There was a sudden, wild bellowing from a cow that sounded like it was being murdered, and three or four gunshots banged out on top of each other.

That greasy-sack outfit came to life like lightning.  I'd jumped up and was jerking on my second boot when a voice yelled out from the other side of the herd, "Wolves!  A million of 'em!" The watch had changed, and it was Flem's voice.

"Don't shoot into the herd!" Preacher roared.  He'd gotten up early and was already dressed and saddled up.  He jumped aboard Dynamite and tore off toward where there was now more scattered firing, and that section of the herd was starting to mill around in wild panic, the other cows quickly picking up the feeling of fear.

From the Cossack camp I heard Baranova give a loud, brief order in Russian.

And then the rest of us were getting aboard horses, and if it hadn't been so serious it would've been kinda funny.  Most of us were in various states of undress, and about half of the hands were still in red or white long-johns, a couple with the rear-end flaps still flapping open.  I always slept with my shirt and pants on, so that was no problem for me.  But in the whole group there were only three things every man had on without exception--his boots, his gun and his hat.

I threw a bridle on Skinny and jumped on his back, not taking the time to saddle him, and galloped off at the same time Tachito and Chaytahn did.

There was enough gray morning light to see fairly well as we forced our way through the milling herd toward the center of trouble.

The first Siberian wolf I saw scared me and Skinny so much we almost went down in a heap together.  It was bigger than any timber wolf I'd ever seen, with a mottled gray body and a black stripe running all the way down in back, from the top of its huge head to the tip of its tail.  It flashed across our path almost under Skinny's front legs and Skinny reared up, nearly over backward.

"Jesus Christ!" Flem was yelling.  "These crazy wolves are outta their minds!"

By any of our standards he was certainly right. Those first shots should have sent any normal pack hightailing it.  But these fierce bastards weren't afraid of the gunfire or of our loud shouting.  Unlike our wolves, they didn't make, and hadn't made a sound, no howling or growling or snarling. They also hadn't bided their time to sooner or later pick off a stray, but had boldly hit the whole herd, probably to cut one cow and kill it.  And while any normal wolf will retreat in an instant once the pack is broken up, these didn't feel that way.  With yelling, sometimes shooting cowboys on their tails, wolf seemed to be making his own individual fight of it.  Preacher charged Dynamite a few feet up a hill out of the herd and a big gray monster lunged for Dynamite's hind legs.  Preacher swung around in the saddle and shot him through the head so that he went sprawling away down the hill.  "Look t' your horses!" Preacher roared.  "They're goin' after them too!"

It was a chaotic, deafening, rough situation.  In those close, swirling quarters a shot might hit a beef, a horse or even another rider.

And if one wolf bit through the hock tendon of any animal's back leg, that animal would be gone.

It was about then that the Cossacks, who'd had a little longer way to come, charged into the melee.  They were mostly bareback, and mostly half-dressed, too, even though their underwear was fancier than our long johns, a lot of it shiny and colorful cloth.

But they had something we sure as hell didn't have, and I suddenly knew what command Baranova had yelled to them in their camp before.  She'd heard what Preacher had called out, about not shooting into the herd, and so he and every man with her had his sword out and held up high.

And, in that massive, churning whirlpool of men and animals, the way they used their swords was plain and simple awe-inspiring.  With us and our guns it'd just been a confusing mess.  Now, with them, it was still a confusing mess, but it was a battleground, too.  Leaning half out of their saddless horses with some of their blindingly swift, incredibly accurate swings, they sliced and cut at the wolves they came upon as they slashed their way among the bawling, desperate cattle.

One Cossack and his more or less pinto suddenly went down not far from me and I slammed Skinny through the bellowing longhorns toward him.  A wolf had severed his horse's rear left tendon.  As I closed on him, the wolf, with hooves thudding all around them, leaped toward the man's throat.  The Cossack, one elbow on the ground, swung with his sword and cut off the wolf's whole head, where it lay still snapping blindly at the air.

I reached down, realizing for the first time that it was Max. Understanding instantly, he reached up from where he was lying with one leg still under his horse.  A big, bewildered bull leaped partially over his downed horse, one forehoof landing with crushing force on Max's other leg before the bull swung off.  I knew how much that hoof hurt, because it'd happened to me in gentler circumstances on the boat a few nights before.  But Max acted like it was nothing, and a second later we'd gotten him behind aboard Skinny.

By now there wasn't much left of the wolf pack. The four or five of them that were still alive sped away behind their leader, a giant who'd lost about half his tail somewhere, and who was almost completely black.

Flem and some others took a few pot shots at them as they raced toward cover in the forest.  They knocked down a couple more, but then the black giant and the others were out of sight among the trees.

Jamie has always claimed that cows are sometimes among the great philosophers of the world, and I guess he's right because the herd calmed down almost instantly once those last few wolves were gone.

I dropped Max off Skinny near where Baranova and most of her men had dismounted.  The other Cossacks were making a count of dead wolves, which was getting easier because the cattle didn't like the scent of blood and were gradually moving away toward the more pleasing smell of simple, fresh grass.

Max looked up at me and nodded slightly, but he didn't say anything.  He seemed embarrassed because I'd helped him out of a jam, and I couldn't understand that.  But there was something else that seemed to be bothering him even more.  And I should've understood that---even more.

Max said something to Baranova in a very quiet voice. And Baranova, who was wearing a revolver, took it out and handed it to him.

Max then walked over to his horse, who was still alive.  It was only a hundred feet or so, but it was a long, long walk for him.

I felt like I shouldn't be there, but I didn't quite know what to do and just riding off would have seemed sacrilegious.

Max stroked the helpless animal's muzzle and face, scratched the horse's forehead a little, and then rubbed his neck.  He was still rubbing his neck when he shot him.  The horse didn't make a sound.  He just stretched his legs out, so they quivered gently for a moment, and then he died.

Max walked back and handed Baranova the gun.   Then he turned and started walking back toward the Cossack camp. Baranova looked at me, her dark eyes searching mine even though I wasn't looking right back at her.  I didn't feel like looking at anybody just then.

That poor damned horse could have just as well been my Skinny.

So without looking at anyone or saying anything, I turned Skinny around and rode back to camp.

Preacher and the others were already there.  One of the wolves had bitten Coyote's right forearm to the bone, and Preacher and Jamie were working on it to clean it up and stop the bleeding.

Preacher noticed me come up and dismount, and he spoke with quiet warmth to Coyote, who was in considerable pain and held a bottle of bourbon in his other hand.  "Don't know what t' do with you, Coyote.  Keep ya' out one fight with Molly an' ya' go righty out an' get in another fight with a wolf."

It was a vicious, double-fang wound, the torn-out kind that it hurts even to look at.  I had the sinking feeling that Coyote could lose that arm. "One thing I'll guarantee ya'," I told Coyote as lightly as I could. "In a fair fight, I'd never bitten ya quite that hard."

Coyote took a long drink and then forced a small grin, though his hurt arm was starting to involuntarily shake. "That damn wolf was really mixed up.  Leaped up on me like he was gonna threw me outta the saddle an' ride m' horse."

At this point Baranova rode into camp and got down from her big black.  "I heard one of your men is hurt."

Preacher said, "We're takin' care of it."

"I'm sure you are." Baranova walked over to them and looked at the wound.  "This could be serious, and I've had some experience with wolf bites."

"That makes two of us," Preacher said curtly.

"I'd take it as a personal favor Hetmaness Baranova," Jamie said quietly, "if you'll stay here and give us any advice you might happen t' have."

Preacher gave Jamie a critical glance, and then he gave me an even tougher one when I poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the fire and handed it to Baranova. 

Ike, more curious than friendly, asked, "How many wolves get killed back there, all together?"

"Twenty-three," Baranova's answer was in kind, crisp and to the point, with no trace of friendship in her voice.  "Four by your guns.  Three by the longhorns themselves."

"Them longhorns ain't too bright," Flem said, "but they're tougher'n nails when they git pissed."

"Jeez!" Goldy frowned deeply, thinking. "You got sixteen o' them varmints with them old-fashioned swords!"

"They are called sabers."

There was a silence as we all took in that different word and grimly watched Preacher and Jamie working intently on Coyote's arm.

Finally, Preacher said, "It's gonna need stitches."

Jamie, only half thinking about it, looked at Baranova, who nodded just once.

"Who's got a needle an' thread on 'em?" Jamie asked.

Goldy said, "I have.  Been fixin' my chaps."

"Jesus Christ, no!" Coyote groaned.  "That leather-workin' needle's big as a railroad spike!"

Death said, "I got one not so big right here, for shirt buttons and the like."

"Heat it in the fire," Preacher said.  Coyote wet his lips and Preacher went on.  "Hit that bourbon as hard as you want." As the hurt man drank deeply, Death heated the long, narrow needle until its end was glowing yellow.  Then, threading the needle, Preacher said, "As long as I've got t' do all this work anyway, ya' want me t' sew a couple buttons on your arms?"

"Not really."  Coyote took another long drink and put the bottle down.

"It'd be damned interestin,' and might even possibly make ya' more attractive."

But now, in dead silence, Preacher concentrating intently, the hot needle was already going quickly, efficiently and terribly painfully through Coyote's flesh, drawing the muscles and skin closer together.  Coyote was gritting his teeth and in a cold sweat, both from the pain and from the repulsive idea of his arm being sewed together.  "Goddamn it!" he said weakly, and yet angry at the same time. "Somebody say somethin' so I can listen to it!"

Glory, grasping for something, said out loud, "What I want t' know is why that herd didn't stampede t'night!"

"They'd a' stampeded except they couldn't make up their mind which direction t' go," Flem answered equally loudly.

"Huh!" Chaytan grunted abruptly. "Tachito!  Old Fooler!"

"What he means," Tachito said strongly, watching Coyote's pain-stricken face, "is that I rode by Dynamite and was smart enough to jump off Lucifer onto him instead!  My shirt was only halfway on anyway so I took it off and held it over Dynamite's eyes so he couldn't see!  Most of those cows are so used to followin' him that when he went in circles they must've thought that was the right thing to do! It seemed like a lot better thing to do than go off and get my arm half chewed off by an unfriendly wolf!"

"And also," Flem's voice boomed, "without Dynamite them cows didn't know whether they was comin' or goin' anyhow!  If they run off from one wolf, they was runnin' right smack t'ward another one!  Them dumb damn wolves is the only ones ever made a whole stampede take place all in the same place!"

"Which just goes to prove a simple fact!" I said loudly.  "Those dumb wolves must be about the same level a' cowhand as this hear old fella Coyote Crawford!  Equally dumb and grouchy!  No wonder one of 'em tried to take over his horse an' ride it!  Probably wanted his job!"

Glory picked it up and half-yelled, "Hell, yes!  That goddamn wolf no doubt rides better! And sure as he'll'd be worth more salary at the end a' th' month!"

And now with his quick, powerful and yet at the moment very delicate hands, Preacher had finished sewing the gaping flesh of Coyote's arm back into place.  He knotted the thread in place and bit it off and leaned back to take a deep breath.

I'd thought Coyote had passed out two or three times, but he managed to raise his head slightly, knowing that it was over.  "That wolf might'a killed me," he said weakly.  "But with you fellas, an' the jokes ya come up with, I'll damn well never have t' worry about laughin' m'self t' death!" And then he laid his head back down and closed his eyes.

Preacher looked at us with grim, hard approval.  "He's right about your humor not bein' too big of a danger." Then he took the bottle of bourbon and poured it on the sewed-up wound, gently squeezing as much of it as possible into the places where the closed flesh had been torn open.  "He'll be okay now."

"No, he will not." Baranova's voice was very quiet and dead on the level.  "The arm has already been infected."

Coyote's arm did seem a little bit bitter.

Jamie stood up.  "We've done all we can for him, Hetmaness."

Baranova shook her head and said very simply, "You have not."

Preacher turned slowly and faced her, and as always there was the feeling between them of an earthquake about to hit the whole area.  "The sewin' was good, and bourbon's a good outside cure."

None of us, except maybe Preacher, could get mad at what Baranova said and the way she said it.  "Those wolves don't have the cleanest fangs in the world.  Infection has set in."

Preacher nodded.  "That's always possible."

"Whatever poisons are in there must be drawn off."

They both meant every word they said, and for the first time this was a quiet, thoughtful duel between man and woman, backed up by the things that each player knew.

"If his arm swells any more," Preacher said, "we'll make a poultice outta cowshit. That'll draw everything but a man's bones out."

"You need a simple, swift thing, now, Baranova stepped to Coyote, kneeled down and put her hand on his forehead, then his hurt arm. "Otherwise, he'll lose this arm or die."

I loved Preacher for saying what he said then.

He said, "This man means more to me than any fifty men you'll ever know."  Then as Baranova looked up at him with those damned, dark, piercing eyes, he said, "He's only 23 years old, and he hasn't had as much trouble and fun as he ought to, and if you got anything constructive, I'll listen to it."

"What medicines do you have?" Baranova asked.

"Two. Quinine, for the fever, and whiskey."

Baranova was already working with Coyote, rubbing his wrists hard between her powerful hands, and then putting her right hand very softly and lightly over Coyote's heart and on his forehead.  With all her obvious concern for Coyote she suddenly said a thing that shocked and almost stunned me. She said bitterly, "I'd have expected more from the modern, up-to-date United States of North America!"

Baranova was leaning down over Coyote, and Preacher now leaned down over him again, one of them on each side of the hurt man.  "All right," Preacher said, his jaw hard.  "I told you this man means somethin' to me!  You and your goddamn Russians come up with somethin' that'll help him more than me and cowshit and bourbon can help him!"

Baranova put her hand on Coyote's face and worked with it softly.  "Come awake.  Be aware.  I need one thing from you. Saliva."

Coyote kinda woke up but didn't quite understand what was going on. He mumbled something, but nobody knew what it was.  

"I can use my own, or others', but it's best from you," Baranova said.

"This dumb bitch says she needs your spit!" Preacher told him.

Chaytan, Indian-like, nodded and grinned at this.  

"Hell, I ain't got none left," Coyote whispered.

"Then make some!" Baranova lifted him, cradling him in her arm.

"You make some!" Jamie leaned down near Coyote. "It may have t' do with bein' one-armed or two-armed---or bein' dead!"

In just a little while I was really proud I hadn't fought with Coyote last night, because with no spit left in him, and too tired to hardly breathe anyway, he spit a handful of spit into Baranova's hand.  Part of it was natural and put of it was chocking, but it worked either way, I guess.

And Baranova just mixed that spit with a little dirt she picked up from the ground in her other hand.  And finally, Baranova had a little handful of a sort of wet spit and earth, and she said in a very soft voice to Coyote that it was okay for him to go to sleep again.

And that American spit and Russian ground was the poultice!

Preacher didn't fuss and he didn't cooperate either.  He stood back while Baranova and Jamie bound the poultice around Coyote's arm with a piece of fairly clean cloth.

When that was done Baranova said, "If the swelling goes down within three hours, his arm will cure itself and he'll live."

It seemed a hundred years long, but the top edge of the sun was just coming up over eastern hills now.

"Get ready to move when all of that sun's in sight," Preacher said.

Baranova swung onto her horse before replying. "No!"

"Why not?  My men'll be ready!"

Baranova took the time to swing her big black around.  "My men must attend a burial."

"Burial?" For a moment Preacher was really concerned. "One of your men...."

"No.  One our horses."

"One of your horses!?"

I somehow knew Baranova was talking about Max's horse, and I couldn't help but agree with him, though I didn't say anything.

Baranova said patiently, "A warrior's burial.  He died bravely, and with honor.  We'll dig a grave for him and bury him with the honor he has earned.  And after those things are taken care of, we'll be ready to leave, about noon."

She turned and rode away.