The Cossack Cowboy. Lester S. Taube

their ears. On stage was Maria Teresca - it could be no other. She was not just a woman, but fire, her raven-black hair piled high on her head, half-closed dusky eyes bewitching all who gazed into them, hand-filling pear-shaped breasts thrusting against the sheer silk of her bodice, long handsome legs spread wide apart as a pivot for her hips to sway in movements so provocative that all on stage and in the audience stared at her vortex, hidden beneath the layers of cloth, but visible in imagination.

      Quietly, the three solicitors took seats until she finished her aria, then rose as one man to applaud loudly as she whirled off the stage.

      “Come,” said Mr. Blatherbell, leading his two junior partners to the side of the theatre. He asked a stagehand for directions to Maria Teresca’s dressing room and knocked softly on the door. A maid looked out.

      “I would like to speak with Signora Teresca regarding a Mr. Paul Sanderson,” he said.

      “Paul!” screamed a voice from within, and the door was jerked open. The three solicitors were not completely disappointed even though she still had on her bloomers. Mr. Blatherbell sighed again as he came face to face with two naked breasts bouncing up and down with her excitement. She pushed him aside and looked out into the corridor. “Where is my Paul?” she shouted.

      “Signora, please allow me to explain,” said Mr. Blatherbell, his head bobbing up and down with the movements of her breasts. “We are searching for Mr. Sanderson ourselves. We had hoped to find him here?

      Maria threw herself on a chair and covered her face with her hands. I knew it was too good to be true,” she sobbed. “He will not come back to me - not from her.”

      “From whom?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.

      “That ... that beast!” she cried bitterly. The three solicitors looked at each other knowingly. Maria sat up with tear-stained face, her arms hanging limply by her sides, unaware that she was naked from the navel up. She sighed. “I curse the day we walked in the park. Until then, he was my Paul, mine to slave for, to caress, to awaken each morning with joy in my heart at seeing him there by my side. Never, never has there been a man like him.”

      “Do you know the name of this woman?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

      Maria’s head rose sharply. “What woman, Signor?”

      “The one you spoke of - in the park.”

      “Pah! You think a woman could take my Paul from me? Never.” Her face fell. “It was a horse.”

      “A horse!” shouted Messrs. Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas together.

      “Yes,” she said sadly. “I must admit, it was a magnificent one, that beast. Oh, how I tried to buy it for him, but”, she shrugged, “there are things neither flesh nor money can purchase.”

      “Then he went after the horse?” asked Mr. Blatherbell, unbelievingly.

      “Yes.”

      “Do you expect him to return here?”

      Maria’s hands rose and fell in the most expressive language of a defeated woman. “Who knows, Signor, what is in the heart of a man. A year he is gone now. What can one hope for?”

      “This horse,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “Where did it go?”

      “Poland.”

      “Poland!” shouted Mr. Blatherbell. “Impossible.”

      “Where in Poland?” probed Mr. Snoddergas.

      “Somewhere near Warsaw, on the estate of a Count Greski.”

      Mr. Blatherbell drew out his black notebook and wrote down the information. He shook his head as he placed it back into his pocket and got up from his chair. “That man, he is incredible. Thank you, Signora, for your help.” He motioned to the others and they turned towards the door.

      “Signor,” came a plaintive call from behind him. He turned.

      “Yes, Signora.”

      “If ... if you find him, please tell him to come back to me. Tell him I will do anything if he will just take me into his arms again. Please, please.”

      Mr. Blatherbell gazed helplessly at the half-naked goddess and heaved a sigh of envy. “If I find him, I will give him your message.”

      The Greski estate was a vast empire of forests and farms through which rivers flowed from end to end and streams crisscrossed, rising from or emptying into lakes many miles long, quilted by herds of cattle and sheep and fleet-footed horses, and dark with countless pens of swine. Peasants tilled the fields of cabbages and hay and beet, and Mr. Poopendal, a farm boy at birth, pointed out to his associates how modern were the ploughs and rakes and seeders.

      They rode contentedly in a troika drawn by pale white horses, their manes and tails braided and decorated with ribbons, trotting smoothly over the dirt road, the driver flicking his whip idly, not really requiring it to make the trim animals pull steadily but as an ornament like the ribbons.

      As they rounded a bend, they saw a cart piled high with hay, and the troika driver raised a horn slung over one shoulder by a leather strap and blew three toots, never slackening speed as his quick-trotting horses bore down on the slow-moving cart, the peasant working desperately to get it out of the way. They whirled past with only inches to spare, the driver raising his whip in salute, not looking back to see, nor caring, that the peasant was shaking his fist at them.

      In the forest, woodsmen were cutting logs from huge pine trees, snaking them out by horse to trails running alongside the road and then to a sawmill set back by a stream, surrounded by stack after stack of sawn lumber drying in the sun, the smell of pine leaves and resin filling the air.

      A few miles ahead stood a large hill, and on its crest was a vast, silent, grey stone castle. It was a warrior’s fortress, no doubt of that, The walls were solid and fearsomely high, projecting outwards slightly at the top to show their teeth of embedded spikes, and everywhere were narrow shooting slits, even in the turrets that guarded each angle.

      The entrance was protected by two heavy steel doors, each ten feet high and six feet wide, and behind these forbidding doors stood two more doors, exactly the same, to doubly fortify the castle’s portal.

      Four men waited in the courtyard as the troika drove up. Huge, hard-looking men, with bald pates and close-shaven chins and wide moustaches, carrying thick whips.

      The driver spoke rapidly in Polish to the largest of the men, explaining that he was bringing three foreigners from England to speak with His Excellency, Count Greski. The big man eyed them suspiciously, then, without a word, turned and walked into the castle. A few minutes later, he came out and motioned for them to follow him inside.

      He led them into a cathedral-sized ballroom and to a thick oaken door at one side, knocked softly upon it, then drew it open for them to enter. The room contained a massive wooden desk standing squarely in the center with four matching, hand-carved chairs lined up in front of it. Two more chairs stood near a huge open fireplace which broke up the austerity of the cold stone walls, and flanking the fireplace were racks of rifles and shotguns. Verily, this was a fighting man’s citadel,

      Seated behind the massive desk was a tall, grey-haired noble. From his haughty bearing, his high, thin eagle nose, the narrow line of his lips, the piercing grey eyes, one would not regard him as being a mere human - he was first and last a noble.

      He neither rose nor motioned them to be seated. “What do you want here?” he asked, his voice hard and sharp as steel.

      “My Lord,” said Mr. Blatherbell, advancing a step, not in the least cowed by the stern figure seated there. “We are seeking an Englishman whom we understand might have come here. His name is Paul Sanderson.”

      “I know of no Paul Sanderson,” said Count Greski without a moment’s pause. “Why do you seek him?”

      Mr. Blatherbell stretched himself an inch or two higher. “We wish to inform him that he is now