Red Hands

A Tale of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

Charny came to himself a little at a time. First he was aware that he sat in a saddle. Then he saw the familiar gray steppe grass and felt the wind on his head.

His head troubled him. It was wet with sweat and it had no lambskin kalpak on it. Inasmuch as most of his skull had been shaved a few days ago, it felt cold. A fiery thirst tormented him.

Besides, the level steppe behaved strangely. It rose dizzily and then dropped away from him, although his horse paced along steadily enough. Charny knew what this meant.

“I’ve been licking the pig,” he thought.

He remembered singing a chorus with some fellow Cossacks in a town tavern. After that – night and the saddle and a rushing wind.

“Devil take it all,” he muttered. “I’ve come far.”

No town was visible on the swaying steppe. The Cossack bent over and looked down. He had no coat, but his wide leather breeches were there and his prized shagreen boots – he looked on each side to make sure. His shirt appeared torn and stained with tar. What mattered most, he still wore his sword. So, he had not drunk that up.

But the horse! After awhile he drew rein and dismounted, holding firmly to the saddle-horn. Streaked with sweat and dust, with burrs clouding its long tail, this black horse was certainly not his. A good horse, however, a wolf-chaser.

“How did I get you, kounak?”

Evidently after the drinking bout he had taken a horse from the stable and then raced off into the plain – naturally enough, after so many cups of brandy. It was afternoon now, the sun almost setting, and Charny saw no sign of a trail. Only the waving grass, clusters of dark oaks, the hazy sky – and the brown sail of a boat moving majestically over the grass, far off. The Cossack closed his eyes and looked again. The brown sail was still there.

Well, brandy played tricks like that. Worse than the myzga, the mirage. Charny tried to remember whether he had gone north, east, south, or west from the frontier town, but without success.

Leading the horse into the nearest shade he loosened the saddle girth slowly. He searched for a picket rope and found none. Letting out the rein, he slipped it over his shoulder and laid down, his head on his arms. He would sleep for a while and then let the horse find the way to water . . .

Instead, he woke with a start. The red glare of sunset filled the sky, and the wind had ceased. Along the ground he had heard the thudding of hooves on the hard clay. Instantly he leaped to his feet, his hand touching the sword hilt at his belt.

Then he relaxed. Only one rider had come up, a Cossack on a piebald horse – a broad Cossack with long arms, wearing a clean sheepskin coat, a black kalpak with a red crown, and polished boots. His was a brown, lined face, like a Tartar’s, with tufted mustaches.

“Tfu!” grunted the rider.

“Draw that curved sword and I’ll slap you in the snout.”

Charny’s head was clearing. The other man had saddle-bags, with a rolled-up bearskin and a jug behind the saddle – evidently a registered Cossack, on service. In that year of the Lord 1684 it was well to look twice at one who rode alone and armed in the eastern steppe. The towns and the Muscovite merchants lay under the sunset to the west, and the steppe here was at the edge of the frontier.

“What man are you?” Charny asked.

“They call me Vash. I patrol from the Zarit stanitza. The others turned back, but I kept your trail like a weasel.”

Zarit, Charny remembered, was the hamlet where he had been drinking at the tavern. He looked at the man called Vash expectantly as the other dismounted.

“Seventy versts you rode between midnight and now,” went on Vash. “Straight over the steppe to the east. Well, I’ll take you back.”

“Why take me back?”

“Don’t you know? Last night you licked the pig – you were dancing the hopak in the Cossack’s bed[1] when his Highness, the lieutenant of the Starosta, rode by. He said something, and you pulled him out of the saddle and used the whip on his hide until he danced. Tfu! There was a devil in you—“

“How did I find the horse?”

“It’s his Highness’s charger – a good one. The Starosta gave command to all of us on the border patrol to follow and bring you back. They are raging like bulls in a pen, the Starosta and his men. Come on, it’s late.”

Charny knew well enough what awaited him at Zarit: the stocks; the scourge; or his ears clipped off. They had his horse and his silver, his svitka and his hat, while he had one of their best chargers. So, he had stolen nothing. Moreover, he was tired of the Russian settlements where a man could not even drink without being caged.

“My road is to the east,” he decided. “To the devil take your Starosta and his commands.”

Vash considered a moment, his slant eyes measuring the tall fugitive. Then he leaped at Charny, his powerful arms clutching. But Charny was in no mood for a fight. Stepping aside, he drew his curved sword swiftly.

“Steel to you!” shouted Vash, jerking out his own sword.

For a moment the two Cossacks circled warily, Vash half crouched, his muscles tense, while Charny sidestepped softly, waiting. Then Vash leaped again, his saber swinging over his head. Charny parried the slash at his ribs and drew back while the Zarit Cossack pressed him with cut after cut.

Suddenly the taller man stepped forward, twisting the curved blade of his saber around the other’s sword until the hilts locked. Without warning he wrenched the blades toward him, and Vash’s sword flashed into the air, falling to the ground behind Charny, who set his foot upon it.

“The devil’s in you still!” Vash muttered, rubbing his hand. “Get into the saddle, and may the dogs bite me if I don’t carve your ribs there. To fight on a horse – that’s the best way. Only sheepherders fight on their feet.”

A smile touched Charny’s thin lips. With the red glow of sunset on his half-shaven head, his dark eyes seemed on fire.

“Well, what will you do?” Vash asked irritably. “Don’t you see that I’m your prisoner? Do you want me to take grass in my teeth?”

“Do what you like.” Charny picked up the other’s sword and sheathed his own. “I’m not going back to Zarit to be strung up on a rope.”

“Well, I can’t go off into the steppe without a sword. Now listen, you aren’t my captive any longer, that’s clear. I won’t try to take you back there.” Vash’s tufted mustache twitched in a grin. “Allah, they say his Highness the lieutenant howled when you kissed his hide with the whip. It’s all one to me. Only give me back the sword.”

He held out his hand.

“Faith of a Cossack. I pledge faith by all the Cossack brotherhood, alive or dead, out yonder.” And he motioned to the north and east, to south and west.

He had served, that Vash, in the wars, and his oath was the oath of a Zaporoghian – of a free Cossack who had once belonged to the great war encampment of the Siech. If he gave his word as a Zaporoghian, it would be trusted.

Charny handed him back his sword.

“Aya tak,” he said, “Aye, so. Now give me water from that jug.”

Vash sheathed his sword and stared.

“Water! Would I carry water with mother Volga flowing under my snout?”

And, remembering the brown boat’s sail on the steppe, Charny laughed. Truly his head had been bitten. Ten minutes later the Cossacks and the horses were drinking at the bank of the wide gray river that flowed soundlessly between borders of high rushes. Charny thrust in his head, snorting, and wringing the water out of his scalp lock. The burning fire left his brain, and all at once he felt ravenously hungry. He found Vash sitting his horse on a sand mound that rose above the rushes. The Cossack of the patrol had barley cakes in his bags, but both of them felt the need of meat or gruel.

With experienced eyes Vash studied the river in the deepening twilight. Swallows flitted overhead; out in midstream a log raft drifted without lights, although the deep notes of a boatman’s song came from it over the water. On the far side the gray banks were turning black. Upstream he made out the blur of some large islands. But he shook his head.

“Not a tavern; not a fishing boat. Nothing to eat here.”

“Yonder’s a fire,” observed Charny. He knew nothing of the Volga, but he had been born in the steppe and he had noticed what the other had missed: the thin glow of firelight against trees upstream near the islands.

“Gypsies, it may be.” Vash nodded. “Well, God gives.”

As they rode north, keeping to the hard ground above the rushes, he explained that this portion of the steppe was deserted except for a few summer huts of burlaki, or river men. Gypsies sometimes followed the river trail. Farther north bands of river pirates haunted the shore, rowing out from inlets to board and capture cargo boats, killing the crews and setting the vessels afire after carrying off what they wanted. To the south near Astrakhan Tartars raided across the Volga in the winter, to seize cattle and slaves in the villages. Richly laden merchant vessels sailing down river, or carrying salt and fish and sealskins north again, passed this region without stopping.

“We only kill flies,” grumbled Vash. There was no support for the Cossacks of the Zarit patrol, except to pick quarrels with the governor’s militia. “And kiss the cow girls when there are any along the river.”

It was almost dark by the time they approached the fire, and Vash drew rein with an exclamation. The place seemed to be a large encampment without tents or huts. Along the shore in the firelight some two-score men sat at meat around three smoking pots. Most of them were armed with short sword and pistol, while pikes were stacked in military fashion. A few of them, in fine clothes, looked like Russians. And Vash noticed these had no weapons, although there were two women in their number.

Among the crowd he made out Kalmuks in white felt hats and a scattering of burlaki.

“There’s no wagon train, no horses,” he muttered, spitting out the sunflower seeds he was chewing.

Charny, who was hungry, urged his horse forward. As they came down to the shore some of the men rose to meet them.

“Whose men are you?” demanded Vash.

The strangers made no answer. They stared at the horses, and one went to the top of the rise on which the fire had been built to peer into the darkness behind the Cossacks. Someone else threw a dish of grease on the flames, which soared up, hissing, lighting up the shore.

Vash noticed a figure in a priest’s hat and veil seated by the women, who had bold painted faces and the physique of Amazons. At least three of their companions wore the fur-trimmed garments of boyars – noblemen. But these, although they looked curiously at the patrol rider, had nothing to say. Perhaps they spoke only Russian and did not know the Cossack speech.

“Well, people,” Vash remarked, “is there no one to bid us to sit down to bread and salt?” The odor of mutton and garlic tickled his nostrils.

A tall man in a red Tartar khalat rose from his place and came over to the Cossacks. He had curly hair the color of wheat, and he bore himself as if accustomed to command. With his hands thrust in his girdle he inspected Vash and Charny without haste.

“What seek ye?” he asked curtly. He spoke in the fashion of the Muscovites, like a boyar.

“We are riders of the Zarit patrol—” Vash stretched and pointed to include Charny “and, by Allah, we want to set our fangs in meat.”

“Well,” said the tall boyar, “I am Kolmar, the lieutenant of Astrakhan and I have no meat for you thieving dogs.” He spoke to one of his followers and turned back to the fire.

Vash glanced anxiously at Charny, who had horsewhipped the lieutenant of a smaller town after drinking brandy. It would not do, he thought, to try that game with this Kolmar. Cossacks would not have turned a hungry man away from such an abundance of food: but these chaps seemed to be Muscovites with a following picked up along the river.

Charny, however, was more interested than angry. Suddenly he reined his horse forward, passing Kolmar and halting to stare at the women and the priest.

“If you have no food for us of the steppe,” he said slowly, “give us at least a blessing, little father.”

Some of the men laughed, and the bearded priest turned his head as if troubled. Hastily he raised his hand and muttered something.

“Get out!” said the Lord Kolmar softly. “And if you show your head this night you will taste a bullet.”

One of the women cried out shrilly but Charny wheeled his horse and trotted off. He headed straight away from the river, as Vash joined him, and kept on until he was beyond the last of the firelight. Then he halted and sat motionless.

“The ox tails – the stall cattle!” muttered Vash. “They had white bread and kegs of mead enough for a barrack. But then they’re Muscovites, and God made them so they can’t see beyond their whiskers.”

“Kegs and chests they had,” Charny observed thoughtfully.

His eyes by now were accustomed to the gloom. A half moon, low over the river, shed an elusive light. To Vash’s surprise, he began to quarter the ground at a hand pace, bending down to inspect the light patches of sand between the clumps of dwarf oak and saxaul.

“There’s no bread here,” Vash remarked after he had grown tired of following his champion about.

“Nothing,” Charny agreed. “Only the tracks of men who came out of the wood. No carts, no horses, and no tracks of many people.”

For a moment a chill of dread touched the Cossack of the patrol, who had all the superstition of those who ride the steppe. Kolmar and his people had food chests and cakes with them, and they could not have carried such things on their shoulders. In fact, they did not seem to have passed over the surface of the steppe. And Vash had seen no sign of a boat. They were there on the shore, waiting by that fire, as if they were dead souls who haunted the river in the hours of darkness. He thought of the florid faces of the women, and the silent priest, and glanced over his shoulder uneasily. True, they were not like honest folk of flesh and blood.

But spirits did not boil mutton over a huge fire, nor did they slake their thirst with honey-mead. Moreover, Kolmar had been a true boyar, ready to blaze away with powder and ball. No, they must have landed from a riverboat, although why they should have done so on this deserted stretch of shore Vash did not know.

“The fire,” Charny said softly. “Did you see where it was?”

Hastily Vash glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to find the fire moving away somewhere. But it still flared and smoked on the rise by the shore.

“Devil take it!” he grunted. “Haven’t you ever seen a fire before?”

“Not like that.”

Vash reflected that he himself would have built a fire in a hollow out of the wind, where it would not catch the eye of roving Tartars. Or, to cook meat, he would have made a small fire between rocks and let it die to embers. But these men made a blaze as if to signal down the river.

“Well, they’re Muscovites,” he responded. “And they have women to keep warm. Why shouldn’t they kindle up?”

Then he started. They had been walking the horses slowly down river, when Charny’s mount shied away from a clump of saxaul. Something slipped out of the shadowy thicket and sped away soundlessly.

Charny went after it in a minute, lashing his horse through the brush. By the time Vash caught up with him the Cossack had dismounted and was wrestling with a dark figure. A knife flickered in the moonlight as Charny caught the arm of his antagonist and jerked. Charny had muscles of pliant steel in the hundred and eighty pounds of him, and the figure went down on the sand.

Jumping from his saddle, Vash was going to kick the stranger in the head – because a knife in the dark is more to be feared than any sword. But Charny pulled him back and spoke to the stranger, who made answer in a whisper.

“It’s a woman,” muttered the Cossack of the patrol, bending down. “A girl. Eh, she’s pretty, too. A dove. Hi-hop!” He began to twirl his long mustache.

“Shut up!” grunted Charny. “She’s a Gypsy, and she can take us to some food.”

“But—”

Charny took the reins of the black horse in one hand, and he twisted his other fist in the end of the Gypsy girl’s long, loose hair. She was barefoot, with a sheepskin chaban over her slender shoulders, and she led them swiftly toward the river.

“But,” whispered Vash, coming up, “look out for yourself. These Gypsies are witches. They know how to lay spells. They can cut your heart out of your body.”

The Gypsy girl laughed softly, hearing this. She did not make any effort to escape from Charny until she scrambled down into the gloom of an oak grove, with a warning cry that sounded like a night bird’s.

It was answered from below, and the Cossacks saw that they were at the river’s edge, a long musket shot upstream from the fire of the Muscovites. Beneath them, a timber raft was tied to the shore. On the raft whispers sounded faintly and bare feet moved over the logs.

“My people,” explained the girl. “They are honest folk, O my falcons.”

Vash doubted this. It would bring bad luck, he thought, to follow this girl of the night. Charny, however, let go the girl and leaped down to the raft.

“I am Yamalian,” a gruff voice greeted him. “What would you, Cossack?”

“I,” Charny answered, “am a masterless man from Zarit with a stolen horse, and this comrade of mine is a fugitive who has kissed just one girl too many. Give us bread and salt.”

A chuckle came out of the darkness.

“Be welcome.”

The Tsigans – Gypsies – being horse traders and singers, were on good enough terms with the border Cossacks, who liked to hear the tales they brought up and down the river. They knew more, even, than the Yiddish traders, although how they got their tidings remained a mystery. They drifted over the steppe with their carts and strings of ponies, their hags and children; some of their girls, like Makara who had guided the Cossacks to the raft, were beautiful and fiery in spirit.

Yamalian had two of his sons on the raft. While the Cossacks ate hugely of his kasha and bread washed down with Vash’s brandy, the old Gypsy explained they were on their way south to Astrakhan where they would sell their logs and spend the Winter months when the Volga was frozen. They had tied up to the bank for the night.

“Now tell the truth,” Charny demanded. “What did you steal from the Muscovites down the shore?”

From the raft the mound with its blazing fire was in plain sight over the fringe of rushes at the shore. Most of Kolmar’s men had disappeared, but the women with their boyars and the priest were still to be seen. The Gypsies had not even a lantern on the raft. The only light came from the moon piercing the branches of the oaks.

“Eh, from them – nothing.” Yamalian sounded sincere enough and Makara laughed a little.

“How did they come?”

“By boat, in two saiks. This morning they passed the raft, O my falcon. Now the saiks are hidden in the rushes.”

“As you were hiding in the shadow – why?”

“Because I am afraid.”

“When was a Tsigan afraid of darkness? And when did nobles of the north journey with their women in open saiks? What kind of priest gives a blessing like a fisherman? Eh, tell.”

“I’m afraid. The fate of every man is in God’s hands.”

“Of what are you afraid?”

The old Gypsy made no answer, but the girl, Makara, said defiantly—

“The red cock.”

Charny only shook his head impatiently. Vash, who had been chewing sunflower seeds and spitting them out, leaned forward, startled.

“Eh, the red cock will crow?”

“Before the first light,” assented the girl.

“Here?”

“At the fire.”

“What is this red cock,” demanded Charny, “and his crowing?”

Vash felt for the brandy jug and took a long swallow.

“River pirates,” he whispered. “Red hands. After they have attacked and slain, and taken out what they wish, then they kindle up with fire, and the boat goes burning down the river. They say it is the red cock crowing. Allah, we would have had more than bread in our gullets if we had sat down with them.”

Many things became clear to Charny – the two score armed men waiting on the shore, their boats concealed in the high rushes. He wondered why they should sit by a fire and why some of them wore the dress of noblemen.

“Red hands down from the north,” muttered Vash. “But that Kolmar is a nobleman, devil take me if he isn’t. What are the women for?”

Yamalian chuckled.

“Are you a Cossack, to ask?”

“But they’re dressed up like peasants, and this Lord Kolmar of Astrakhan has on Tartar rags. Eh, why?”

Makara, who had been watching Charny, leaned forward impatiently.

“When the red hands work, keep your tongue between your teeth.”

It did not please the stocky Cossack to be spoken to in this manner by a girl.

“Well,” he snorted, “you were spying on them. What did you find out?”

But she shook her head. Charny, the one who had run her down and thrown her to the ground – who had stolen a horse fit for a prince – was the one she wished would look at her.

“What is that?” Charny demanded of Yamalian.

Far up the river a pin-point of light appeared. Presently it vanished, to reappear again.

“It’s a boat, the Kniaz.”

“May the dogs bite me!” Vash clutched at his head. “How do you know?”

Yamalian did not see fit to explain how tidings of the ship’s approach had crept down the river ahead of it. He knew the talk of the river men, the whispers that passed up and down the broad river – and Makara had ears like a cat.

“A rich ship,” Vash muttered to Charny. “The last one down before the ice closes up north – for Astrakhan at the Volga mouth, with gold and gear, powder and arms and merchants’ goods. Hi-hop! The red hands know. They are waiting like wolves.” He turned to the Gypsy. “Where’s your skiff?”

In spite of the instant protest of the men on the raft, Vash searched until he found a small skiff tied to the logs.

“It’s devil’s work Kolmar and his lads are about,” he explained. “There are honest folk on the Kniaz. I’m going to warn them.”

“Nay, Falcon,” Yamalian objected. “They have cannon, muskets. What harm to them?”

“The devil only knows.” Vash considered and shook his head. “It’s clear those red hands came to wait for them. Now I must go out on the water and tell them to keep away from the fire. Plague take Makara – if it wasn’t for her I would not be able to go.”

Charny entered the skiff with him, and a Gypsy took the oars. Yamalian had whispered to him to look out for the skiff. Just as they pushed off the girl jumped in beside Charny.

“See how she loves you,” Vash grumbled. “But it’s bad luck having her along on the water.”

The girl, however, showed no inclination to be put back on the raft.

“Na kon!” Vash cried. “Make haste.”

They met the Kniaz about a league up-river. First the patch of square sail, half furled, showed in the moonlight and then the blunt bow of the small bark – that was a large ship on the Volga. A great lantern on the break of the after-deck gave the light that Charny had seen at first. Little air was stirring, and the ship barely had steerage way in the current. A sailor in the bow took soundings steadily, for the shifting channel and submerged islands made the river treacherous.

“Hai!” Vash stood up to hail. “Who commands here?”

“Keep off, you swine!” retorted the leadsman.

Heads began to show along the rail. Light came from the ports of the after castle, and the light wail of a violin ceased. Someone shouted at the skiff in Russian, and a sailor repeated it.

“Have you a message?”

“Aye, so. There is danger down by the islands.”

“Come over the side. The serene, mighty lord will speak to you.”

At a word from Vash the Gypsy swung the boat in, and the Cossacks hauled themselves up by a rope to the shrouds.

They dropped over the rail and stopped, surprised. A seaman held a blazing pine torch close to their heads, and a half dozen soldiers in helmets and breastplates pointed long pistols at them. Behind these guards stood three officers – one the stout Muscovite ship’s captain, another a young ensign in a green uniform, and the third a dry little man who held himself stiff as the gold-headed cane he carried.

“Halt!” he snapped, and put a round piece of glass in his eye to look at them. He said something they did not understand, and the green ensign translated.

“Tell your names, occupations, your master’s name and your business upon the river. But first lay down your swords on the deck. It is forbidden to come over the side with small arms.”

Instead Charny took a step forward.

“Allah! We have come to warn you.”

The officer of the glass gave a second command, and the ensign explained:

“I should count four, and if at the count of four you have not laid down your weapons my men will shoot you. Come now, fear God! One. Two—”

The Cossacks exchanged glances. On land they could ever run for it, but here on the cramped deck with the water behind them they were helpless. With a mutter of anger Vash drew his saber and dropped it, while Charny laid his down silently. The ensign picked up the weapons, and the guards lowered their pistols.

It seemed to the Cossacks as if the men on the Kniaz were marionettes, bobbing up and down at the pull of invisible strings. First he of the eyeglass snapped out words, then the green ensign sang them out like a parrot, and the seamen ran about or barked orders. Vash peered over the bow and saw that they were approaching the dark blur of the wood where lay the Gypsy raft.

“Look here, Excellencies,” he explained, “the devil himself is squatting down behind that bend. Only listen—”

Hastily he told of the meeting with Kolmar and his armed band, of the watch fire and the tidings of the Gypsies.

“May the hangman light my path if they aren’t red hands – pirates. If you don’t want your hides ripped, keep to the other side of the islands until you are past the fire.”

The dry little man glared behind his glass and snapped out questions as a sap log shoots sparks. He ordered Makara and her brother up from the skiff and questioned them without result, because the Gypsies were afraid of the officers.

“What is the name of the leader of this band?” He demanded finally.

“Kolmar, lord lieutenant of Astrakhan.” Vash made answer.

The green ensign scowled.

“That is a lie. Here stands his High Well-Born Excellency, Franz, Count of Fugenwald, who has been appointed Lord Lieutenant of Astrakhan by his Imperial Majesty, the Czar of all the Russians.”

And he pointed to the erect little German, listening respectfully as Fugenwald rattled forth more long words.

“Moreover, his Excellency says to you that he entertains suspicion aroused by your coming. His Excellency has been warned against the outlaws of the Volga, and he has taken steps to resist them. These four carronades—” the ensign pointed to two pairs of twelve-pounders in position in the waist of the ship—“are charged with chain shot and iron. My twelve men of the Moscow strelsui are armed with pikes and pistols, and the twenty members of the crew have swords and axes.”

“But for God’s sake, go outside the islands. Look!”

Vash pointed at the tree-covered islets dead ahead of the Kniaz. But when the ship’s captain turned inquiringly to Fugenwald, the German ordered him to keep to the inner channel, to pass close to the fire on the mound. Two seamen swung the long tiller over, and the Kniaz turned sluggishly toward the land. Fugenwald and the captain went aft to join a young Russian woman who appeared, wrapped in her cape, at the break of the poop.

“A lady!” muttered Vash. “Give us our swords and let us go.”

The ensign shook his head.

“Nay. You two mangy dogs won’t sneak off until we find out what your game is. If anything happens here, you’ll be hung up on the hooks as a warning to all lawless men.” He went to the rail to stare at the fire. “Eh, there are people signaling.”

“What will they do?” Charny whispered.

It was the first time he had ventured on the deck of the ship and he did not like it.

“God knows.” Vash spat out his sunflower seeds morosely. “These guards are militia – captain’s a Russian – commander’s a German, and the lady’s his wife.”

He looked around into the unfriendly faces of the pikemen, several of whom still stood by the Cossacks with drawn pistols. No love was ever lost between the Cossacks and the Muscovite militia. Unseen by the men, Makara slipped away along the rail and vanished into the darkness of the cabin passage.

By now the Kniaz was almost abreast of the fire and drawing in toward shore. Fugenwald was holding a spyglass to his eye. Charny climbed up on the spars amidships to see better.

In the firelight on the bank the two women, the priest and the boyars waved and shouted at the ship. One of the men ran down the mound, as if to throw himself into the water. And the cries of the women became distinct.

“Aid! Aid for the lost! Take us in, good people!”

The Countess Fugenwald was urging her husband to send ashore for these castaways who looked like nobles.

“In God’s name!” The voice of the priest came over the water. “We were seized and robbed by lawless men. We have nothing left.”

Shading his eyes from the lantern light, Charny studied the shore. The chests had vanished, and there was no sign of Kolmar or his men. Nor could he see any trace of the long boats. He glanced around for Makara, but she had disappeared.

Then came a rumble and splash from the bow of the Kniaz. The anchor was down, and the bark turned slowly in the channel, until the sail flapped lazily and it brought up, opposite the fire.

“What now?” Charny demanded.

“They’ve tied the vessel. They’re going to send a small boat to the shore to talk to her friends. Hi – wait!”

But the tall Cossack was down from the spars and up the after-deck ladder with long strides. Grasping the burly ship’s master by the arm, he swung him around.

“Eh, haven’t you a nose to smell a trap? Loose the boat. Take a whip to her.”

Removing his clay pipe from his bearded lips, the Moscow captain pointed with it toward the rail. Seamen stood by the two port carronades with lighted matches in their hands. The pikemen, fully armed, manned the rail, where torches smoked and flared.

“Where’s the trap?” The captain growled. “You’ve been licking the pig this night, my man.”

“He wished to turn us aside from rescuing these poor souls,” echoed the Russian lady. Pearls glimmered softly on the collar that bound her throat.

Charny went to the rail and stared down. With two sailors, the young ensign was entering Makara’s skiff to go to the shore to bring off the priest and the nobles. The ensign stood up, as the skiff pushed into the forest of rushes as high as a man’s head along the shore.

And then with a splash a length of the rushes fell down. Orange flashes lighted the faces of the ensign and the two sailors as firearms roared and smoke swirled. A man screamed, and two portions of the rushes began to move toward the side of the Kniaz, a stone’s throw away. Down in the gloom between the fire on the shore and the torches on the ship the two dark shapes drew nearer with oars swinging at their sides, and men tearing apart the screen of rushes that had hidden the two longboats. But the bodies of the ensign and the two seamen were visible, sprawled in the skiff.

“Sarin na kitchka!” voices roared from below. “Death to the white hands!”

Then the pirates were alongside the bark, throwing grapnels over the rail, clutching at the shrouds. Pistols blazed up from the side, and powder wreaths dimmed the torches.

“O Mary, Mother!” cried the Russian woman.

The captain let fall his pipe, shouting hoarsely. No one had fired the cannon, which could not have damaged the boats beneath them. Fugenwald, with an oath, clutched at his sword. But his commands, in German, went unheeded.

Something cold and hard was thrust against Charny’s hand, and he gripped the hilt of his saber. Makara had brought it to him, her dark eyes of aflame with excitement.

“Strike, Cossack!”

It passed through Charny’s brain that even the Gypsies could not fly from the ship. They were all in it together.

“Down with the torches! Shoulder to shoulder. Strike, lads!”

His voice cut through the tumult, as a sailor with a torch staggered and dropped, his face smashed in with an ax. The remaining torches were hurled down into the saiks, leaving only the great lantern in the moonlight.

“Back from the rail, you dog-brothers,” Vash roared. “Behind the spars with you, bull-tails!”

The Muscovite pikemen, after discharging their pistols into the gloom – their eyes had been dazzled by torchlight – were struggling clumsily at the rail, their long shafted weapons of little use against the short pikes and knives of the Volga outlaws. Some of the sure-footed sailors were making good play with axes, but the pirates were coming over the rail with a rush.

Kolmar appeared in the shrouds, pistol in one hand, sword in the other.

“Slash the white hands, lads,” he laughed. “Ho, women and gold for a frolic!” And, throwing back his head, he howled like a wolf.

Charny had been snorting and stamping with growing eagerness. This fighting at hands’ strokes was to his liking.

“Make way for a Cossack!” He called, vaulting the poop rail. “U-ha!”

With both knees and the hilt of his sword he struck a Volga man, knocking him to the boards and slashing his body open below the ribs as he rose, dodging the thrust of a pike. The shaggy burlak raised the short pike to throw it, but the Cossack’s saber whizzed, and the curved blade took off the man’s hand.

“U-ha!” Charny’s war shout. “Come down wolf, and you will howl—”

Kolmar had seen his two men fall, men of the Kniaz rallied to Charny’s leadership. He hurled the pistol that he had just fired and jumped down into the clear space between the end of the spars and the after-deck. Snarling, he made at Charny, swinging a heavy cutlass.

Twice he cut at the Cossack’s head, and twice he was parried. They were under the lantern, their backs guarded by their men on either side.

When Kolmar felt the weight of the Cossack’s blade, he crouched warily.

“Fool,” he called softly. “There’s gold and gear under your hand. Come over to us. To the fish with the white hands!”

But Charny’s saber flashed above his head, dripping blood.

“Your head will go first to the fish,” he retorted, laughing.

The voice of Kolmar was the voice of the nobleman, and Charny was not minded to trust a voice any longer. He leaned back as the cutlass swept inside his blade, the point tearing across his chest. Instantly the leader of the outlaws cut down at his knees, and Charny jumped.

“Ho, the Cossack dances!” Kolmar shouted, pressing him.

A pistol roared near Charny, and he had the stench of powder in his throat. He parried a cut, and twisted his blade along about Kolmar’s cutlass, locking the hilts and thrusting up. For a moment the two men strained, shoulder to shoulder, steam rising from Kolmar’s yellow head. His utmost strength could not force down the Cossack’s arm. But his free hand felt at his belt and rose with a knife.

Charny saw the thrust of the knife, felt the steel rip over his shoulder – and wrenched himself free. Kolmar’s cutlass slashed down at him, but struck harmlessly against his side, all the force taken from the blow. For the Cossack’s blade got home first on the man’s bare head, splitting it above the jaw.

Kolmar dropped to his knees, when Charny struck again, severing the spine behind the ears, cutting the head from the body.

“Here’s for you, red hands,” he called, and caught the smoking head from the boards to hurl it among the Volga men.

A Kalmuk ran at him, but a stocky figure brushed him aside. Vash fought off the Kalmuk, shouting:

“U-ha! The Cossacks are dancing. Join in, brothers.”

The rush of the outlaws had been stopped at the spars, while the rest of the crew had had time to come up. Some of the armored Muscovites were down, and the rest were fighting with desperation, seeing death at hand. Sight of their leader's head flying through the air brought the Volga men to a stop, and when Charny and Vash pressed around the end of the spars they gave way.

“Come on, dog-brothers,” Vash urged.

The curved swords of the Cossacks rose and fell. The outlaws, leaderless, began to drop into the boats. Some leaped the rail, into the water, and climbed into the saiks, and in a minute they were clear of the deck, except for the groaning wounded who were soon silenced by the axes of the crew. Mercy was unknown on the Volga.

From the boats the outlaws retreated to the mound, beyond pistol shot. Charny was sitting, panting, on an overturned keg, when he saw Fugenwald striding past and heard a command. With a blinding flash and roar the two carronades were fired, the chain shot and scrap iron sweeping the knoll, scattering the surviving outlaws into the darkness. Only the bodies of three or four men were visible by the fire.

“Eh—” Vash grinned—“his High Mighty Excellency is starting to fight when everything’s over. But it was you, dog-brother, who sent the red hands off howling.”

“The head,” Count Fugenwald explained precisely, “of the man Kolmar has been identified as that of a renegade and a river slayer who has shed blood like water in the northern district. From the scene of his crimes he fled into the steppe. He had the wits of a noble and the cruelty of a Kalmuk. It is apparent now that he laid a trap for this ship, dressing up five of his followers – for two women came with him into the steppe – in the garments of others he had put to death. So, by the discipline of my militia and the destructive fire my two carronades, we are victorious over the notorious Kolmar and his band.”

Approvingly he tapped his eyeglass on the paper in front of him. He was seated on the afterdeck, and the morning mist was clearing away from the Kniaz, still at anchor in the river, gray under the first light.

Behind him in the place of the dead lieutenant stood the Russian ship’s master who translated his Excellency’s words to the two Cossacks who stood before him, silent but with restless eyes.

For an hour the whole ship had been ransacked for the jeweled collar and other valuables of the countess, which had disappeared during the tumult. Nothing had been found.

“However,” went on that count, “you two lads bore yourselves well. I commend you and reward you – so!”

He picked up the paper that bore his seal and folded it, handing it to Vash.

“I have written,” he explained, “to his Excellency the Governor of Astrakhan to free you, Vash, from patrol duty and bestow upon you the ranking of sergeant in his Excellency’s town guard. As for you, Charny, you assured me that you have no duty except that of caring for his Excellency’s horses. So I have suggested that you be raised from groom to master of the Zarit stables.”

Vash turned the paper in his hands uneasily and passed it to Charny, who looked at it thoughtfully and tucked it into his belt. Both Cossacks were looking over the side, where a log raft was drifting slowly past the Kniaz. Behind the raft floated a skiff, and on the raft stood two horses, stamping restlessly. One was a black charger, the other a piebald pony, and their saddles had been removed. Charny nudged Vash, who found his tongue at last.

“We thank your High Well-Born Excellency,” he said eagerly, “and we accept the letter joyfully. But we wish to be sent off in a skiff to that raft. Look, our horses are waiting for us there.”

Fugenwald glanced through his glass and nodded amiably. After all, he would come to Astrakhan with a reputation.

The Cossacks climbed down into the skiff with alacrity. A few moments later they leaped from it to the raft, shouting farewell to the Russian seamen who headed back into the current.

“Now, you old son of a dog,” Vash exclaimed to the anxious Yamalian, “you wanted to get away with our horses.”

“As God lives, I heard you were dead.”

“In a sow’s ear, we were. Makara saw us on our legs.”

“But the shore, my Falcon, it was aswarm with outlaws. Truly, I saved the horses for you.”

Vash grunted and turned to confront the Gypsy girl, who would come out of the thatch cabin to look at Charny.

“Eh, little hawk, where have you hidden the pearls you snatched from that Russian dove?”

Indifferently Makara glanced at him: but her dark eyes glowed as she stepped before Charny, the wind whipping her dark hair about her throat.

“Will you take – pearls?” she whispered.

Charny smiled down at her.

“Nay, keep the pearls, little Makara. Pearls for a sword. Now I have had enough of the water. My road is on the land. Swing over, Yamalian, swing east.”

When they had saddled the horses, and Charny had landed at a point on the east bank of the Volga, Vash followed him, leading the piebald pony.

“How will you get back again?” Charny asked.

The stocky Cossack pulled at his mustache reflectively.

“Then you’re not going to Zarit—” he grinned—“to be master of the stables?”

Charny shook his head and drew Fugenwald’s letter from his belt, handing it to his companion.

“Not I. You take it.”

“I’m not going back. Too many lords and officers. I’ll draw my rein with yours, you brother of a dog.” Vash stepped to the river’s edge and tore the seal from the paper. Then he tore the paper into pieces and scattered them over the water. “Now they can’t make me sergeant of the militia.”

Charny laughed joyously.