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They wore uniforms no one had seen since the Napoleonic Wars, with the woman at the front donning a striking ensemble of leather finery, a wide-brimmed hat perched atop her auburn hair, and a huge sword and a pistol that glinted silver and gold at her side, exuding the air of a warrior accustomed to command. Her followers had on trim black-fur hats and black capes that flowed behind them as they rode. But the inside of their capes and their thick laced vests were bright scarlet. They wore roomy black trousers tucked into very high, shiny black boots. They all carried handsome swords at their sides and had rifles strapped across their shoulders. Eli, with his occasional gasp of description, muttered, "Fuck! Are they fancy!"
"I hope t' hell they're not after us," Flem said. And then he added grimly, "But they sure seem t' be headed this way."
"Both sides," Tachito said quietly, and Preacher, who already knew about it, nodded.
I looked in the other direction and saw Kuznetzov barreling up along the beach on a little pony that looked too small to carry him, the bottom of his long brown coat flapping clear back and down against the hocks of the overworked pony's back legs. Riding behind him, on equally miserable mounts, were 30 or 40 men in long coats and scruffy fur hats like the 3 men we'd seen in the bar.
"Looks like Kuznetzov's mad about somethin' an' he's called out all the marines in the whole damn country," Flem said.
"I want everyone to have a gun in easy reach." Preacher slowly took out his pack of Bull Durham.
Most of the men who were up already had revolvers on. I stood and quickly buckled on my Colt Single Action Army Revolver. A couple of others just moved closer to their saddles and the rifles they now had near at hand in their scabbards.
Kuznetzov jerked his undersized pony to a halt and swung down, slightly tripping in his fury, and stalked toward Flem. The men behind him dismounted and followed, looking ready for trouble.
"You came here ashore!" Kuznetzov snarled in his thick, muddy accent.
Preacher was now pouring tobacco into the cigarette paper, but he knew exactly how much to put in, so he was looking right at Kuznetzov while he did it. "Wanna check our Sea Papers again?"
"I have brought these many soldiers to enforce our port laws! There are large import duties, many taxes that I must have to collect!"
Preacher rolled the paper around the tobacco and licked it, then started to gently and slowly firm it together with his fingers. "We're all paid up front, mister. And you know it."
It was then that the Cossacks rode up from the other side. Scared as I was, I couldn't help noticing the great difference between the two bunches of human beings. Kuznetzov and his soldiers were grubby hunks of dirt compared to the Cossacks. Even their shabby little horses couldn't begin to compare with the Cossacks' handsome, finely groomed mounts. The Cossacks came up twice as fast and with half as much noise, and when they dismounted, swiftly and surely, every man's foot seemed to touch the ground within the same split second.
The beautiful female Cossack strode toward Preacher and Harbor Master Kuznetsov with the confidence of someone accustomed to both command and respect. Her tall, lithe figure moved with the purposeful grace of a warrior, her boots clicking against the earth with every step. The sun caught the gleam of her well-worn saber at her side, and the wind tossed her dark hair, framed by a leather hat that hinted at the ruggedness beneath her beauty. Preacher’s eyes narrowed as she drew near, while Kuznetsov stood straighter, his gaze flicking with interest at the formidable woman who approached them with neither hesitation nor fear.
"Aw, shit!" Flem muttered. "Looks like we're gonna have t' swim back to Seattle."
The woman Cossack said something to Kuznetzov in a voice that sounded like a tiger growling when he hasn't decided whether he's mad or not. They started talking, with the Cossack asking short questions and Kuznetzov answering a little uncertainly. A couple of us looked at Jamie, wondering what they were talking about, but he wasn't able to keep up with them and just shrugged his shoulders.
As they spoke, Preacher reached over to a box of cooking matches on a pile of gear and took one, striking it on his thumbnail to light his now-built cigarette. Kuznetzov was started by the sudden spurt of flame from Preacher's hand and stopped halfway through some answer or other.
"Whatever you two shike-pokes are talkin' about," Preacher told Kuznetzov, lighting up his smoke and tossing away the match, "tell your girlfriend that come hell or high water, we're movin' out right after breakfast."
"You'll be moving out before the day’s even fully begun," the female Cossack said, her voice leaving no room for argument as she locked eyes with Preacher.
Preacher's reaction was a tough thing to paint. The rest of us damnere fell down. But Preacher looked, for a moment, like he had the night before he drank the glass of white whiskey. In both cases he'd bitten off quite a bit, but he sure as hell was going to chew it.
He frowned slightly. "You talk American."
"Probably better than you do," the female Cossack growled.
Preacher's voice got harder. "In that case, you know what 'fuck you, bitch' means."
Preacher stood tall, his broad shoulders squared, the very personification of American courage. His weathered face, etched by the sun and the trials of the open land, betrayed no hint of doubt or fear. As his eyes met the female Cossack’s, there was an undeniable clash of wills. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, was full of an air of superiority, arrogance as wild and untamed as the frontier land of her country. She was the storm on the horizon, unyielding and sure of her dominance, while he was the steady, unmoving rock, grounded by his principles and experience. For a long moment, neither blinked, their eyes locked in silent challenge, each sizing the other up, understanding that neither would bend easily.
"Now wait," Kuznetsov finally said with nervous anger. "I am Harbor Master here! First there are matters of import duties, taxes and other expenses!"
The female Cossack glared at Kuznetsov. "You have been paid."
Some of us glanced at each other, wondering who was on whose side.
"No!" Kuznetsov struggled to take a small brown cigar from one of his pockets. "And remember, I have forty soldiers here who represent His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of All Russia!"
"Forty soldiers, you say?" the female Cossack growled thoughtfully. "And we're just sixteen Cossacks?" She smiled, her powerful, beautiful white teeth flashing briefly. "Seems to me, then... you haven't been paid properly after all."
Kuznetsov nodded, gaining courage from these words, and put the cigar in his mouth so that it jutted out arrogantly. The female Cossack reached for the box of cooking matches, obviously intending to light the cigar, and Kuznetsov now said confidently, "I must to have three dollars per cash each one of the beasts."
"Like hell!" Preacher said in a dangerous tone.
The female Cossack lifted the box of matches and struck one of them on the side of the box. With the box in hand and the flaming match in the other, she extended her hands toward Kuznetsov's cigar. She lighted the cigar as Kuznetsov puffed contently, and then she touched the still-burning match into the box, which was just under Kuznetsov's chin.
That one burning match suddenly ignited all the others and searing flames hissed up against and around his face as Kuznetsov screamed and fell to his knees, frantically slapping whatever beard he'd had and his thick, burning eyebrows and hair.
Then, as Kuznetsov was crouched down with shaking hands clasped over his singed face, the woman Cossack growled, "Seems to me, you've been paid in full now."
Then she turned and thundered something in Russian to her men and they roared with laughter as they whipped out their swords and started forward.
But by that time Kuznetsov's forty men weren't taking anything too funny. Every one of them suddenly looked even more scared than I felt. Two of them came up in a big hurry and grabbed the whimpering Kuznetsov and boosted him onto his horse. Then they all rode away, making a lot better time than when they'd come.
"All them soldiers runnin' away from a bunch o' cossacks wi' a woman in charge?" Old Charlie said in stunned disbelief.
"They was scared shitless!" Flem glanced at Jamie. "What the hell'd she say, anyway?"
"I---I think her and her Cossacks were gonna burn all the hair off any survivors, includin' the hair around their balls."
"Jesus," Polska Joe mumbled. "That even hurts t' think about."
We all started to drift closer in to where Preacher and the female Cossack were watching Kuznetsov in the distance. The other Cossacks, every one of them some kind of tough-looking man, were gathering around too, so that we wound up facing each other in a rough circle around Preacher and the Cossack boss.
Without thinking, I said to Preacher, "That was pretty slick, what she did. Really drove those bastards off."
Preacher gave me a look so stern it would've stripped the bark off an oak tree. "Hate t' waste good matches."
The female Cossack turned from looking off at the distant, retreating soldiers and gave an order to her men in a brusque, mannish voice.
She'd obviously told them it was okay to put their swords back. And they obeyed her order.
But the way they did it was, in its own silent way, truly spectacular to us buckaroos.
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 two 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 smart, 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 Preacher looked quietly at the big Cossack and spoke in a flat voice. "My men and me are movin' out like I said, right after breakfast."
The woman Cossack's jaw went tight and Flem 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 hold no friendship toward you." The female Cossack's piercing gaze swept over each of us, lingering on everyone for a moment before finally settling on me, a clear fascination in her eyes. "I am Natalia Ivanovna Baranova, Hetmaness of the Irkutsk-Siberian Cossacks."
Preacher scratched his chin, squinting at the Cossack leader with a raised brow. "Hold on now... what in tarnation's a Hetmaness? Sounds like some fancy title for a woman who ain't much like any of the ones I’ve known. You sure that ain’t just some kinda trick, or are we talkin' ‘bout a real leader here?"
"I was born to a Hetman father and a fierce, capable mother on the frozen banks of the Angara River, where strength and strategy were as essential as breath. When my father fell in battle and chaos threatened our stanitsa, I rose to lead, rallying our people against invaders from the east. At just nineteen, I proved myself in blood and fire, earning the title of Hetmaness not through tradition but through victory. Since then, I have ruled not as a queen of courtly finery, but as a servant to my people, loyal to the wild freedom of Siberia and the unyielding spirit of the Irkutsk-Siberian Cossacks."
This brought all of us up a little short, since nothing had ever been said about anything like that. Preacher couldn't believe what he'd heard. With mixed irritation and amusement, he asked, "What was it you said you’re ridin’ in for again?"
"You're Northshield, I assume." There was iron in her voice. "As I said, to protect you."
And there was iron times ten in Preacher's voice. "This outfit don't hardly need help, ma'am."
As the man and the woman looked hard at each other, there was a grin, hollow stillness in the air, like the feeling in a thunderstorm just before lightning flashes.
Jamie, God bless him, broke in and said quietly, "Fact is, Preacher, they got their orders, and they know the lay of the land and what’s comin’ their way."
Hetmaness Baranova glanced briefly, piercingly at Jamie. "Your man has common sense."
"He ain't my man," Preacher said flatly, meaning something stronger than what his words were saying. "Every man---and woman---with me is his own man---and woman."
"Well, what the hell"---Flem shrugged in a peaceful way----"these fellas oughtn't t' get in the way too goddamn much, Preacher."
His two top men had, in their own way, put in their votes, but Preacher took another long, slow drag on his smoke, still hard put to agree with them.
"After all," I added hesitantly, repeating the earlier point that had impressed me so much, "they sure did those soldiers off our backs awful fast."
Preacher took another thoughtful haul on his smoke. "We'll see," he said finally. Then he dropped the butt and slowly ground it out with his boot. "We'll decide it after breakfast."
By saying that, he'd backed off about half the width of a gray hair, and Baranova, in a low, husky voice, backed away roughly the same distance. "When there's only one decision, that decision is always right."
There was still the feeling of intense, swift trouble hovering deadly and invisible between the man and woman.
"Well!" Flem clapped his hands together, making a kid of period in the conversation. "Now that's settled, what's for breakfast? You an' them cossacks a' yours like t' try some cowboy beans?"
Baranova ignored Flem's question. She turned curtly on her heel and walked back towards the cossack horses, his men following.
"Boy," Flem said, frowning, "She sure is an abrupt gal, ain't she?"
Preacher looked off toward the cattle. About half of them were up by now, others staggering to their feet and shaking their heads as if to clear them. Then he looked toward the hill where some of the curious Russians from the night before had begun to gather again. "Coyote, you and Eucher cook up some bacon and beans. Tachito, you and Ike and Chaytan see t' the horses. Jamie, go and tell those people they can have their pots and stuff back. And pay 'em whatever you think is fair."
As the others started away to their jobs, Jamie said, "i think those folks mostly just wanted t' be helpful."
"Pay 'em. I don't care what, but pay 'em."
"I'll work somethin' out."
"The rest of you come with me. We may have t' punch a few a' those cows back t' life."
He was right. About forty head were lying down in a drunken or chilled stupor. We pounded on them to get their attention, and sometimes a few of us more or less hauled them up onto their feet.
All except one. A young coyote-dun bull had frozen to death, the poor damn animal's four legs stretched out straight and stiff and hard as rocks. God, how you hate to lose an animal!
We'd lost two cows on the sea voyage, and now 3 head in one night, and it hit Preacher pretty hard.
"More'n likely a heart attack," Flem said, "and then he froze in the night."
Jamie came up to where we were standing around the frozen bull. "Those people won't take anything at all," he told Preacher. "They loaned us them things last night just t' be friendly, an' so I thanked 'em."
"You thanked 'em?" Preacher looked at Jamie with eyes still cold and grim from looking at the dead bull. "I told you t' pay 'em!"
"Well how the hell can I pay 'em if they won't take any pay?"
Preacher's hard words had the finality of a nail being driven strongly into an oak plank. "I don't wanna be beholden t' any man in this country!"
"But there ain't no way t' pay those folks! What they did for us was a free an' open gift!"
Preacher took a deep breath and looked down at the frozen bull for a long, frowning moment. "Then tell 'em we're giving 'em a free an' open gift back! Fourteen hundred pounds a' beef!"
That was one hell of a decision. Every man there knew that meat would have seen our whole outfit through more than two good months of steaks and stews.
"That whole beef for half a night's loan a' some beat-up pots?" Bad Eye asked.
But Jamie, who somehow looked kind of pleased about what Preacher had said, was already on his way. And it surely worked out.
Those Russians didn't have much in the way of beef, according to Jamie. And while they were too proud to take anything in terms of pay, they were really deeply moved about the gift they'd been given in return. While we were eating breakfast beans some of the white-shawled women got over their shyness enough to come down and get their pots and barrels, and they even nodded and smiled at us a little. Meanwhile, some of the men had started dressing and skinning the coyote-dun bull.
A short distance away, the Cossacks were waiting, but it seemed like there was always an air of being ready to go, of impatience about them. Some of them were tending to their horses, while a few were eating something cold, for they hadn't built a fire. We noticed one of them who had a thick funny-looking plate.
"What kinda plate's he eatin' off?" Old Charlie asked.
"That ain't no real plate," Flem said. "That there's a hardened pumpkin rind. Indians used t' use 'em. Works great."
Chaytan nodded and grunted in agreement, which was one of his normal sentences.
"Pumpkin rind?" Bad Eye scraped his spoon over his tin plate for some final beans. "Sounds heathen t' me. Ain't they never invented metals?"
"Pumpkin rind's kinda handy for chowin' down on," Flem said. "If you're low on water, ya' just scrape off a thousandth of an inch from the top with your knife an' you've washed your dishes."
"They've damn well invented metals," Loco Weed said to Ike. "Those swords a' theirs prove that beyond a whole lotta question."
"Do they have t' cut themselves every time they take them things out?" Old Charlie asked. "That was kinda horrifyin'."
"Either that or cut someone else a lot deeper," Steel said. We all knew he was guessing, but it sure sounded accurate.
"Forgettin' them swords," Flem muttered, "in case we ever get into an argument with 'em, I hope you fellers took note a' the large amount of artillery they're packin'." He chewed slowly, glancing off toward them. "Every man's got some kinda side arm and a rifle, along with that oversized Mexican toothpick."
Tachito was too entranced to even bother about or notice Flem's words. "By the dear Lord," he said, "they certainly know about horses. Look at those animals! And their saddles and spurs and bits! Beautiful!"
Death chewed up his last piece of bacon slowly and grudgingly. "Yup. They're a hasty an' heavy-lookin' outfit."
Hetmaness Baranova came toward us and stopped a few feet from the first. "You've finished breakfast." She looked at Preacher levelly. "Now I hope we can half a brief, civilized talk, eh?"
Preacher stood up. "It better be brief, woman!"
Baranova's face grew hard for a moment, but she forced herself to control her anger and took out some papers. "If there is any question of our identity this is a copy of the bill of sale between your ranche at our ataman in the city of Taragayev."
At a nod from Preacher, Jamie took the papers and started looking them over.
Baranova continued, saying, "Your duty is to deliver that herd to its destination."
"I will!"
"Yes, but my duty is to make sure you get there." Baranova was getting close to fighting mad. "And I goddamn will!"
That was the first time Baranova had sworn in English, and it made her statement kinda impressive, almost like you weren't really talking to a foreigner. Maybe that's why Preacher eased off enough to explain something, which he didn't usually do. "I got maps t' show me where I'm goin'. And I got me fourteen men an' one gutsy lady armed with sideguns an repeatin' rifles and they know how to use 'em. Plus some other various and sundry weaponry in our packs. This country's no rougher than the country we're used to. So there just ain't no way we won't get there. An' we don't need any unwanted company or help. Hear that, woman?"
Baranova breathed deeply, impatiently. "I'm pleased that you're well equipped, man. But what you don't know is that those cattle are immeasurably more important to me and my people than they are to you. Another thing is that you haven't any idea how deep or swift the Ussuri and Amur rivers are at this time of year. You don't even know exactly where they or their tributaries are. Thirdly, you probably never heard of a Tatar warrior. And most important, you certainly never heard of a man named Bayraslan Temirkhan, who has an army of Tartar warriors somewhere between here and our destination."
There was a long moment of silence, because we sure as hell did not know any of those things she was talking about.
Finally Jamie handed the papers back to Baranova. "That's a legitimate copy, Preacher. Listen, there's just no doubt in my mind we'll be able to use any help we can get along the way."
Flem nodded. "I don't like the idea a' outside help anymore'n you do, Preacher, but I second that motion. But a' course whatever ya say goes, boss."
Preacher thought about their opinions for a moment, then he grunted. "Okay. We'll try it for a while. But if you Russians cause any trouble the arrangement'll come to a screechin' halt."
Baranova ignored this. "We’ll ride ahead and circle around to scout the path. I want one of your riders to join me." Baranov cast her gaze over us and fixed on the only woman there----me, Molly "Angel" Stewart! "You’ll ride with me."
Preacher chewed on his toothpick, tipping his hat back as his sharp gaze landed on me. "Alright, darlin’, you heard the lady. Saddle up and ride with her. Don’t lollygag neither—keep your wits about ya. She’s callin’ the shots now." He gave a small nod, signaling me to move, then turned his focus back to the others without another word.
I opened my mouth to fuss, furrowing my brow in defiance, but I couldn't get but a single word out: "But—"
Preacher cut me with a sharp glance, his tone brooking no argument. "Ain’t no time for fussin’. Go on now."
The unspoken weight of authority and the Hetmaness's piercing gaze left my protest danglin' in mid-air, unfinished.
So while the rest of the hands were working at packing and breaking up camp, I saddled Skinny up with shaking hands and started ahead with the Cossacks.
I didn't know quite what to think as I rode up to the Cossacks. It came out kind of a nervousness and fear and excitement and even fascination, all rolled up in one. For the first part of the ride I knew they were just waiting for me to fall off old Skinny or do something stupid. But I managed to keep us with their swift pace and not look too silly, I think.
At the top of a hill, after moving like bats out of hell, Baranova suddenly stopped us and we looked far back down at the beach. Most of the Winged-A men were asaddle by now, and yelling and twirling lariats to start the heard moving toward us. Old Puddin'head, who always seemed to know the right way to go anyway, was following Preacher riding point on Dynamite, leading the cattle off in our direction. The Russians on the beach, who'd skinned the coyote-dun bull, were still busy dressing the meat, and two of them waved as cowboys rode by.
Beyond them, the blue-gray waters of the sea stretched forever.
Baranova glanced down at the scene and then at me, with hard eyes that seemed to go right through me and out the back of my head. "You gave them that entire bull."
Remember what she'd said about how important the herd was to her and her people, I hesitated a little bit before I answered. "Yup."
"Good."
She turned and rode on north, and I spurred after her.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiCThb6DWdM
