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, though even 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 Rostov had yelled to them in their camp before. He’d heard what Shad had called out, about not shooting into the herd, and so he and every man with him 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 aweinspiring. 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 off their saddleless 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 Buck 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 the wolf’s entire head completely off, where it lay still snapping blindly at the air.
I reached down, realizing for the first time that it was Igor. 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 Igor’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 Igor acted like it was nothing, and a second later we’d gotten him behind me aboard Buck.
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 of his tail somewhere, and who was almost completely black.
Slim 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.
Old Keats 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 Igor off Buck near where Rostov and most of his 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.
Igor 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 could understand that. But there was something else that seemed to be bothering him even more. And I should have understood that—even more.
Igor said something to Rostov in a very quiet voice. And Rostov, who was wearing a revolver, took it out and handed it to him.
Igor 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.
Igor 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.
Igor walked back and handed Rostov the gun. Then he turned and started walking back toward the cossack camp. Rostov looked at me, his dark eyes searching mine even though I wasn’t looking right back at him. I didn’t feel like looking at anybody just then.
That poor darned horse could have just as well been old Buck.
So without looking at anybody or saying anything, I turned Buck around and rode back to camp.
Shad and the others were already there. One of the wolves had bitten Crab’s right forearm to the bone, and Shad and Old Keats were working on it to clean it and stop the bleeding.
Shad noticed me come up and dismount, and he spoke with quiet warmth to Crab, who was in considerable pain and held a bottle of bourbon in his other hand. “Don’t know what t’ do with you, Crab. Keep ya’ outta one fight with Levi an’ ya’ go right out an’ get in another fight with a wolf.”
It was a vicious, double-fang wound, the torn-out kind that it hurts to even look at. I had the sinking feeling that Crab could lose the arm. “One thing I’ll guarantee ya’,” I told Crab as lightly as I could. “In a fair fight, I’d never bitten ya’ quite that hard.”
Crab took a long drink and then forced a small grin, though his hurt arm was beginning to involuntarily shake. “That damned wolf was really mixed up. Leaped up on me like he was gonna throw me outta the saddle an’ ride m’ horse.”
At this point Rostov rode into camp and got down from his big black. “I heard one of your men was hurt.”
Shad said, “We’re takin’ care of it.”
“I’m sure you are.” Rostov walked over to them and looked at the wound. “This could be serious, and I’ve had some experience with wolf bites.”
“So have I,” Shad said curtly.
“I’d take it as a personal favor, Captain Rostov,” Old Keats said quietly, “if you’ll stay here and give us any advice you might happen t’ have.”
Shad gave Keats 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 Rostov.
Slim said, “We’re in pretty good supplies right now. Ya’ like any sugar, or maybe whiskey, t’ lace that coffee, Captain?”
“No. It’s fine,” Rostov said easily.
It sort of looked like, up to a point, the way any one of us talked to him was the way he was going to give it back.
Sammy the Kid, more curious than friendly, asked, “How many wolves get killed back there, altogether?”
“Twenty-three.” Rostov’s answer was in kind, crisp and to the point, with no trace of friendship in his voice. “Four by your guns. Three by the longhorns themselves.”
“Them longhorns ain’t too bright,” Slim said, “but they’re tougher’n nails when they git mad.”
“Jeez!” Mushy frowned deeply, thinking. “You got sixteen of ’em with them old-fashioned swords!”
“Sabers.”
There was a silence as we all took in that different word and grimly watched Shad and Keats working tensely on Crab’s arm.