“Is your gun loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s go then. Only let’s agree not to separate.”
And they went ahead down the road. They rode over the steppe, talking and looking to both sides. You could see a long way all around.
Just as the steppe ended, the road entered a pass between two hills, and Zhilin said:
“We ought to ride up the hill and look around, otherwise they may well jump us from behind it and we won’t see them.”
But Kostylin said:
“What’s the point of looking? Let’s go on.”
Zhilin did not listen to him.
“No,” he said, “you wait down here, and I’ll just have a look.”
And he sent his horse to the left, up the hill. The horse under Zhilin was a hunter (he had paid a hundred roubles for her when she was a filly in a herd and had broken her himself); she carried him up the steep slope as if on wings. He reached the crest, looked—in front of him, two hundred yards away, stood mounted Tartars, some thirty of them. He saw them and started to turn back; the Tartars also saw him and dashed towards him, drawing their guns from their cases as they rode. Zhilin went dashing down the slope as fast as his horse could carry him, shouting to Kostylin:
“Get your gun out!” and himself thinking about his horse: “Sweetheart, bring me through, don’t trip up, if you stumble, I’m lost. If I reach the gun, I won’t let them take me.”
But Kostylin, instead of waiting, cut and ran for the fortress as soon as he saw the Tartars. He lashed his horse now on one side, now on the other. All you could see through the dust was how the horse switched its tail.
Zhilin could see things were bad for him. The gun had ridden off; nothing could be done with a saber alone. He sent his horse back towards the soldiers, thinking to get away. He saw six of them rushing to cut him off. There was a good horse under him, but under them there were still better, and they were racing to cut him off. He began to rein in, meaning to turn back, but the horse was already making straight for them and there was no stopping her. He saw a red-bearded Tartar on a gray horse approaching him. He was shrieking, baring his teeth; his gun was at the ready.
“Well,” thought Zhilin, “I know you devils: if you take me alive, you’ll put me in a hole and whip me. You won’t get me alive.”
Zhilin, though not a big man, was bold. He snatched out his saber and sent his horse straight at the red Tartar: “Either trample him with my horse, or cut him down with my saber.”
But the horse did not carry Zhilin that far; he was fired at from behind and his horse was hit. The horse crashed to the ground at full speed, pinning down Zhilin’s leg.
He tried to get up, but two stinking Tartars were already sitting on him, twisting his arms behind his back. He tore loose, threw them off, but three more jumped from their horses and started hitting him on the head with the butts of their guns. His eyes went dim and he reeled. The Tartars seized him, took spare saddle girths, tied his arms behind his back with a Tartar knot, and dragged him to the saddle. They knocked his hat off, pulled off his boots, felt him all over, took his money, his watch, tore his clothes. Zhilin turned to look at his horse. She, the dear thing, lay on her side as she had fallen and only thrashed her legs—they could not find the ground. There was a hole in her head and dark blood was spurting from it; the dust was wet with it for two yards around.
One of the Tartars went to her and started to remove the saddle. She kept thrashing—he drew his dagger and slashed her throat. There was a whistling in her windpipe, the horse shuddered, and steam came out.
The Tartars removed the saddle, the bridle. The red-bearded Tartar mounted his horse, the others seated Zhilin behind him on the saddle, strapped him to the Tartar’s waist with a belt so that he would not fall off, and took him into the hills.
Zhilin sat behind the Tartar, swaying, his face knocking against the stinking Tartar back. All he saw in front of him was that robust Tartar back, a sinewy neck, and a shaved nape showing blue under the hat. Zhilin’s head was wounded, blood had clotted over his eyes. And he could neither straighten up on the horse nor wipe off the blood. His arms were twisted so much that it hurt his collarbone.
They rode for a long time from hill to hill, waded across a river, came out on a road, and descended into a hollow.
Zhilin wanted to make note of the road they took him by, but his eyes were covered with blood and he could not move.
Dusk was falling. They crossed another river, started climbing a rocky hill, there was a smell of smoke, a barking of dogs.
They arrived at an aoul.* The Tartars all got off their horses, Tartar children came, surrounded Zhilin, squealed joyfully, started throwing stones at him.
A Tartar chased the children away, took Zhilin off the horse, and called for a hired man. A Nogai came, high-cheekboned, in nothing but a shirt. The shirt was in tatters, his whole chest was bare. The Tartar gave him some order. The man brought shackles: two oak blocks fixed to two iron rings, one ring with a clasp and padlock.
They untied Zhilin’s arms, put the shackles on him, and led him to a shed, pushed him in and locked the door. Zhilin fell on dung. He lay there for a while, felt around in the darkness for a softer spot, and lay down.
II
ZHILIN HARDLY SLEPT all that night. The nights were short. He saw light through a chink. Zhilin got up, dug at the chink to make it bigger, and began to look.
Through the chink he could see a road going downhill, to the right a Tartar saklya, beside it two trees. A black dog was lying on the threshold, a goat with kids was walking about, the kids wagging their little tails. He saw a young Tartar woman coming from the bottom of the hill in a loose, bright-colored shirt, trousers, and boots, her head covered with a kaftan, and on her head a big tin jug of water. She walked, her back swaying, flexing, and led by the hand a little Tartar boy with a shaved head, in nothing but a shirt. The woman went into the saklya with the water, and yesterday’s Tartar with the red beard came out, in a silk beshmet, at his belt a silver dagger, with shoes on his bare feet. A tall, black lambskin hat was pushed back on his head. He came out, stretched, stroked his red beard. He stood for a while, said something to the man, and went somewhere.
Then two boys rode by to water their horses. The horses had wet muzzles. Other little boys with shaved heads ran out in nothing but shirts, without drawers, gathered in a bunch, went to the shed, took a twig and began to poke it through the chink. Zhilin hooted at them: the little boys shrieked and went dashing away, their bare knees gleaming.
Zhilin was thirsty, his throat was dry; he thought, “If only they’d come and look in on me.” He heard the shed being unlocked. The red Tartar came, and with him another man, smaller, darker. Bright black eyes, red cheeks, a small, trimmed beard; a merry face, always laughing. The dark one was still better dressed; his deep blue silk beshmet was trimmed with braid. The dagger at his waist was big, silver; his shoes were of red morocco, also trimmed with silver. And over his thin shoes there were other, thicker ones. His hat was tall, of white lambskin.
The red Tartar came in, said something that seemed like abuse, and stood there; he leaned against the doorpost and kept fidgeting with his dagger, looking sidelong at Zhilin from under his eyebrows like a wolf. And the dark one—he was brisk, lively, moving as if on springs—went straight up to Zhilin, squatted down, bared his teeth, patted him on the shoulder, started jabbering something very quickly in his own language, winked, clucked his tongue, and kept repeating: “Kood uruss! Kood uruss!”
Zhilin understood nothing and said:
“Drink, give me a drink of water!”
The dark one laughed.
“Kood uruss,” he kept jabbering in his own language.
Zhilin showed with his lips and hands that they should give him a drink.