Rostov’s jaw hardened. “My cossacks and I can handle the herd perfectly well.”
It was only then that Shad at last spoke again. “That’s very funny, Rostov,” he said. “And it’s always a joy to listen to a fella with a keen sense of humor.” Looking far off, at Khabarovsk, he dropped his now-finished smoke and started to absently grind it down into the earth with the heel of his boot. “Well, Captain, you want t’ stand around here all day bein’ hilarious?” He gave one final kick against the earth with his boot heel. “Or ya’ want t’ try t’ figure out how we can get them cattle a’ ours beyond that Tzar-held town an’ them flooded rivers?”
With those last few words, Shad had stated his position loud and clear. I was proud as hell about the simple, almost unsaid way he’d said the way he felt. But I didn’t dare show that pride by as much as half a blink.
For his part, Rostov didn’t show anything either. He took a long, deep breath. “There are probably over a hundred Imperial Cossacks down there.”
Shad nodded. “And if we hang around in these trees much longer, all hundred or so of ’em will doubtless soon be up here. Let’s leave a lookout.” He corrected himself with a wry half-grin. “A ‘double’ lookout, and get back to the herd.”
We left Lieutenant Bruk and Vody on guard there and, keeping out of sight, the rest of us rode back over the mountain and down the mile or so slope to where the cattle were.
And back here with the herd now, as the talk continued, it was kind of interesting to note that Shad and Rostov not only weren’t right on the verge of killing each other all the time, but were actually somewhat in fairly civil agreement every once in a while.
“Hell, boss, why not cross the river t’night an’ get as far the hell north as we can?” Dixie asked. But he hadn’t seen the river.
Shad shook his head. “Right now it’s too wide, an’ too much current f’r safety’s sake.”
Rostov nodded. “The spring thaws are running later than usual. I’d estimate at least another week before horses and cattle will be able to get across.”
“Well,” Purse put in, “how about backing off and going a long way around?” But he hadn’t yet seen Khabarovsk.
“Too big a town,” Keats said. “Too many people. It’s a miracle we haven’t been discovered and attacked already.”
Rostov glanced toward the horizon and the lowering sun. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “will be the time.” Then he looked back levelly at Shad. “Believe me, by this time tomorrow there will be very few survivors. You owe it to yourself and your men to go back now. This is between Russians on Russian soil, and you and your men are foreigners.”
Dixie and a couple of the others looked like they were sorely tempted to follow Rostov’s advice, but it never even occurred to Slim. “Who the hell you callin’ foreigners, for Christ sake? We’re Americans.”
Shad, who’d been studying Rostov, now spoke in a quietly tough voice. “That’s downright goddamn inspirin’,” he said. “Tomorrow you an’ fifteen rebel cossacks’re gonna take on over a hundred a’ the king’s men. That oughtta be just one hell of a glorious battle.”
Rostov’s eyes hardened. “Your irony escapes me.”
“You more interested in a heroic death or gettin’ that herd through?”
Those words had a hard bite to them, and at any time prior to this Rostov would have flared up like a skyrocket. But right now his expression stayed as unchanging as a rock. “If you have anything worthwhile to say, Northshield, say it.”
It was Shad, now, who hunched down on his heels. He picked up a pebble, playing with it idly. “Well, for one thing, I’m reminded of that time back in Vladivostok—when you and your handful a’ men sent forty soldiers hightailin’ it.”
Rostov dismissed this with a shrug. “They were a scurvy lot. Hardly worth the drawing of a good saber.” Then he looked at Shad thoughtfully. “Whatever else those bastards may be, the Tzar’s Imperial Cossacks are fighting men.”
“That so?” Shad tossed the pebble a little and caught it. “As good, man for man, as your fellas?”
“Certainly not!”
“Didn’t think so.” Shad dropped the pebble and stood slowly back up. “Tell me, Rostov, you ever hear of a game called showdown?”
“No.”
Shad looked off, across the herd. Fat and contented, most of them were already lying down, and eight of our men were riding slowly around them. “Dixie,” Shad said, “ride out and bring those other fellas over here.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.” Even though it was obvious those peaceful cows weren’t going anywhere, and we were near them, this was an unusual order for Shad to give. It was a pretty much ironclad rule of his to have at least three or four men flanking the herd, no matter how quiet things were.
As Dixie rode off to do as he was told, the rest of us Slash-Diamonders looked at Shad curiously, wondering what was on his mind. And by then, for that matter, Rostov and his men had just naturally figured out enough about the normal care and treatment of a herd to know that something out of the ordinary was going on.
But Shad didn’t give any of us a hint. All he did, though it was rare for him to smoke so much, was to take out his Bull Durham and paper and start building another one. He worked on it very thoughtfully and carefully, building it to perfection, as though that job was the most important thing he’d ever had on his mind.
By the time it was finished, Dixie and the others now rode up and dismounted, so that the whole outfit was here. Slim, who may have had an idea what was coming, stepped to Shad and struck a match, jerking it hard and smooth across the tight hip pocket of his pants. “Light, boss?”
Shad sucked in on the smoke, and Slim blew the match out before dropping it and grinding it slowly into the ground with his foot.
Looking at Rostov, Shad finally said, “I was talkin’, before, about showdown.”
Rostov nodded. “That’s right.”
“Well, it’s a game. One that any fool can play. But what makes it interestin’ is that if a man’s got enough pure guts, he can sometimes manage t’ win even when by all the odds on God’s green earth he was just plain bound t’ lose.”
Rostov said quietly, “I, myself, am a chess player, which is also a game any fool can play—but he won’t win.”
“Then I strongly suggest we stick to showdown.”
Rostov’s eyes were serious, but he spoke dryly. “Are we to learn it in time for the battle tomorrow?”
“No. Now.”
Not only Rostov but some of the rest of us were a little startled at this.
But Shad was already going on. “If you and those goddamned cossacks a’ yours can drive off forty soldiers, think what could happen with these rough bastards a’ mine thrown in!”
Rostov was too thoughtful to be angered at Shad’s phrase “goddamned cossacks.” He said, “That’s still only about thirty men against well over one hundred.” He looked at Shad, his dark eyes searching. “You’ve been paid for these cattle. They are certainly no longer your responsibility.”
“The deal included deliverin’ them.”
“No man can hold you to a thing like that in times such as these.”
“One man can.”
Rostov knew Shad meant himself. He took another tack then. “Are your men ready to die, too?”
Dixie said hesitantly, “In a way he’s right, boss. Ain’t no way this is our fight.”
“That’s the reason I wanted every man here.” Shad dropped his second smoke and booted it into the ground. “No bullshit about votin’, or anything like that. I’m goin’ on with the herd.” He glanced off at the nearly setting sun. “It’s gettin’ late, so the rest of ya’ got about three minutes t’ decide which direction you’re goin’.”