Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839), page 39
“It’s a free country,” Hawkins said. “Sit wherever you want to.”
“I wouldn’t bust in on whatever kind of talk you two are having, except that I’ve got some news to tell you, Grover.” Longarm settled into a chair. “You don’t have to worry about Prud Simmons any longer. He’s dead.”
“Why the hell did you shoot him?” Grover demanded. “I know you carried a grudge, Long, but that marshal’s badge you carry ain’t quite the same thing as a hunting license.”
“Never figured it was. Fact is, I winged him after he drew down on me, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did?” Grover frowned.
“Oren Stone.”
“Stone?” Hawkins’s jaw dropped. “Shitamighty, Marshal, Stone didn’t even know the man!”
“If you’ll take the time to listen, you’ll find out he did,” Longarm told Hawkins. “Stone as good as admitted to me that he set Prud onto the Brethren. He was the one who paid Prud to get a bunch of yahoos together and pull off that night raid where I got shot.”
“It’s going to take a lot of proof to convince me of that,” Hawkins retorted. “Stone’s no special friend of mine, but I can’t see him pulling off that kind of stunt.”
“I didn’t say he pulled it off. I’d bet he hired Prud on a sort of blank-check deal, told him to give the Brethren a bad time. Prud didn’t expect them to fight back. Things got out of hand, and he went too far.”
“Where’d he get the men who rode with him?” Grover asked.
“Oh, hell, Grover, you’ve been sheriff long enough to know that a man like Prud can find his own kind wherever he goes,” Hawkins said. “There’s not a spread around here that doesn’t hire drifters during the gather. Stands to reason there’d be a bad apple or two among them.”
Longarm nodded. “You put your finger on it, Mr. Hawkins. And I’m real relieved to hear you say what you did.”
“I don’t see why,” Hawkins said.
“Because it takes most of the blame off your hands and off the other ranchers. Now, I know and you know that when this fence-cutting got started, it was a hit-or-miss proposition. You let your hands know there wouldn’t be any smoke raised if a fence got cut now and then. I’d bet the other cattlemen did the same thing. Then Prud saw a chance to cash in on it.”
Hawkins thought this over for a moment. “I guess that’s about the way it was,” he admitted sheepishly. None of us like Glidden wire. But I don’t think any of us realized things would go so far.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Grover asked Longarm. I guess it’s turned into your case, since Simmons was a federal fugitive. You plan to bring Stone in to stand trial for killing him?”
“Not right now. I’ve already got plenty on my plate. If you’ll have whoever takes care of burying around here go by Stone’s railroad car and collect Prud’s body, that’s all I’ll ask you to do right this minute.”
Grover nodded. He looked relieved. Longarm turned to Hawkins.
“Now I’ve got something to tell you, Mr. Hawkins. You and your friends are going to be shipping out your market herds pretty soon. You’re going to be driving ’em past the wheatfields on the way to the Santa Fe corrals. Best thing you can do, all of you, is to leave your wirecutters at home. You get the drift of what I’m saying?”
Hawkins nodded. “Long, you’ve always played your cards face up with me, ever since the first time you came to my place. I like a man who does that, and I’ll always do the same with him. I don’t want any more trouble with the nesters, no matter how I feel about them. Neither do my friends. All we want is to get our herds shipped out and then go back to our places and get ready for winter.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Besides,” Hawkins went on, “we don’t have to worry about that bunch of foreigners anymore. They can’t get their crop in before the weather ruins it, and they’ve already optioned what they’ll be able to salvage to Stone. Not one of them’s going to have enough cash to get through the winter. They’ll all be gone before next spring.”
“You might be right, Hawkins,” Longarm replied. “I don’t say you are, I don’t say you ain’t. I feel sorry for those homesteaders, and I’ve been helping them when I could, without hurting you ranchers.”
“So I’ve heard. Well, that’s your privilege, I guess.”
Grover stood up. He was obviously anxious to end the conversation between Hawkins and Longarm. “I’d better go see Stebbins, and tell him to get his burying crew out to fix up a casket.”
“I’ll walk with you a ways,” Hawkins said. He rose and started out, then turned back and said to Longarm, “I guess you’ll be leaving pretty soon now. Not much for you to do, with everything peaceful.”
The deputy pushed his Stetson back on his forehead. “Oh, you ain’t seen the last of me yet. It’s still a while before election, but maybe you forgot about that being my real job down here. You won’t get rid of me until my business is finished. And that won’t be till the last vote’s been cast and counted.”
Longarm watched Grover and Hawkins walk out of the restaurant. Their heads were together and they were obviously discussing some kind of election strategy inspired by his reminder. He chuckled and signaled to the waiter. The void in his midsection had been getting bigger and bigger while he’d talked, and the steak with fried potatoes he’d come in for was long overdue.
* * *
Snow was still falling when Longarm left the restaurant, having eased the grumblings of his belly. It was a typical early-season prairie snow—tiny, soft flakes no bigger than a baby’s fingernail, and just about as thick. In most places the snow melted as soon as it touched the warm ground; later, as the earth cooled through longer, chillier nights, the snow would stick. Now it danced erratically in the black sky, and the night wind, which had taken on a real bite while Longarm was at supper, swept the tiny flakes along the street, mixed with the dust that had grown to a thin, irritating layer during the long, dry weeks of the expiring summer.
Feeling the soft, cold touch of snowflakes on his face, Longarm thought about the wheat so laboriously planted and tended by the Brethren. According to everything he’d seen in the past, wheat had always been cut before the first snow. In the fields around Junction, the grain had headed out and was turning to golden yellow, but hadn’t yet reached harvest stage. He wondered how the homesteaders were going to make it through the winter if their crop was small, and the options held by Stone kept them from selling it where they could get top market price.
He shrugged off the problem as he stood on the board sidewalk in front of the restaurant, looking across the street at the lights of the Cattleman’s and the Ace High, trying to decide whether to cross to one of the saloons. The night was still early, but after a few seconds of deliberation he decided it was time for him to wind up his day. He had a gun to clean, a still-healing wound to rest, and a hell of a lot of thinking to do.
* * *
There were few signs of the snowfall the next morning when Longarm rode out to the Danilov house. Except for a tracery of thin white rime along the edges of the wheatfields and a small streak or two in a deep rut of the road, the ground was clear. In the fields, the grain heads nodded as the fitful breeze passed over them. It seemed to Longarm that the wheat had matured to a deeper yellow in the short time that had passed since he’d looked at it when riding back from the Danilovs’ to Junction, and that had been only a few days ago.
Mordka kept telling me not to worry about the weather, he thought, and I guess he knows more about it than I do. The only thing I was ever good at growing is my whiskers.
Tatiana opened the door. “Serdechenly privelstvovai! I make you welcome, Marshal Long. Come, sit down. Is kettle hot on stove, I give you tea.”
“Where’s Mordka?” Longarm asked as he stepped into the house.
“Is by our neighbors down the lane. Petra Tuscheva is have new baby. Kum Mordka and matushka go there. But they are to come back soon. Sit, please. I make you tea.”
Tatiana acts right glad to see me, Longarm thought, pulling out a chair from Mordka’s familiar book-piled table and sitting down. Tatiana was busy at the kitchen range. She moved with graceful speed, putting tea leaves in the pot and filling it with water from the kettle that steamed on the stove. While the tea steeped, she spooned wild strawberry jam into tall, thick glasses, and poured the hot tea over the jam until the glasses were brimful. Carrying the tea to the table, she carefully set a glass at Longarm’s elbow, then pulled up a chair for herself and sat facing him.
“Is heal up good, your wound?” she asked.
“Just fine. You did a real good job of nursing me, Tatiana, you and your mother. I’m real grateful to you for tending me.”
“Is not require, you thank us. You do for the Bratiya very much.”
“I’m just glad I could.” Longarm sipped the tea, fragrant and sweet with the jam dissolved in it. He smiled at Tatiana. “You look prettier than ever today, Tatiana.”
“Spasiba, Marshal. Is soon now—”
What Tatiana had been going to say was lost in the banging of the front door as it burst open with such force that it crashed into the wall beside the jamb. Silhouetted in the opening was a man—a big man, his shoulders so broad that they almost spanned the full width of the door, and so tall that his head was within an inch of the top of the frame. A long, curved scimitar dangled from one of his hamlike hands.
Tatiana gasped, “Antonin! What do you here?”
Longarm had leaped to his feet and faced the door when it banged, his hand sweeping his Colt from its holster in reflex action. If he’d seen the intruder before, he didn’t recall him, but when he saw that Tatiana recognized the man, he relaxed and lowered the pistol.
“I see the Amirikanits ride up,” the man said. “I know Mordka and Marya are by Tuscheva house. I come to protect you, Tatiana.”
Belatedly, Longarm understood. The man in the doorway was Tatiana’s fiancé. He said, “Miss Tatiana doesn’t need to be protected from me. I sure didn’t come here to harm her.”
“Is what you say!”
“Antonin! Shpapa oobrate!” Tatiana said angrily, pointing at the sword.
“Nyet!” Antonin raised the curved blade and pointed it at Longarm. “Ero vbibat!”
Though he did not understand Antonin’s words, Longarm got the message of the sword pointed at him. He said, “Now hold on! If you got ideas about us getting into a fracas over Miss Tatiana, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I ain’t trying to cut you out with her. She’s a real nice young lady, and I like her fine, but I know you’re the one she’s promised to marry.”
“Ubi vesti, Antonin!” Tatiana snapped. Then, switching to English for Longarm’s benefit, “Behave yourself! You are foolish to be so jealous!”
“That’s right,” Longarm agreed. “We’re just sitting here talking, while I wait for Mordka to come back. That’s all.”
“Is what you say!” Antonin retorted. “Oh, I see you ride up so sly, when you know Tatiana you find by herself!” He swung the sword menacingly and took a step into the room. “Now I stop you from bothering my Tatiana!” He paid no attention to the pistol in Longarm’s hand.
“Bojie moy!” Tatiana exclaimed. “Marshal Long does not bother! He comes as friend!”
“Nyet! He comes to win you from me!” Raising the sword, Antonin started across the room.
Longarm knew he could not use his Colt on the enraged Antonin, but neither did he propose to be sliced up like a side of bacon. He saw at once that his only way out of the situation was to let Antonin back him down, but that had to come later. Picking up the chair in which he’d been sitting, Longarm raised it to ward off the sword.
Tatiana started for Antonin just as he raised the scimitar. He thrust her aside, and she staggered back. Antonin brought the blade down in a sweeping sidewise cut. Longarm turned the chair to catch the glittering edge of the wickedly curved weapon.
With a crash, the scimitar hit the chair, and chips flew. The force of the blow stung Longarm’s hands. He reminded himself, while watching Antonin for some hint of his next move, not to underestimate the man’s strength.
Antonin yanked the blade out of the wood it had bitten into, and swung it behind him in the beginning of an overhead slash. Longarm raised the chair and took the downward sweep of the scimitar before it had gained enough momentum to strike hard; the blade rang as it bounced off the wood.
His downward swing had pulled Antonin’s body forward, and he stepped back to recover his balance. Tatiana grabbed his sword arm, but Antonin was too angry to think. He swung his arm and forced it free.
Longarm took the opportunity to retreat. Keeping the chair between himself and Antonin, he backed across the room toward the doorway leading to the bedroom where he’d spent so many uncomfortable hours recovering from the rifle slug. He reached the door as Antonin stalked toward him, slashing the wicked blade from side to side. It whistled as it cut through the air.
“Troossiha!” the Russian grated. “Stop to fight!”
To slow Antonin down, Longarm tossed the chair at his feet. While Antonin was untangling himself from the chair, Longarm ducked into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Through the wooden panel he could hear Antonin’s shouts, and almost at once he heard Tatiana speaking rapidly in Russian. Judging from the fishwife-sharp tone of her usually soft voice, she was berating her fiancé. The argument went on for several moments, until Antonin’s voice dropped to a muted murmur of apology. Then there was a long silence.
At last Tatiana called out, her voice proud, “Marshal Long! Out you can come, now. I have some sense talked into this wild lover of mine!”
Longarm kept up the appearance of fear. Letting himself seem afraid was the only way he could think of to soothe Antonin’s pride. He opened the door a crack and looked through the slit. Antonin stood with an arm draped protectively around Tatiana’s shoulders. The sword was lying on the floor behind the pair.
“You sure it’s all right?” Longarm asked. He opened the door a bit wider.
“Is safe for you, yes,” Antonin replied. The rage had gone from his voice. He smiled, his brown beard rippling below his shaved upper lip, and beckoned Longarm to come on through the door.
Longarm stepped into the living room. “You sure put a scare into me with that big toad-stabber. I don’t like that kind of fighting worth shucks,” he told Antonin.
“Is Cossack sword, I bring from Russia. My father take it from a man who tries to kill him.”
Tatiana said, “Antonin is sorry for his mistake. Are you not, milochka?”
“Da. I to you apologize, Marshal Long. Is that I do not understand, until Tatiana she tell me how bad you get shot.”
“Shucks, no harm done, Antonin. You’ve got a fine young lady here. Tatiana’s going to make you a real good wife.”
Tatiana smiled. “I do my best to.” There was gratitude in her smile, and relief in her voice.
Didn’t fool her for a minute, Longarm thought. But I was right, she’ll make that young fellow a good wife, maybe even give him some of her smartness. He said aloud, “We were just having some tea when you knocked, Antonin. I guess it’s cold by now, though.”
“You sit, I make fresh,” Tatiana said quickly. On the way to the kitchen range, she picked up the battered chair that Longarm had used as a shield and placed it against the wall. She was turning to go back and pick up the sword that had fallen beside it when Mordka Danilov came in the open door.
Danilov’s face broke into a smile when he saw Longarm. “Marshal Long, pazhalasta. And Antonin. But you have met before, at the supper we shared here.”
“Well, I didn’t recall him right off,” Longarm said. “But now that we’ve run into each other again, I sure won’t forget him next time.”
From over by the stove, Tatiana called, “Petra Tuscheva, how is she?”
“She is well. And her child too. A fine big boy,” Mordka replied. “Marya will stay there a while yet, to help.” He went to the table, frowned when he saw that his chair was missing from its usual place, and noticed the sword on the floor when he looked around to locate his chair. Then he saw the raw wood chips on the floor. “What has been happening here?” he asked bewilderedly.
Longarm spoke quickly. “Antonin mistook me for a stranger. He came running to protect Tatiana, and we scuffled a little bit. I guess we sort of messed things up.”
Mordka nodded. “I see. Antonin is nervous, like all of us. We feel we have enemies on all sides, I’m afraid. I was talking of this with the Brethren who came to the Tuschevas’ house to wish Petra and Sergei well.”
“Maybe you won’t need to feel that way much longer, Mordka,” Longarm began. Danilov interrupted him.
“Can you blame us, Marshal?” he asked. “Our fences cut, our grain spoiled, our people made the targets of midnight ambushers? Even you, a government officer, have suffered a bullet. Now we have another fear, and though you have done so much for us that I hesitate to ask another favor, I have promised the Brethren that I will.”
“You know I’ll do anything I can, Mordka.”
“Yes. We are lucky to have a friend like you.” Danilov hesitated, then said, “Now has come the time when we meet in our church to pray for our harvest. Some of the Brethren fear that the ranchers may cause trouble. It would be so easy for them to do, with all of us assembled in one place. Will you attend the service that night? Our men do not want to bring their weapons into our church, but if we are attacked, we would like to feel sure there will be someone there who is not bound to our vow—someone who can fight back!”
Chapter 14
“Well, I’ll come to your prayer meeting if you want me to,” Longarm replied readily. “But one of the reasons I came out here today is to tell you you ought not have any more trouble with fence-cutters, or trouble of any kind, from here on out.”
“I wouldn’t bust in on whatever kind of talk you two are having, except that I’ve got some news to tell you, Grover.” Longarm settled into a chair. “You don’t have to worry about Prud Simmons any longer. He’s dead.”
“Why the hell did you shoot him?” Grover demanded. “I know you carried a grudge, Long, but that marshal’s badge you carry ain’t quite the same thing as a hunting license.”
“Never figured it was. Fact is, I winged him after he drew down on me, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did?” Grover frowned.
“Oren Stone.”
“Stone?” Hawkins’s jaw dropped. “Shitamighty, Marshal, Stone didn’t even know the man!”
“If you’ll take the time to listen, you’ll find out he did,” Longarm told Hawkins. “Stone as good as admitted to me that he set Prud onto the Brethren. He was the one who paid Prud to get a bunch of yahoos together and pull off that night raid where I got shot.”
“It’s going to take a lot of proof to convince me of that,” Hawkins retorted. “Stone’s no special friend of mine, but I can’t see him pulling off that kind of stunt.”
“I didn’t say he pulled it off. I’d bet he hired Prud on a sort of blank-check deal, told him to give the Brethren a bad time. Prud didn’t expect them to fight back. Things got out of hand, and he went too far.”
“Where’d he get the men who rode with him?” Grover asked.
“Oh, hell, Grover, you’ve been sheriff long enough to know that a man like Prud can find his own kind wherever he goes,” Hawkins said. “There’s not a spread around here that doesn’t hire drifters during the gather. Stands to reason there’d be a bad apple or two among them.”
Longarm nodded. “You put your finger on it, Mr. Hawkins. And I’m real relieved to hear you say what you did.”
“I don’t see why,” Hawkins said.
“Because it takes most of the blame off your hands and off the other ranchers. Now, I know and you know that when this fence-cutting got started, it was a hit-or-miss proposition. You let your hands know there wouldn’t be any smoke raised if a fence got cut now and then. I’d bet the other cattlemen did the same thing. Then Prud saw a chance to cash in on it.”
Hawkins thought this over for a moment. “I guess that’s about the way it was,” he admitted sheepishly. None of us like Glidden wire. But I don’t think any of us realized things would go so far.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Grover asked Longarm. I guess it’s turned into your case, since Simmons was a federal fugitive. You plan to bring Stone in to stand trial for killing him?”
“Not right now. I’ve already got plenty on my plate. If you’ll have whoever takes care of burying around here go by Stone’s railroad car and collect Prud’s body, that’s all I’ll ask you to do right this minute.”
Grover nodded. He looked relieved. Longarm turned to Hawkins.
“Now I’ve got something to tell you, Mr. Hawkins. You and your friends are going to be shipping out your market herds pretty soon. You’re going to be driving ’em past the wheatfields on the way to the Santa Fe corrals. Best thing you can do, all of you, is to leave your wirecutters at home. You get the drift of what I’m saying?”
Hawkins nodded. “Long, you’ve always played your cards face up with me, ever since the first time you came to my place. I like a man who does that, and I’ll always do the same with him. I don’t want any more trouble with the nesters, no matter how I feel about them. Neither do my friends. All we want is to get our herds shipped out and then go back to our places and get ready for winter.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Besides,” Hawkins went on, “we don’t have to worry about that bunch of foreigners anymore. They can’t get their crop in before the weather ruins it, and they’ve already optioned what they’ll be able to salvage to Stone. Not one of them’s going to have enough cash to get through the winter. They’ll all be gone before next spring.”
“You might be right, Hawkins,” Longarm replied. “I don’t say you are, I don’t say you ain’t. I feel sorry for those homesteaders, and I’ve been helping them when I could, without hurting you ranchers.”
“So I’ve heard. Well, that’s your privilege, I guess.”
Grover stood up. He was obviously anxious to end the conversation between Hawkins and Longarm. “I’d better go see Stebbins, and tell him to get his burying crew out to fix up a casket.”
“I’ll walk with you a ways,” Hawkins said. He rose and started out, then turned back and said to Longarm, “I guess you’ll be leaving pretty soon now. Not much for you to do, with everything peaceful.”
The deputy pushed his Stetson back on his forehead. “Oh, you ain’t seen the last of me yet. It’s still a while before election, but maybe you forgot about that being my real job down here. You won’t get rid of me until my business is finished. And that won’t be till the last vote’s been cast and counted.”
Longarm watched Grover and Hawkins walk out of the restaurant. Their heads were together and they were obviously discussing some kind of election strategy inspired by his reminder. He chuckled and signaled to the waiter. The void in his midsection had been getting bigger and bigger while he’d talked, and the steak with fried potatoes he’d come in for was long overdue.
* * *
Snow was still falling when Longarm left the restaurant, having eased the grumblings of his belly. It was a typical early-season prairie snow—tiny, soft flakes no bigger than a baby’s fingernail, and just about as thick. In most places the snow melted as soon as it touched the warm ground; later, as the earth cooled through longer, chillier nights, the snow would stick. Now it danced erratically in the black sky, and the night wind, which had taken on a real bite while Longarm was at supper, swept the tiny flakes along the street, mixed with the dust that had grown to a thin, irritating layer during the long, dry weeks of the expiring summer.
Feeling the soft, cold touch of snowflakes on his face, Longarm thought about the wheat so laboriously planted and tended by the Brethren. According to everything he’d seen in the past, wheat had always been cut before the first snow. In the fields around Junction, the grain had headed out and was turning to golden yellow, but hadn’t yet reached harvest stage. He wondered how the homesteaders were going to make it through the winter if their crop was small, and the options held by Stone kept them from selling it where they could get top market price.
He shrugged off the problem as he stood on the board sidewalk in front of the restaurant, looking across the street at the lights of the Cattleman’s and the Ace High, trying to decide whether to cross to one of the saloons. The night was still early, but after a few seconds of deliberation he decided it was time for him to wind up his day. He had a gun to clean, a still-healing wound to rest, and a hell of a lot of thinking to do.
* * *
There were few signs of the snowfall the next morning when Longarm rode out to the Danilov house. Except for a tracery of thin white rime along the edges of the wheatfields and a small streak or two in a deep rut of the road, the ground was clear. In the fields, the grain heads nodded as the fitful breeze passed over them. It seemed to Longarm that the wheat had matured to a deeper yellow in the short time that had passed since he’d looked at it when riding back from the Danilovs’ to Junction, and that had been only a few days ago.
Mordka kept telling me not to worry about the weather, he thought, and I guess he knows more about it than I do. The only thing I was ever good at growing is my whiskers.
Tatiana opened the door. “Serdechenly privelstvovai! I make you welcome, Marshal Long. Come, sit down. Is kettle hot on stove, I give you tea.”
“Where’s Mordka?” Longarm asked as he stepped into the house.
“Is by our neighbors down the lane. Petra Tuscheva is have new baby. Kum Mordka and matushka go there. But they are to come back soon. Sit, please. I make you tea.”
Tatiana acts right glad to see me, Longarm thought, pulling out a chair from Mordka’s familiar book-piled table and sitting down. Tatiana was busy at the kitchen range. She moved with graceful speed, putting tea leaves in the pot and filling it with water from the kettle that steamed on the stove. While the tea steeped, she spooned wild strawberry jam into tall, thick glasses, and poured the hot tea over the jam until the glasses were brimful. Carrying the tea to the table, she carefully set a glass at Longarm’s elbow, then pulled up a chair for herself and sat facing him.
“Is heal up good, your wound?” she asked.
“Just fine. You did a real good job of nursing me, Tatiana, you and your mother. I’m real grateful to you for tending me.”
“Is not require, you thank us. You do for the Bratiya very much.”
“I’m just glad I could.” Longarm sipped the tea, fragrant and sweet with the jam dissolved in it. He smiled at Tatiana. “You look prettier than ever today, Tatiana.”
“Spasiba, Marshal. Is soon now—”
What Tatiana had been going to say was lost in the banging of the front door as it burst open with such force that it crashed into the wall beside the jamb. Silhouetted in the opening was a man—a big man, his shoulders so broad that they almost spanned the full width of the door, and so tall that his head was within an inch of the top of the frame. A long, curved scimitar dangled from one of his hamlike hands.
Tatiana gasped, “Antonin! What do you here?”
Longarm had leaped to his feet and faced the door when it banged, his hand sweeping his Colt from its holster in reflex action. If he’d seen the intruder before, he didn’t recall him, but when he saw that Tatiana recognized the man, he relaxed and lowered the pistol.
“I see the Amirikanits ride up,” the man said. “I know Mordka and Marya are by Tuscheva house. I come to protect you, Tatiana.”
Belatedly, Longarm understood. The man in the doorway was Tatiana’s fiancé. He said, “Miss Tatiana doesn’t need to be protected from me. I sure didn’t come here to harm her.”
“Is what you say!”
“Antonin! Shpapa oobrate!” Tatiana said angrily, pointing at the sword.
“Nyet!” Antonin raised the curved blade and pointed it at Longarm. “Ero vbibat!”
Though he did not understand Antonin’s words, Longarm got the message of the sword pointed at him. He said, “Now hold on! If you got ideas about us getting into a fracas over Miss Tatiana, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I ain’t trying to cut you out with her. She’s a real nice young lady, and I like her fine, but I know you’re the one she’s promised to marry.”
“Ubi vesti, Antonin!” Tatiana snapped. Then, switching to English for Longarm’s benefit, “Behave yourself! You are foolish to be so jealous!”
“That’s right,” Longarm agreed. “We’re just sitting here talking, while I wait for Mordka to come back. That’s all.”
“Is what you say!” Antonin retorted. “Oh, I see you ride up so sly, when you know Tatiana you find by herself!” He swung the sword menacingly and took a step into the room. “Now I stop you from bothering my Tatiana!” He paid no attention to the pistol in Longarm’s hand.
“Bojie moy!” Tatiana exclaimed. “Marshal Long does not bother! He comes as friend!”
“Nyet! He comes to win you from me!” Raising the sword, Antonin started across the room.
Longarm knew he could not use his Colt on the enraged Antonin, but neither did he propose to be sliced up like a side of bacon. He saw at once that his only way out of the situation was to let Antonin back him down, but that had to come later. Picking up the chair in which he’d been sitting, Longarm raised it to ward off the sword.
Tatiana started for Antonin just as he raised the scimitar. He thrust her aside, and she staggered back. Antonin brought the blade down in a sweeping sidewise cut. Longarm turned the chair to catch the glittering edge of the wickedly curved weapon.
With a crash, the scimitar hit the chair, and chips flew. The force of the blow stung Longarm’s hands. He reminded himself, while watching Antonin for some hint of his next move, not to underestimate the man’s strength.
Antonin yanked the blade out of the wood it had bitten into, and swung it behind him in the beginning of an overhead slash. Longarm raised the chair and took the downward sweep of the scimitar before it had gained enough momentum to strike hard; the blade rang as it bounced off the wood.
His downward swing had pulled Antonin’s body forward, and he stepped back to recover his balance. Tatiana grabbed his sword arm, but Antonin was too angry to think. He swung his arm and forced it free.
Longarm took the opportunity to retreat. Keeping the chair between himself and Antonin, he backed across the room toward the doorway leading to the bedroom where he’d spent so many uncomfortable hours recovering from the rifle slug. He reached the door as Antonin stalked toward him, slashing the wicked blade from side to side. It whistled as it cut through the air.
“Troossiha!” the Russian grated. “Stop to fight!”
To slow Antonin down, Longarm tossed the chair at his feet. While Antonin was untangling himself from the chair, Longarm ducked into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Through the wooden panel he could hear Antonin’s shouts, and almost at once he heard Tatiana speaking rapidly in Russian. Judging from the fishwife-sharp tone of her usually soft voice, she was berating her fiancé. The argument went on for several moments, until Antonin’s voice dropped to a muted murmur of apology. Then there was a long silence.
At last Tatiana called out, her voice proud, “Marshal Long! Out you can come, now. I have some sense talked into this wild lover of mine!”
Longarm kept up the appearance of fear. Letting himself seem afraid was the only way he could think of to soothe Antonin’s pride. He opened the door a crack and looked through the slit. Antonin stood with an arm draped protectively around Tatiana’s shoulders. The sword was lying on the floor behind the pair.
“You sure it’s all right?” Longarm asked. He opened the door a bit wider.
“Is safe for you, yes,” Antonin replied. The rage had gone from his voice. He smiled, his brown beard rippling below his shaved upper lip, and beckoned Longarm to come on through the door.
Longarm stepped into the living room. “You sure put a scare into me with that big toad-stabber. I don’t like that kind of fighting worth shucks,” he told Antonin.
“Is Cossack sword, I bring from Russia. My father take it from a man who tries to kill him.”
Tatiana said, “Antonin is sorry for his mistake. Are you not, milochka?”
“Da. I to you apologize, Marshal Long. Is that I do not understand, until Tatiana she tell me how bad you get shot.”
“Shucks, no harm done, Antonin. You’ve got a fine young lady here. Tatiana’s going to make you a real good wife.”
Tatiana smiled. “I do my best to.” There was gratitude in her smile, and relief in her voice.
Didn’t fool her for a minute, Longarm thought. But I was right, she’ll make that young fellow a good wife, maybe even give him some of her smartness. He said aloud, “We were just having some tea when you knocked, Antonin. I guess it’s cold by now, though.”
“You sit, I make fresh,” Tatiana said quickly. On the way to the kitchen range, she picked up the battered chair that Longarm had used as a shield and placed it against the wall. She was turning to go back and pick up the sword that had fallen beside it when Mordka Danilov came in the open door.
Danilov’s face broke into a smile when he saw Longarm. “Marshal Long, pazhalasta. And Antonin. But you have met before, at the supper we shared here.”
“Well, I didn’t recall him right off,” Longarm said. “But now that we’ve run into each other again, I sure won’t forget him next time.”
From over by the stove, Tatiana called, “Petra Tuscheva, how is she?”
“She is well. And her child too. A fine big boy,” Mordka replied. “Marya will stay there a while yet, to help.” He went to the table, frowned when he saw that his chair was missing from its usual place, and noticed the sword on the floor when he looked around to locate his chair. Then he saw the raw wood chips on the floor. “What has been happening here?” he asked bewilderedly.
Longarm spoke quickly. “Antonin mistook me for a stranger. He came running to protect Tatiana, and we scuffled a little bit. I guess we sort of messed things up.”
Mordka nodded. “I see. Antonin is nervous, like all of us. We feel we have enemies on all sides, I’m afraid. I was talking of this with the Brethren who came to the Tuschevas’ house to wish Petra and Sergei well.”
“Maybe you won’t need to feel that way much longer, Mordka,” Longarm began. Danilov interrupted him.
“Can you blame us, Marshal?” he asked. “Our fences cut, our grain spoiled, our people made the targets of midnight ambushers? Even you, a government officer, have suffered a bullet. Now we have another fear, and though you have done so much for us that I hesitate to ask another favor, I have promised the Brethren that I will.”
“You know I’ll do anything I can, Mordka.”
“Yes. We are lucky to have a friend like you.” Danilov hesitated, then said, “Now has come the time when we meet in our church to pray for our harvest. Some of the Brethren fear that the ranchers may cause trouble. It would be so easy for them to do, with all of us assembled in one place. Will you attend the service that night? Our men do not want to bring their weapons into our church, but if we are attacked, we would like to feel sure there will be someone there who is not bound to our vow—someone who can fight back!”
Chapter 14
“Well, I’ll come to your prayer meeting if you want me to,” Longarm replied readily. “But one of the reasons I came out here today is to tell you you ought not have any more trouble with fence-cutters, or trouble of any kind, from here on out.”
