Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (35 page)

He shrugged off the problem as he stood on the board sidewalk in front of the restaurant, looking across the street at the lights of the Cattleman's and the Ace High, trying to decide whether to cross to one of the saloons. The night was still early, but after a few seconds of deliberation he decided it was time for him to wind up his day. He had a gun to clean, a still-healing wound to rest, and a hell of a lot of thinking to do.

*   *   *

There were few signs of the snowfall the next morning when Longarm rode out to the Danilov house. Except for a tracery of thin white rime along the edges of the wheatfields and a small streak or two in a deep rut of the road, the ground was clear. In the fields, the grain heads nodded as the fitful breeze passed over them. It seemed to Longarm that the wheat had matured to a deeper yellow in the short time that had passed since he'd looked at it when riding back from the Danilovs' to Junction, and that had been only a few days ago.

Mordka kept telling me not to worry about the weather
, he thought,
and I guess he knows more about it than I do. The only thing I was ever good at growing is my whiskers.

Tatiana opened the door. “
Serdechenly privelstvovai!
I make you welcome, Marshal Long. Come, sit down. Is kettle hot on stove, I give you tea.”

“Where's Mordka?” Longarm asked as he stepped into the house.

“Is by our neighbors down the lane. Petra Tuscheva is have new baby.
Kum
Mordka and
matushka
go there. But they are to come back soon. Sit, please. I make you tea.”

Tatiana acts right glad to see me
, Longarm thought, pulling out a chair from Mordka's familiar book-piled table and sitting down. Tatiana was busy at the kitchen range. She moved with graceful speed, putting tea leaves in the pot and filling it with water from the kettle that steamed on the stove. While the tea steeped, she spooned wild strawberry jam into tall, thick glasses, and poured the hot tea over the jam until the glasses were brimful. Carrying the tea to the table, she carefully set a glass at Longarm's elbow, then pulled up a chair for herself and sat facing him.

“Is heal up good, your wound?” she asked.

“Just fine. You did a real good job of nursing me, Tatiana, you and your mother. I'm real grateful to you for tending me.”

“Is not require, you thank us. You do for the
Bratiya
very much.”

“I'm just glad I could.” Longarm sipped the tea, fragrant and sweet with the jam dissolved in it. He smiled at Tatiana. “You look prettier than ever today, Tatiana.”

“
Spasiba
, Marshal. Is soon now—”

What Tatiana had been going to say was lost in the banging of the front door as it burst open with such force that it crashed into the wall beside the jamb. Silhouetted in the opening was a man—a big man, his shoulders so broad that they almost spanned the full width of the door, and so tall that his head was within an inch of the top of the frame. A long, curved scimitar dangled from one of his hamlike hands.

Tatiana gasped, “Antonin! What do you here?”

Longarm had leaped to his feet and faced the door when it banged, his hand sweeping his Colt from its holster in reflex action. If he'd seen the intruder before, he didn't recall him, but when he saw that Tatiana recognized the man, he relaxed and lowered the pistol.

“I see the
Amirikanits
ride up,” the man said. “I know Mordka and Marya are by Tuscheva house. I come to protect you, Tatiana.”

Belatedly, Longarm understood. The man in the doorway was Tatiana's fiancé. He said, “Miss Tatiana doesn't need to be protected from me. I sure didn't come here to harm her.”

“Is what you say!”

“Antonin!
Shpapa oobrate!
” Tatiana said angrily, pointing at the sword.

“Nyet!”
Antonin raised the curved blade and pointed it at Longarm.
“Ero vbibat!”

Though he did not understand Antonin's words, Longarm got the message of the sword pointed at him. He said, “Now hold on! If you got ideas about us getting into a fracas over Miss Tatiana, you're barking up the wrong tree. I ain't trying to cut you out with her. She's a real nice young lady, and I like her fine, but I know you're the one she's promised to marry.”

“
Ubi vesti
, Antonin!” Tatiana snapped. Then, switching to English for Longarm's benefit, “Behave yourself! You are foolish to be so jealous!”

“That's right,” Longarm agreed. “We're just sitting here talking, while I wait for Mordka to come back. That's all.”

“Is what you say!” Antonin retorted. “Oh, I see you ride up so sly, when you know Tatiana you find by herself!” He swung the sword menacingly and took a step into the room. “Now I stop you from bothering my Tatiana!” He paid no attention to the pistol in Longarm's hand.

“Bojie moy!”
Tatiana exclaimed. “Marshal Long does not bother! He comes as friend!”

“Nyet!
He comes to win you from me!” Raising the sword, Antonin started across the room.

Longarm knew he could not use his Colt on the enraged Antonin, but neither did he propose to be sliced up like a side of bacon. He saw at once that his only way out of the situation was to let Antonin back him down, but that had to come later. Picking up the chair in which he'd been sitting, Longarm raised it to ward off the sword.

Tatiana started for Antonin just as he raised the scimitar. He thrust her aside, and she staggered back. Antonin brought the blade down in a sweeping sidewise cut. Longarm turned the chair to catch the glittering edge of the wickedly curved weapon.

With a crash, the scimitar hit the chair, and chips flew. The force of the blow stung Longarm's hands. He reminded himself, while watching Antonin for some hint of his next move, not to underestimate the man's strength.

Antonin yanked the blade out of the wood it had bitten into, and swung it behind him in the beginning of an overhead slash. Longarm raised the chair and took the downward sweep of the scimitar before it had gained enough momentum to strike hard; the blade rang as it bounced off the wood.

His downward swing had pulled Antonin's body forward, and he stepped back to recover his balance. Tatiana grabbed his sword arm, but Antonin was too angry to think. He swung his arm and forced it free.

Longarm took the opportunity to retreat. Keeping the chair between himself and Antonin, he backed across the room toward the doorway leading to the bedroom where he'd spent so many uncomfortable hours recovering from the rifle slug. He reached the door as Antonin stalked toward him, slashing the wicked blade from side to side. It whistled as it cut through the air.

“Troossiha!”
the Russian grated. “Stop to fight!”

To slow Antonin down, Longarm tossed the chair at his feet. While Antonin was untangling himself from the chair, Longarm ducked into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Through the wooden panel he could hear Antonin's shouts, and almost at once he heard Tatiana speaking rapidly in Russian. Judging from the fishwife-sharp tone of her usually soft voice, she was berating her fiancé. The argument went on for several moments, until Antonin's voice dropped to a muted murmur of apology. Then there was a long silence.

At last Tatiana called out, her voice proud, “Marshal Long! Out you can come, now. I have some sense talked into this wild lover of mine!”

Longarm kept up the appearance of fear. Letting himself seem afraid was the only way he could think of to soothe Antonin's pride. He opened the door a crack and looked through the slit. Antonin stood with an arm draped protectively around Tatiana's shoulders. The sword was lying on the floor behind the pair.

“You sure it's all right?” Longarm asked. He opened the door a bit wider.

“Is safe for you, yes,” Antonin replied. The rage had gone from his voice. He smiled, his brown beard rippling below his shaved upper lip, and beckoned Longarm to come on through the door.

Longarm stepped into the living room. “You sure put a scare into me with that big toad-stabber. I don't like that kind of fighting worth shucks,” he told Antonin.

“Is Cossack sword, I bring from Russia. My father take it from a man who tries to kill him.”

Tatiana said, “Antonin is sorry for his mistake. Are you not,
milochka?
”

“
Da
. I to you apologize, Marshal Long. Is that I do not understand, until Tatiana she tell me how bad you get shot.”

“Shucks, no harm done, Antonin. You've got a fine young lady here. Tatiana's going to make you a real good wife.”

Tatiana smiled. “I do my best to.” There was gratitude in her smile, and relief in her voice.

Didn't fool her for a minute
, Longarm thought.
But I was right, she'll make that young fellow a good wife, maybe even give him some of her smartness
. He said aloud, “We were just having some tea when you knocked, Antonin. I guess it's cold by now, though.”

“You sit, I make fresh,” Tatiana said quickly. On the way to the kitchen range, she picked up the battered chair that Longarm had used as a shield and placed it against the wall. She was turning to go back and pick up the sword that had fallen beside it when Mordka Danilov came in the open door.

Danilov's face broke into a smile when he saw Longarm. “Marshal Long,
pazhalasta
. And Antonin. But you have met before, at the supper we shared here.”

“Well, I didn't recall him right off,” Longarm said. “But now that we've run into each other again, I sure won't forget him next time.”

From over by the stove, Tatiana called, “Petra Tuscheva, how is she?”

“She is well. And her child too. A fine big boy,” Mordka replied. “Marya will stay there a while yet, to help.” He went to the table, frowned when he saw that his chair was missing from its usual place, and noticed the sword on the floor when he looked around to locate his chair. Then he saw the raw wood chips on the floor. “What has been happening here?” he asked bewilderedly.

Longarm spoke quickly. “Antonin mistook me for a stranger. He came running to protect Tatiana, and we scuffled a little bit. I guess we sort of messed things up.”

Mordka nodded. “I see. Antonin is nervous, like all of us. We feel we have enemies on all sides, I'm afraid. I was talking of this with the Brethren who came to the Tuschevas' house to wish Petra and Sergei well.”

“Maybe you won't need to feel that way much longer, Mordka,” Longarm began. Danilov interrupted him.

“Can you blame us, Marshal?” he asked. “Our fences cut, our grain spoiled, our people made the targets of midnight ambushers? Even you, a government officer, have suffered a bullet. Now we have another fear, and though you have done so much for us that I hesitate to ask another favor, I have promised the Brethren that I will.”

“You know I'll do anything I can, Mordka.”

“Yes. We are lucky to have a friend like you.” Danilov hesitated, then said, “Now has come the time when we meet in our church to pray for our harvest. Some of the Brethren fear that the ranchers may cause trouble. It would be so easy for them to do, with all of us assembled in one place. Will you attend the service that night? Our men do not want to bring their weapons into our church, but if we are attacked, we would like to feel sure there will be someone there who is not bound to our vow—someone who can fight back!”

Chapter 14

“Well, I'll come to your prayer meeting if you want me to,” Longarm replied readily. “But one of the reasons I came out here today is to tell you you ought not have any more trouble with fence-cutters, or trouble of any kind, from here on out.”

“That is the best news you can bring us, except the news that your wound is completely healed,” Mordka replied. “I am ashamed that I have waited so long to ask how you feel.”

“Oh, I'm doing fine. I've got you and your ladies to thank for that, and I sure won't forget it.”

Tatiana came to the table with the freshly brewed tea just as Longarm spoke. She answered before Mordka could do so. “
Matushka
and I are happy that for you we could do this.”

“Of course,” Mordka agreed. He looked at Tatiana and Antonin and said, “Now, you and your
milochka
take your tea and go outside. You have talk to make to each other while the marshal and I make another kind of talk here.”

When the young couple had left, Danilov asked, “Tell me now, why you think our days of trouble are over.”

“It seems the ranchers were upset because things went as far as they did. They had some hands who were going way past what their bosses told 'em. Like the shootings. I don't expect you folks will have to worry anymore from now till harvest time,” He frowned and added, “If the weather leaves you any wheat to harvest.”

Danilov smiled. “You have said before how you worry over the weather, my friend. I tell you again, do not vex yourself about our wheat. Even if the little snow last night had been a big one, even if the sky drops heavy snow tonight, we will have a crop.”

“You're so certain-sure, I'm curious to know why. All the wheat I've ever seen anyplace else couldn't live past a snowfall.”

For a moment, Danilov sat silently thoughtful. Then he said, “It will do no harm to tell you, I suppose. But I will ask you to tell no one else.”

“You've got my word on that,” Longarm assured him.

“I would not have expected otherwise.” Danilov's brows drew together. “Because you are not a farmer, to understand what I explain might not be easy. In Russia, on the steppes, the summer is short and winter returns early. There, the wheat is planted in late summer.”

“Sure. Winter wheat. Even if I ain't a farmer, Mordka, I've been around wheat country enough to know the difference between winter wheat and spring wheat. And I could see right off, the first time I looked at it, that what's in your fields ain't winter wheat, or it would've been cut before I got to Junction.”

“You are right, Marshal. Our wheat is spring wheat. But on the steppes in Russia, a kind of spring wheat grows too. The seeds of it came first from Turkey, in the time of our fathers. We call it
Toorciya krasnenkiey
. What you would say, is Turkey Red.”

“I never heard of it, but no reason why I should.”

“This is the point I make. In America, there is none except—”

Longarm couldn't hold back the exclamation. He broke into Danilov's explanation, “Except what you folks have got planted in your fields. Is that right?”

“Of course. It was our great friend Carl Schmidt who told us that he has experimented here in Kansas, on his own farm, with the Turkey Red. He has learned that the seeds of
Toorciya krasnenkiey
will germinate and mature in a single summer here, and that the early snows which so often sweep over these prairies, as they do over the Russian steppes, encourage it to mature and ripen. Such storms would kill other kinds of wheat.”

“How come this Schmidt fellow doesn't go into the seed business, if he's got a start? Why'd he give the secret of this Turkey Red stuff away to you?”

“Carl is still experimenting. He will some day sell the seeds, but he has so little planted that he could not supply us. So he advised us to bring our own seeds when we emigrated.”

“And you got here all ready to plant in spring and reap in fall, even if there's a little early snow-blow like we had last night.” Longarm grinned. “That's why Hawkins and the other cattlemen didn't bother you when you first came here, Mordka. They saw you putting in a crop, and they figured it was spring wheat, the kind they'd seen homesteaders go bust with before. They waited for you to go bust, too.”

Mordka sighed. “I suppose that is how it was. It is a sad thing, Marshal. On these prairies is so much land, surely enough for everyone. We do not try to drive the ranchers away. Why do they try to force us to go?”

“Well, they were here first,” Longarm pointed out.

“But we do not take land that belongs to them, only land they have used without owning it.”

“Sure. That's happened just about everyplace I've seen where a bunch of farmers have settled in cattle country. Ranchers have had free open range so long they think it's going to go on forever. It's just ornery human nature, I guess, and I don't see any way to change it.”

Danilov shrugged. “It is same everywhere. In Russia, the
boyars
and the nobles hold the land, and the serfs, the common people, have none. And over everyone is the Tsar. He owns all, even the land the nobles claim as theirs, even the souls of the people he calls his own.”

“I guess that's why he keeps checking up on you,” Longarm suggested. “Even when you leave his country, he still claims you.” He thought of Ilioana Karsovana, and the questions he'd been leading to earlier in the day, and added, “I had a little visit with those two Russians who were out to see you the other day.”

“Karsovana and her servant?” Mordka's heavy eyebrows rose in surprise. “But I thought they were going to travel on without delay, when we told her we knew nothing of her brother.”

“I'll tell you something. I don't think that lady's got a brother.”

“Nor do I. Why do they still stay in Junction?”

“She says because she's tired. But I'd say they aim to stick around, judging by the way she duded up her room at the hotel.”

“You have talked to her, then?”

“Sure. And she was just starting to ask me about the Brethren when we got interrupted.” Longarm didn't specify the nature of the interruption, since he saw no need to worry Mordka.

“Inquiring about us?”

“She sure was,” the lawman confirmed.

“If she is curious, why should she ask you? Let her bring her questions here, to us. We have no secrets.”

“Except your wheat seed,” Longarm said, half-jokingly.

“Of course!” Danilov exclaimed. “It had not occurred to me. We brought the seeds from Russia!”

“Is that against the law over there?”

“My friend,” Mordka replied sadly, “in Russia the law is what the Tsar and his ministers say it will be.”

“Oh, now come on, Mordka! The Tsar's a big, important man. He's got a whole country to run. He's bound to have a lot more on his mind than a handful or two of wheat seeds.”

“You do not understand how life is there. In Russia, when we say ‘the Tsar,' we mean the whole imperial court, not just the one man who wears the crown. Even a minor official in the Agriculture Ministry, one who has nothing more to worry about than a handful of wheat seed, could be responsible for sending after us the agents of the
Okhrana
.”

His voice thoughtful, Longarm said, “You know, Mordka, the other day I didn't pay much mind to what you said about Mrs. Karsovana and her servant being spies sent from Russia. Then, after she snagged onto me and, first thing, started asking questions about the Brethren—instead of that brother she claims to be looking for—I got to thinking your idea's not as farfetched as I'd figured.”

“I am right, Marshal. You will see.”

“Maybe so. Only I don't see what harm they could do you, here in this country.”

“Perhaps they could do no real harm at all, except to find some way to encourage Hawkins and the other cattlemen to keep harassing us. But even that would be a victory for them and defeat for the Brethren.”

“Well, I'll keep an eye on them as best I can. Now I better be getting back to town. I've got a little bit of unfinished business I better tend to.”

“With Ilioana Karsovana?” Mordka asked.

“No, with another friend of yours. Oren Stone.”

*   *   *

“I'm sorry, Marshal,” Mae Bonner said when she opened the vestibule door in response to Longarm's knock. “
Really
sorry this time, not just being nasty-polite, the way I was when you came here at first. But Mr. Stone's not here, and that's the truth.”

“You got any idea where he is?” Longarm asked as he adjusted his hatbrim and leaned against the doorjamb.

“No,” she answered, seeming a bit puzzled, then went on, “Well, I've got a general idea, but that's all. He's gone out to see the wheat farmers, but I don't know which of the homesteads he planned to stop at.”

“I'll make a guess why he went, and maybe you'll tell me if I'm right. He was going to tell them he expects those options to be made good.”

“That's right. He—” Mae looked over her shoulder as though she was afraid Stone might somehow overhear her— “he's been like a wild man since the night of the shooting. Drinking more than I've ever seen him do before, shouting, pacing the floor, not able to sleep, not able even—” She stopped short.

On the occasions when Longarm had seen Mae Bonner before, he'd noticed her clear high-colored complexion, her faultless skin. He noticed, now, that she was wearing both rouge and a heavy coat of powder. Looking more closely, he was sure he could see the faint outline of a dark bruise under the makeup on one cheek.

“Not that it's any of my business, but has he been taking his mad out on you?” he asked.

She seemed reluctant to answer. Finally she managed a low-voiced “Yes,” and continued in a whisper that wavered between unhappiness and defiance, “But it's not any of your business, as you just said. I'm old enough to look after myself.”

“I'm not aiming to butt into anything private between you and Stone, Miss Bonner, but I'm right interested in knowing how he's feeling. I'll be coming back out here to talk to him later on. If he's out in the country, he won't be back until late, I guess, so I'll wait until after supper.”

“Shall I tell him you're going to come talk to him?”

“If you feel like it's your duty to tell him, go ahead. If you just happen to forget, it sure wouldn't make me mad.”

“I see. Well, I won't make you any promise about that, Marshal. But you'll probably find him here if you come back when you said you're going to.”

*   *   *

Walking back across the sidings, Longarm had to move fast. A string of empty cattle cars was arriving from the Santa Fe's mainline yards, and trainmen were spotting the cars on different sets of tracks. Workmen were going over the corral fences and loading chutes, replacing broken boards, testing the drop-gates, and generally getting things in order for the cattle shipments that were due to begin soon. It was a familiar scene to Longarm. He'd seen it repeated everywhere in cattle country, where sleepy towns awoke to sudden life during the two or three times a year when cowhands massed in large numbers rather than small groups during the arrival of gathered or trailed herds at a railhead.

On the last siding, a half-dozen boxcars were unloading the cargoes they'd brought from Wichita and Topeka, and from more distant points such as Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, and Denver. Wagons were lined up, waiting for the cars to be unloaded, to carry into town fresh merchandise for Stebbins's store, kegs of beer and cases of liquor for the Cattleman's and the Ace High, crates of eggs and bags of onions and potatoes, hams and slabs of bacon for the restaurant. Junction was getting ready for the fall fling of the ranch hands, most of whom would be anxious to blow off the head of steam built up during their long, dusty days on the prairie.

Longarm waited until a loaded wagon pulled away from one of the boxcars, and hailed the driver. The lift he asked for was given cheerfully, and he leaned back against the hard boards of the jouncing seat while the wagon rumbled into town. The same kind of buzzing activity that marked the railhead was being repeated in Junction, but on a smaller scale. One of the Ace High barkeeps was repainting the sign on the front of the saloon building, incongruous in his apron as he balanced on a ladder to reach the letters above the awning. Windows were being washed at the restaurant and the barbershop. The wizened night clerk of the hotel, who also did the portering chores during daytime hours, was replacing a broken board in the sidewalk in front of the door when Longarm arrived after dropping from the wagon in front of Stebbins's store.

“Hey, Marshal!” the man hailed Longarm, dropping his hammer and reaching into his pocket. “I got a note for you from that foreign lady up in Room Seven. Said I was to give it to you personal, not put it in your box.”

Longarm took the slightly smudged and creased envelope the man handed him, and tore it open. The note was brief, inscribed on thick, creamy paper with an embossed, curlicued
K
at the top:

My dear Marshal Long:

I would like to make amends for ending so abruptly our visit which began so amiably. If you have no pressing matters that require your attention, please accept this invitation to call on me for a tête-à-tête this afternoon at any time after the hour of three.

Ilioana Karsovana.

“Well, now,” Longarm muttered as he walked up the stairs, “I wonder what she means by a tayte-ah-tayte? Guess I better go find out, seeing as I've got nothing better to do till Stone gets back.”

He stopped in his room long enough to run a comb through his wiry hair and make sure his mustache was smoothed down. As an antidote to the vodka that he expected he'd be offered, he took a quick swallow of Maryland rye. Then, with a fresh cheroot clamped between his teeth, he walked across the corridor and tapped on Madame Karsovana's door.