The Cossack Cowboy. Lester S. Taube

karakul of their hats made from such select lambskins, nor did they wear spurs or carry revolvers - or even riding crops. Instead, across their back were the rugged single-shot, breech-loading rifles held in place by brown leather slings, and across their chests were bandoliers of ammunition, and every second man carried the deadly cavalry lance, eleven feet long, tipped with several inches of keenly sharpened steel, the butts resting in cups fixed to the right stirrups of their saddles, and held in place by leather loops circling their brawny right arms. And instead of the finely-worked Damascus steel sabre of the Captain, the men carried plainer swords, equally curved and ruthlessly sharp, but with a straighter hilt and lacking the hand-guard. One item, though, was carried only by the enlisted men, and this, even more than the vaunted horsemanship or gleaming sabres, struck terror into the hearts of their enemies - the cruel nagaika, the Cossack whip. Attached to a lanyard slung over the neck and left shoulder, the nagaika was a wooden handle eighteen inches long holding sixteen strands of toughened leather braided together to form a vicious lash twenty inches long. A tap of this whip would lay a man’s head open to the bone; a blow would crack the skull like an eggshell. It was tucked into the belt next to the sabre, and merely pulling it out would give strength to the most weary horse or dim the fervor of the most defiant peasant,

      As Grigory reached the edge of the village, he looked east, noting the first light of dawn rising above the forest line. His keen eyes searched the darkness and saw the outlines of a large house off to one side. It was the Cherkessian chieftain’s home, that he knew, for he had missed trapping him only by minutes when his troop had swept down on the village. Missing him had cost the lives of two good Cossacks, for the chieftain had organized and commanded the rearguard that had slowed down the pursuit and allowed the bulk of his men to slip away into the night.

      Grigory raised his hand, signaling his troop to halt, then pointed towards the house. Immediately, six of his men slid down from their horses and posted themselves next to the windows at the sides and rear. Grigory dismounted quietly and tiptoed to the door, placing his ear against it.

      The rapid breathing and low moans of a woman in ecstasy could clearly be heard. He grimaced and scratched his head in perplexity, then his eyes turned to the forest line to measure the time remaining before morning would break. He took a deep breath and tapped gently on the door.

      “Paul,” he whispered. “It is me, your friend, Grigory. Come, we must go.”

      A muffled curse came from the woman.

      Grigory tapped louder on the door. “Come, my little English Cossack. Please do not make trouble for me.”

      “Go away, you swine-eater!” yelled the woman. “Don’t bother us. Come back in a day - an hour.” Her whimpers of delight grew louder.

      Paul,” called Grigory, more loudly. “We must go now. It is nearly dawn. You gave me your word.”

      A heavy object crashed against the inside of the door. “You father of a diseased dog!” screamed the woman. “I will cut out _.your eyes and spit on them if you don’t leave at once.” Another object shattered against the door to emphasize her point.

      Grigory sighed and turned to his waiting troop, raising his hand in a signal. One of the Cossacks moved his horse a few paces to one side, quietly cleared his throat, and then in a high-pitched voice, called out, “What are you men doing at my house?”

      Utter silence gripped the occupants of the house, then a strangled whisper came from the woman. “My husband! May Allah have mercy on me.”

      An instant later, a man came hurtling out of a rear window clad only in a karakul hat and the green shirt worn under a Cossack tunic, carrying his underpants, trousers, tunic and boots under one arm. Directly behind him crawled out a voluptuous Turkish woman, wearing only a hastily donned shift, her hair hanging lank and loose over her face.

      Three of the Cossacks stationed at the rear of the house instantly pounced on the man, bringing him to earth in a tangle of arms and legs. Two others ran up and grasped the arms of the woman, who had flung herself on the men holding her lover and was scratching at their eyes.

      Grigory came striding up. “Paul,” he called out to the struggling man. “We must go. Look, it is almost dawn.”

      Paul stopped fighting at once. He sat up and looked about. “Why, I do believe you’re right.”

      “Of course I’m right, my little friend. You have been in that house eighteen hours.”

      “Eighteen hours!” exclaimed Paul. “Impossible.” He turned to the woman. “Nadia, have I been here eighteen hours?”

      “He lies, that big son of a whore. It has been only minutes, my golden lamb. Tell him to give us an hour more. A half-hour. Anything.”

      Grigory motioned to the Cossacks holding the woman and they dragged her around the side of the house.

      “Paul!” she yelled. “Come back to me. Promise, or I will kill myself!”

      Grigory squatted in front of Paul. “Little Cossack,” he said, shaking his head in wonder and waving away the three guards. “You must stop taking leave while a battle is being fought.”

      “I say, old man,” protested Paul indignantly, “didn’t we expressly agree that I would have fourteen days’ leave each year?”

      “Yes, but …”

      “And was anything said as to exactly when they were to be taken?”

      “No, but …”

      “Then I can’t for the life of me see what you’re complaining about.”

      “But during a battle, my friend. It just isn’t done.”

      “Why, I don’t see your point at all. Has there been a day when we have not been fighting during the eleven months I’ve been with you?”

      “No.”

      “And do you expect to have one day without fighting during the next twelve months?”

      “Well, it’s unlikely.”

      “Exactly. Therefore, you can count these eighteen hours against my leave. Now, doesn’t that sound just?”

      Grigory scratched his head. “Paul, my friend, sometimes I think you will make me a little crazy before I die. Come, we will argue later, we have to hurry now. Dress. I will explain while we ride.” He walked back to his troop while Paul put on his clothes.

      Paul dressed swiftly, slipping his lean, five-feet-ten-inch body into his pants and buttoning the tunic over his square, powerful shoulders. His blond hair, whose waves could not be controlled by brash or comb, seemed even lighter against the black karakul hat, and his unruly blond eyebrows met over laughing blue eyes as clear as a mountain sky in the summer. His nose was a most undistinguished one, and turned up slightly at its tip, but his lips revealed his carefree character with their ready smile, a smile that even his bushy blond moustache and beard could not hide.

      When he stamped his feet into his boots, it became immediately obvious that this man in his mid-twenties was a superb horseman, for his legs were long, well-balanced and slightly bowed. His hands were those of a horseman, too -slender, sinewy, blunt-tipped.

      In the woods near the house, he found his horse tied to a tree, munching contentedly at a mound of hay he had placed there before entering Nadia’s arms, Throwing on his saddle, lie buckled the cinch, slipped his sabre strap and nagaika lanyard over his head and shoulder, slung his rifle and a bandolier of ammunition, and leapt up on his horse.

      His mount, a tall chestnut stallion with wicked eyes and dancing hooves, snorted with satisfaction as Paul rejoined the troop, riding beside Grigory at the head of the column.

      “Did you catch up with them?” asked Paul.

      Grigory stretched in his saddle, “No, they slipped away. But I found tracks heading east of here, towards the river. I think they doubled back.”

      “Whatever would they want at the river? There’s