Wolf of the Steppes Read online

  Khlit filled his pipe and considered the question with great care. It was true that the foster son would be saddened by the news from Garniv, as he had joined the Siech to win knightly fame so that he could claim Alevna for wife. It was, furthermore, quite possible that Menelitza would try to go after the Tatars when he returned, which would be dangerous, as well as useless, it being then too late. Alevna was desired of Menelitza. She was, in a way, his property.

  That being the case, Khan Mirai had despoiled Menelitza of something he coveted, which was the same as saying that he had despoiled Khlit. Which was not to be permitted. Would the women begin saying that Khlit had been robbed by the Tatars and had slept in his hut like a swine-tender? There was no telling what Menelitza would say when he got back.

  At this point in the Cossack's meditations, Yemel emerged from the hut, having been inside a full hour. The merchant's face was wet with excitement. In one hand he held a Turkish scimitar with jeweled hilt and chased-gold scabbard. In the other was a silver beaker with an emerald of considerable size set in the handle.

  Khlit looked up and scowled. “Hey, dog,” he growled, “said I not one thing, and you have two? Do you love your skin so little you would try to cheat me?”

  “Harken but a moment, noble sir,” whined Yemel, clutching his treasures. “You did tell me to fetch one thing, but if it was too much I could have nothing. So, to make sure of pleasing you, I brought two things, one little and one big, to allow you to select my reward. If the sword is too much, I will take the small beaker, and be gone.”

  “Then the sword is more valuable than the beaker?” inquired the Cossack thoughtfully.

  “Assuredly, noble sir,” Yemel cried. “You can see its pure gold and fine jewels for yourself. It is too great a gift, I fear, even for your munificence. Of a truth, I did wrong to bring it. I must take the beaker.”

  “Nay,” returned Khlit, “you can have either. Did I not promise the one you want? At once, dog!” Yemel's agitated eyes traveled from sword to beaker and back again. He gripped both for an instant. Then he flung down the sword, clutching the beaker to his breast. A smile twitched Khlit's gray mustache.

  “You lied, Yemel,” he growled. “For the jewel in the beaker is worth two swords, and you were not blind. However, I have a mind to deal lightly with you. Take the beaker. You might have had thrice its value, for there are other emeralds within. Hey, come with me to the Tatar camp, and you shall have ten times its worth.”

  A wail broke from the merchant at this news, silenced by a wave of the Cossack's hand. Gathering up the gold sword, Khlit went into the hut. Yemel watched him with the despairing eyes of one who was punished beyond his deserts.

  The merchant had gone, and the sun was low in the west when Khlit again emerged from the cottage. This time he was dressed in red morocco boots, long svitza, or coat, a wide leather belt from which his sword hung together with gold tassels, and high sheepskin hat, from the back of which his gray scalp lock reached to his shoulders.

  He went directly to the stable behind the hut, saddled and bridled his horse, filled his saddlebags with mealcakes and tobacco, and sprang on his horse. For a moment he searched the river with his glance, and then urged his horse forward in the direction taken by Khan Mirai.

  III

  Next day's sun saw Khlit riding steadily along the steppe on trail of the riders of Mirai. The level plain, covered with lush grass and with only occasional ravines where trees and undergrowth offered shelter, was not a favorable place for concealment. What there was, Khlit made the most of with customary caution, for he was already far into the country of the Horde where a captured Cossack was a dead Cossack.

  For various reasons the old warrior had come alone on his quest to gain Alevna. There were few Cossacks left in the villages. The pick of the fighters were in Poland. And Khlit was not the man to encumber himself with clumsy assistants. Likewise, it would have been impossible for many men to travel unseen across the steppe, and such force as he could have mustered would have been too small to encounter the full strength of Khan Mirai's thousands.

  Khlit knew from experience that the Tatars were dangerous foes, wary, swift to act, and more merciless even than the Cossacks themselves. The Horde were roaming folk, carrying their houses with them on wagons and going from place to place to obtain good grazing for their herds of cattle and horses.

  Yet, if he had considered his quest impossible, Khlit would not be where he was now. His ability to think clearly into the future had kept Khlit alive until his hair was gray, when few Cossacks lived to middle age. Khlit, reasoning coolly, saw that he had certain advantages. He knew the land of the Horde from previous forays after cattle and horse. He was familiar with the Tatar way of fighting, which was deadly to strangers. Also, Mirai's men had a wholesome respect for the name of the Wolf. And they did not suspect he was following them.

  Although he had been riding fast, Khlit had seen nothing of the Tatars by midday. The steppe appeared deserted, except for the deer and hare that fled at the sound of his approach. When the midday sun beat down on him, Khlit slipped from his horse, leading the animal into a grove of oaks that bordered the trail he was following. He seated himself on the turf, took some meal-cakes and dried fruit from his saddlebags, and prepared to eat his first meal of the day.

  He had scarcely set his teeth into the first cake when he knew that he was no longer alone on the steppe. Farther along the trail a horse whinnied. At the first sound Khlit sprang to his own animal and wound his neckcloth about the beast's nostrils lest it should make answer to the newcomer. Then he trotted to the edge of the grove to get a view of the stranger.

  Khlit had not seen a Tatar for some years, but he did not mistake the little figure seated easily on a steppe pony trotting down the trail. The man's swarthy face peered out under his pointed helmet. A cloak was thrown loosely over his coat of mail, a quiver of arrows at his back, his bow in a case at the saddle.

  Evidently the Tatar was not suspicious of enemies, for he was singing a low, chuckling song, glancing occasionally to right and left, more from force of habit than watchfulness. Khlit crouched in his cover and scanned every movement of the rider.

  The latter's course took him to within a few yards of the oak and he went by with a careless glance into the grove. Khlit did not move until the Tatar was well past his retreat. It was his first sight of prey in many months and his nostrils opened eagerly, while his gray eyes narrowed.

  When Khlit did move, he lost no time. Trotting out, very quietly for a man of his size, into the trail, he covered the distance between him and the rider. As the latter, startled by some sound, or by a glimpse of a moving shadow beside him, turned in his saddle, Khlit's arms closed around him in a crushing grip that the Tatar strove in vain to break.

  The Cossack had caught his enemy's lasso from the saddle as he grasped him, and when the two fell to earth Khlit made quick work of binding the smaller man securely, pinioning his arms to his side.

  “Flat-Face,” he grunted, standing upright and adjusting his coat, “a sword is needless when a fool rides recklessly over the steppe. You are a nasty-looking villain. I think I may slay you after all.”

  The Tatar made no move, his small eyes fixed intently on Khlit's every movement. The latter crossed his arms and stared down at the bound man thoughtfully.

  “Hey,” he said, “I need a messenger to the great Khan Mirai. You know what I'm saying, devil take you, in spite of your rude stare. Tell Khan Mirai that Khlit, he called the Wolf, the Cossack of the Curved Saber, is following the trail of the Horde, and he will not leave until the Khan presents him with a gift. A gift of the girl Alevna, taken from the village of Garniv. Tell your leader if he does not hand over the girl, the Wolf will bring death and woe upon the tribe. Aye, great woe.”

  He assisted the man to his feet and helped him into the saddle, first carefully removing sword, bow, and arrows.

  “Bring back your answer to me here, Flat-Face,” added Khlit. “And think not
of treachery against the Wolf, or you will do little more thinking.”

  Khlit struck the horse on the flank, and the beast started quickly back along the trail. The Cossack watched it for a moment, then took a mealcake from his pocket and began his interrupted repast. He did not sit upon the turf, however, for he led his horse out to the trail and trotted after the Tatar.

  Khlit had had time to eat many meals, and he had, in fact, smoked many pipes, by the time that the other appeared again. This time the Cossack had staged his welcome in a different spot, some two miles nearer the Tatar camp. He had selected a place near the trail where he had a good view of whoever might return, and at the same time be safe from observation himself. A turn in the trail around some rocks screened him.

  He saw the Tatar making his way along the steppe alone, but his glance was fixed on the distance, not on his late foe. Apparently the man came unaccompanied, but Khlit was not one to believe in the good faith of anyone until convinced by his five senses. Which was fortunate, for as the Tatar was nearly abreast of him, the Cossack made out several helmets and spear points coming up the trail a good distance in the rear.

  It needed no second sight to convince him that other riders were following their friend with no good intentions toward him— Khlit—and, as before, he acted swiftly.

  As before, he let the Tatar pass by him a short distance, when he wheeled his horse from cover and sprang after him. The unfortunate rider heard the hoofbeat, and turned his horse with the quick skill of his race, feeling in the quiver at his back for an arrow.

  But Khlit had not misjudged his distance. As the Tatar fitted arrow to bow, the Cossack's horse struck him and dashed his own horse to the ground at the same instant Khlit's heavy sword found his head. Horse and rider alike were cast to earth, and the Cossack wheeled away from the trail with a flourish of his curved sword.

  “Hey, that was good, very good,” he chuckled to himself, as he put several miles of steppe between him and the spot where the

  Tatar lay. “Now Khan Mirai will know that the Wolf is following him and that the Wolf is Khlit.”

  IV

  The heart of Khan Mirai Tkha, great-grandson of Juchi, leader of the Golden Horde, was not light within him in spite of his successful raid on the Cossacks across the Dnieper. He sat in the sun, his legs crossed under him, his armor laid aside, stroking his black mustache and gazing moodily about the camp of the tribe.

  There were many reasons why Khan Mirai should have been carefree, for he had rejoined the main encampment of the tribe with booty and slaves. The host of the Mirza Uztei-Kur, which the Khan was honoring with his presence, was located in a grassy basin, a mile or so in extent, surrounded by a ring of wooded hills.

  Nothing better in the way of an encampment could have been desired. And the Khan's own quarters, the leather and silk pavilion mounted on a wagon drawn by fifty horses, was richly furnished with Mongol draperies and Persian rugs.

  But there was a thorn in Khan Mirai's side—Khlit, the Cossack Wolf, who had followed his riders from the Dnieper far into the land of the Horde, past the Kartan Mountains where no Cossack had set foot before, was still in the vicinity, and, in spite of every stratagem the iniquitous brain of Khan Mirai could hit upon, was still unharmed. And he had set his mark upon the Tatars.

  Wherefore, it would not need a shaman, or conjurer, to tell that the Khan was irked. For a Tatar lives by mare's milk and flesh, and by fighting, and the Khan was visiting one of his subject tribes who looked to him to deal with the Cossack pest.

  To add to his discomfort, that morning when he stepped from his pavilion he had seen seven crows fly across the encampment, and heard their croaking. Khan Mirai knew by this that some misfortune was not far away. It might be possible to ward off the misfortune by aid of the tribe shaman. If this pending misfortune were in any way connected with Khlit, it should be dealt with at once, by all the skill of the conjurer and the intelligence of the Khan, with Mirza Uztei-Kur.

  The Khan saw the squat figure of the mirza approaching him and made room on the wagon step for the leader of the tribe.

  Uztei-Kur was more at ease on a horse's black then on his bowlegs. He stood perhaps five feet in height, with heavy shoulders, a face broad and yellow as a full moon, and slanting beads for eyes. Unlike the Khan, Uztei-Kur was in mail and bore his scimitar. Men said he slept thus.

  He did not greet his chief, merely pulling out a pipe which he filled from the Khan's tobacco jar. A pitcher of soured mare's milk had made up the other's breakfast, and this Uztei-Kur emptied with several gulping swallows. Both were silent for a space, waiting for the other to speak.

  “Have you news of the Wolf?” asked Khan Mirai at length, speaking what was on his mind.

  “Aye,” muttered Uztei-Kur between his lips. “Yesterday we had news of Khlit who calls himself the Wolf. Truly, he was bred of the devil's jackal. It was when we chased a stag in the woods to the west. As we passed under the brow of a cliff a heavy rock bounded down. Two were crushed and another had his backbone cracked, so we left him to die. The stag escaped us.”

  “Did you see Khlit?” queried the Khan.

  “Nay, who else could it be?” demanded Uztei-Kur, baring his teeth, which were pointed as a jackal's.

  His eye wandered over the crowded encampment and came to rest on his companion.

  “Khlit is hanging around until he gets the woman he asked for. I have seen her. She is worthless to us, for she has the temper of a serpent and the fury of a tiger. None can touch her. Why not give Khlit what he wants and get rid of him?”

  “Heart of a lizard!” Khan Mirai spat into the dust at his feet. “Know you not that Khlit is worth a hundred Alevnas to us? Make him slave and we can taunt the Cossacks without measure. He is a prize worth the sack of Garniv.”

  “Then hunt him down,” growled the mirza, whose mind could hold only one idea at once. “And call me not a lizard, Khan Mirai, if you would not find a lizard can sting. I have hunted Khlit for days, without finding more than his horse's dung. Consult your shaman, whom you love as a camel loves a spring, and learn how you may snare the Wolf.”

  The Khan puffed at his pipe. He was not of Tatar blood alone. He came of Mongol ancestors, and had the tall body and slit eyes of his kind. The mirza he looked on as a dog, to be whipped to obedience, who knew and cared nothing for the arts of the conjurer or the sacred books that had been part of the treasury of the Golden Horde.

  “Today,” he said, not without hesitation, “I saw seven crows over the tribe. And I have heard that yesterday the shaman walked alone in the woods as he does when a battle is near. But what battle can come to pass here? And now the shaman wears his mask, another sign that he is disturbed.”

  “Aye,” said Uztei-Kur without emotion, “the double-faced one sulks in his house today.”

  “He can tell us,” decided the Khan, rising to his feet, “whether it will be possible to trap the Wolf. If so, we shall ask him how, and out of his wisdom which is allied to unseen potencies he will announce a trap. If he declares that the oracle believes we cannot trap the Wolf, then we will give up the girl, perhaps. But the shaman is very wise. He will devise a trap.”

  Khan Mirai caused it to be known in the camp that they were going to consult the conjurer, and should be undisturbed. The Tatars were not inclined to disobey the command, for they held the conjurer in wholesome fear, and for the last day he had sulked and spoken to no one, besides wearing his mask, which was a bad omen.

  Threading through sleeping camels, the two leaders came to the wagon-house of the man they sought, in a cleared space near one side of the camp. The pavilion was like the others, save for a narrow opening at the dome-shaped top and curious engravings around the leather sides, representing forms of animals and birds, with many crows.

  Truly, Khan Mirai discovered, the shaman was sulking. For he called for many minutes at the entrance before the conjurer emerged, wrapped from head to foot in a red cloak, and wearing his mask.

  V
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  Although Khan Mirai had consulted the conjurer many times before he never lost a feeling of awe when he stood before the dark entrance to the house, where so many strange images were hung from the walls. The wizard himself impressed the Khan, for he was a wizened little man, scarcely as high as the Tatar leader, although the latter was standing on a lower step. A peculiar smell, like that of dried poppies, crept into his nostrils and be turned his eyes away as the figure in the red cloak bent its mask in the likeness of a dog's head upon him.

  When he had made known his business and received the grudging assent of the shaman to enter, Khan Mirai stepped inside with Uztei-Kur, and, groping his way through the blackness, seated himself cross-legged upon some antelope skins.

  “Tell us what we have come to know, Shaman,” he said, “concerning the Wolf, and you shall have sequins of gold to buy herbs and stag's antlers.”

  The shaman gave vent to a curious chuckling sound at these tidings, and for a space moved about in the darkness—for he had closed the leather flap over the door—making his preparations for the coming oracle.

  Abruptly, he jerked the flap from the vent at the top of the pavilion, allowing a ray of sunlight to descend into the center of the house. In this light he stood revealed in all his conjuring attire. He wore his dog's mask, but the red cloak was discarded, and a myriad of iron figures hung from his body. Iron snakes twined down his legs, iron horses in miniature hung from his arms, with tigers, jackals, birds, and fishes.

  The cascade of little images covered him completely, and every move he made was accompanied by a loud clanking. In one hand he held a stick. Before him was placed a wooden drum.

  Khan Mirai looked on with satisfaction and not a little awe, as at something he was accustomed to but with which he was not entirely at ease. The mirza had drawn back into the shadows. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the shaman began his ritual, every move being followed closely by the Khan.

  With his wooden stick the conjurer beat methodically on the drum, facing first toward a huge pair of stag's antlers on one side of the house, then toward an elephant's head mounted in some fashion and stuffed into lifelike semblance, and then toward a serpent, similarly mounted, dimly to be seen in the semidarkness.