Read Online The Cowboy and the Cossack (Nancy Pearl's Book Lust Rediscoveries) by Clair Huffaker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clair Huffaker
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come.
“All them soldiers runnin’ away from them few cossacks?” Sammy the Kid said in disbelief.
“They was scared shitless!” Slim glanced at Old Keats. “What the hell did he say?”
“I—I think him and his cossacks were gonna burn all the hair off any survivors, includin’ the hair around their balls.”
“Jesus,” Big Yawn rumbled. “That even hurts t’ think about.”
We all started to drift closer in to where Shad and the big cossack were watching Yakolev and his men disappear down the beach toward Vladivostok in the distance. The other cossacks, every one of them some kind of a tough-looking man, were gathering around too, so that we wound up facing each other in a rough circle around Shad and the cossack boss.
Without thinking, I said to Shad, “That was pretty slick, what he did. Really drove those bastards off.”
Shad gave me a look so stern it would have stripped the bark off an oak tree. “Hate t’ waste good matches.”
The big cossack turned from looking off at the distant, retreating soldiers and gave an order to his men in a brusque, low voice.
He’d obviously told them it was okay to put back their swords. And they obeyed his order.
But the way they did it was, in its own silent way, truly spectacular to us cowboys.
Every single one of them, hardly thinking about it and just out of sheer habit, drew his razor-sharp four-foot sword blade across his other arm enough to draw blood. Some of them just got a few drops, and some of them got a couple of lines of dripping red clear down into their hands.
And then they shoved their swords back into their sheaths, each one making a tiny, sliding, hissing sound.
You didn’t have to be too bright, right then, to pretty much figure out their point of view. It looked like they never pulled those swords without drawing blood, and it was getting more and more apparent why those forty soldiers were long gone by now.
And, for whatever reasons, we were facing those cossacks in much the same situation.
The rest of the hands, at least counting me, had mixed emotions, but Shad looked quietly at the big cossack and spoke in a flat voice. “My men and me are moving out like I said, right after breakfast.”
The big cossack’s jaw went tight and Slim spoke quickly. “We thought you was here t’ give us a hard time along with them others. In a outta-the-way place like this, it’s nice t’ meet some friends.”
“We are not your friends.” The cossack’s hard, penetrating eyes briefly studied each of us, one after the other. “I am Captain Mikhail Ivanovitch Rostov of the Kuban-Siberian Cossacks. My men and I are here under orders. We’re to protect you and the cattle on your trip.”
This brought all of us up a little short, since nothing had ever been said about anything like that. Shad couldn’t believe what he’d heard. With mixed irritation and amusement he said, “To what ?”
“You’re Northshield, I presume.” There was iron in his voice. “As I said, to protect you.”
And there was now iron times ten in Shad’s voice. “This outfit don’t hardly need any help, mister.”
As the two big men looked hard at each other, there was a grim, hollow stillness in the air, like the feeling in a thunderstorm just before lightning cracks.
Old Keats, God bless him, broke in and said quietly, “After all, Shad, they have their orders. And they know the country, and what to expect.”
Captain Rostov glanced briefly, piercingly at Old Keats. “Your man has common sense.”
“He ain’t my man,” Shad said flatly, meaning something stronger than what his words were saying. “Every man with me is his own man.”
“Well, what the hell”—Slim shrugged in a peaceful way—“these fellas oughtn’t t’ get in the way too goddamned much, Shad.”
His two top men had, in their own way, put in their votes, but Shad took another long, slow drag on his smoke, still hard put to agree with them.
“After all,” I added
“All them soldiers runnin’ away from them few cossacks?” Sammy the Kid said in disbelief.
“They was scared shitless!” Slim glanced at Old Keats. “What the hell did he say?”
“I—I think him and his cossacks were gonna burn all the hair off any survivors, includin’ the hair around their balls.”
“Jesus,” Big Yawn rumbled. “That even hurts t’ think about.”
We all started to drift closer in to where Shad and the big cossack were watching Yakolev and his men disappear down the beach toward Vladivostok in the distance. The other cossacks, every one of them some kind of a tough-looking man, were gathering around too, so that we wound up facing each other in a rough circle around Shad and the cossack boss.
Without thinking, I said to Shad, “That was pretty slick, what he did. Really drove those bastards off.”
Shad gave me a look so stern it would have stripped the bark off an oak tree. “Hate t’ waste good matches.”
The big cossack turned from looking off at the distant, retreating soldiers and gave an order to his men in a brusque, low voice.
He’d obviously told them it was okay to put back their swords. And they obeyed his order.
But the way they did it was, in its own silent way, truly spectacular to us cowboys.
Every single one of them, hardly thinking about it and just out of sheer habit, drew his razor-sharp four-foot sword blade across his other arm enough to draw blood. Some of them just got a few drops, and some of them got a couple of lines of dripping red clear down into their hands.
And then they shoved their swords back into their sheaths, each one making a tiny, sliding, hissing sound.
You didn’t have to be too bright, right then, to pretty much figure out their point of view. It looked like they never pulled those swords without drawing blood, and it was getting more and more apparent why those forty soldiers were long gone by now.
And, for whatever reasons, we were facing those cossacks in much the same situation.
The rest of the hands, at least counting me, had mixed emotions, but Shad looked quietly at the big cossack and spoke in a flat voice. “My men and me are moving out like I said, right after breakfast.”
The big cossack’s jaw went tight and Slim spoke quickly. “We thought you was here t’ give us a hard time along with them others. In a outta-the-way place like this, it’s nice t’ meet some friends.”
“We are not your friends.” The cossack’s hard, penetrating eyes briefly studied each of us, one after the other. “I am Captain Mikhail Ivanovitch Rostov of the Kuban-Siberian Cossacks. My men and I are here under orders. We’re to protect you and the cattle on your trip.”
This brought all of us up a little short, since nothing had ever been said about anything like that. Shad couldn’t believe what he’d heard. With mixed irritation and amusement he said, “To what ?”
“You’re Northshield, I presume.” There was iron in his voice. “As I said, to protect you.”
And there was now iron times ten in Shad’s voice. “This outfit don’t hardly need any help, mister.”
As the two big men looked hard at each other, there was a grim, hollow stillness in the air, like the feeling in a thunderstorm just before lightning cracks.
Old Keats, God bless him, broke in and said quietly, “After all, Shad, they have their orders. And they know the country, and what to expect.”
Captain Rostov glanced briefly, piercingly at Old Keats. “Your man has common sense.”
“He ain’t my man,” Shad said flatly, meaning something stronger than what his words were saying. “Every man with me is his own man.”
“Well, what the hell”—Slim shrugged in a peaceful way—“these fellas oughtn’t t’ get in the way too goddamned much, Shad.”
His two top men had, in their own way, put in their votes, but Shad took another long, slow drag on his smoke, still hard put to agree with them.
“After all,” I added
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