The Cossack Cowboy. Lester S. Taube

dead, Little Cossack.”

      “No, I’m all right. Got lost in the forest for a while, that’s all. I’m glad to see you’re in one piece.”

      Grigory untied the strips of undershirt that Paul had used to bandage his side and examined the wound. “You are lucky, my friend, it is a clean one. But we’d better get it tended before it becomes infected.”

      “We’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Paul. “I’m taking this wound back to the village. It needs soft, tender hands, not those horny claws you Old Believers carry about.”

      Grigory laughed, slapping his knee. “And take a guess, Little Cossack, what we fished out of that boat we saved.”

      Paul eyed him narrowly. “Impossible,” he said. “Women don’t sail in river boats.”

      “Oh, no! And what would you say if I told you there are twenty-two ladies aboard on their way to Navarok to dance in a ballet?”

      Paul sat up straighter and cocked his hat at a rakish angle. “I’d say you are greatest liar west of the Urals or a magician in disguise.”

      “And what else would you say, Little Cossack, if I told you it will take two, maybe three days to find a new Captain and pilot for the boat and that we will have to watch over these little pigeons until they come?”

      Paul licked his lips. “Then I would say, you magnificent Cossack, that we are wasting time standing here.” And with that, be slipped out his nagaika and brought it crashing down on the rump of his horse.

      It was a joyous three days. To prevent his men from crippling each other within the hour, Grigory sent all but nineteen of them back to their base camp under the command of one of his lieutenants. He realized that keeping only nineteen men plus Paul and himself for twenty-two girls meant that they had an extra girl on hand, but he also knew Paul. They set up camp on shore, took supplies from the boat, including cases of vodka, and settled down to enjoy the fruits of Victory. It developed into such an orgy that fishermen who passed by spoke of it for fifty miles up and down the river. Actually, it became such a riot that two Cossacks were nearly killed doing tricks on horseback while blind drunk.

      The celebration came to an end when a fast river boat sailed up with a replacement crew and the women waved a tearful goodbye to the Cossacks. Well, not all of them. Two of the women were missing when the new Captain counted heads, and they were found hiding in the forest waiting to follow Paul when the Cossacks moved on. They had to be tied hand and foot and dragged aboard, where they kept screaming until the boat reached its destination.

      The fast river boat brought more than the replacement crew. It also brought three well-dressed men carrying black leather cases. Mr. Blatherbell eyed the two struggling, shouting women as they were taken below deck and he turned to his partners.

      “I do believe our search is ended,” he said.

      “It could be a coincidence,” warned Mr. Poopendal.

      “Impossible,” said Mr. Blatherbell without hesitation. He looked about. “My good man,” he called out to a Cossack reeling by. “Who is in charge here?”

      The Cossack pointed to Grigory sitting forlornly on the beach watching the women waving goodbye. Then the Cossack passed out.

      Mr. Blatherbell led the way gingerly through the whooping singing Cossacks and approached the giant.

      “Pardon me,” he said. “Would you know the whereabouts of an Englishman named Mr. Paul Sanderson?”

      Grigory climbed ponderously to his feet and glared down at the three men. They shuddered and shrank back. “I don’t know any Paul Sanderson,” he growled. “What do you want with my friend, Paul anyhow? Have you come to make trouble?”

      Mr. Blatherbell gulped to regain his breath, “We are here to bring very good news to Mr. Sanderson,” he said, then added hastily, ‘that is, if he should happen to pass by, of course, for you have convinced us that no Paul Sanderson is nearby.” He wiped his head with a large handkerchief.

      “What’s this good news for my friend, Paul, who is not here?” asked Grigory, less sternly.

      Mr. Blatherbell regained some of his composure. “A relative of Mr. Sanderson has died and left him considerable property.”

      Grigory peered at them closely while rocking slightly backward and forward, his cropped hair standing on end, the collar of his tunic and green shirt open, his beard still damp from spilled vodka.

      “Are you telling me the truth?” he growled. “I swear you will be fertilizer for sunflowers if you are lying to me.”

      “The absolute truth,” said Mr. Blatherbell, again full of confidence. “However, if Mr. Sanderson is not here, we will be on our way.” He motioned to his partners and they began walking towards the river boat which was waiting for them.

      “Wait!” shouted Grigory. He scratched his head vigorously, thinking furiously. Then his face cleared. “I know a man who is not Paul Sanderson, but I will have him listen to you.” He turned and scanned the area. “Hey, Little Cossack!” he yelled. He looked about, but Paul did not appear.

      One of his Cossacks staggered by. “Are you looking for your friend Paul, my Captain?” he asked Grigory.

      “I don’t have a friend named Paul,” shouted Grigory. “Do you know where the Little Cossack has gone?”

      “Yes, my Captain,” mumbled the Cossack, pointing at the forest. ‘I saw him there barely an hour ago, sleeping.”

      Grigory lurched towards the spot indicated by his soldier, and minutes later be returned, supporting Paul, whose legs were like jelly.

      “This is the fellow who is not Paul Sanderson,” said Grigory. “You tell him what you told me.”

      Paul forced his eyes open and worked desperately to focus them. “Who are you?” he asked.

      “I am James Blatherbell, senior partner of the firm of solicitors of Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas, Your Grace. We …”.

      “What did you call me?” asked Paul, rapidly throwing off the drunken fog.

      “Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell.

      “You mean to say the old bastard is dead?” asked Paul grinning.

      “Yes, Your Grace.. He died almost two months ago.”

      “Well, what about old rump-licker, Percy? Did he forget to kiss the old bastard’s boot one day?”

      “Lord Percival met with an unfortunate accident on the eve of your uncle’s demise. .A fatal accident.”

      “Well, good for old Percy boy. I always knew he would stumble at the last hurdle.” A wide grin came to his lips. “So I’m a blooming duke, am I?”

      “Yes, Your Grace.”

      Paul turned to Grigory. “How do you like that, you crazy Cossack! Little old Paul is a blooming duke.”

      “You’re a real duke?” said Grigory, awed. “The same kind of duke as we have in Russia?”

      “You can bet your sweet old life on that,” yelled Paul. “A real live, wind-passing, arse-pinching, village-owning duke, with a castle bigger than this whole blooming forest.” He spun towards Mr. Blatherbell. “How much can I get for the castle?”

      “I don’t quite know, but it would be a large sum.”

      Paul sobered. He turned and looked directly at Grigory. “You will come with me, won’t you, my friend?”

      Grigory smiled wistfully as he shook his head. “It is a different world there, my Little Cossack. My world is here. I would not be the same man elsewhere.” He put his arms around Paul’s shoulders. “Go, my friend, be the Duke you are. Just remember that I love you more than a brother.”

      They