war encampment, whose bones had dried in the grass long since. Koum remembered vaguely that this brother had been an outlander from some island in the Western Ocean. All kinds of men had joined the brotherhood of the Cossacks in these first years of the nineteenth century—after the wars that had raged like grass fires over Europe. Tartars, Gypsies, even noblemen, had become Cossacks.