Wolf of the Steppes Read online

  As he proceeded and the cadence of blows on the drum became quicker, the shaman struck up a dance in which his iron cloak rattled and clanked, and accompanied himself with a muttered shrieking, looking now toward the vent in the top of the house. More and more rapidly he danced, wielding his drumstick and shrieking with the full strength of his lungs. As he did so, the Khan leaned forward breathlessly, his eyes fixed on the ridgepole which was visible through the opening.

  When the clamor was at its utmost, the shaman suddenly whirled with a loud cry, and pointed to the opening at the top of the house. The Khan sprang to his feet, and as he did so the conjurer fell to the floor and lay motionless beside the drum.

  “Did you see?” whispered Khan Mirai to the mirza. “The crow came and sat on the ridgepole. Never have I seen the shaman in such ecstasy. The prophecy will be, without doubt, more wonderful than ever.”

  “For twenty summers,” returned Uztei-Kur disdainfully, “I have sat in the gloom and watched, and I have never seen any crow alight on the ridgepole. If it is indeed the great-grandfather of the ravens—”

  “Hush,” whispered the Khan, “the shaman is returning to consciousness. It has taken only a moment for the message to reach him.”

  Both men were silent as the conjurer stirred, moved his arms, and sat up. Crouching on his haunches, he drew his red cloak about him, and stared at them from behind the dog's mask.

  “I have heard,” he cried in a hoarse voice, “the words of the raven that has given of wisdom—to the first khans of the hinterland—to the great Genghis Khan—to Kublai Khan, lord of mountains—to Yussaf, prince of princes, from whom it came to the camp of Khan Mirai Tkha, great-grandson of Juchi, leader of the Golden Horde, at his summons. In my ears poured the wisdom greater than the locked books of the treasury of Pam, more just than the words of the Dalai Lama, he of the mountains.”

  The conjurer stretched his hands before him as if clutching some imaginary object.

  “The wisdom concerned the Wolf who follows the track of the Khan—it tells of a trap that may be set. This is the wisdom—the Wolf is cunning, but he is vain of his strength—Mirai Khan may go alone to where the rock fell from the mountain and seek for the slain stag. He will find the Wolf by the stag. He can tempt the Wolf into a trap. Out of his pride, the Wolf will come, and Tatar eyes shall see the Wolf ride into the encampment of Mirai Khan.”

  VI

  Now Mirai Khan, although he, like most of his people, held the shaman in awe, was no fool, or he would not have been leader of the Tatar riders. After turning over the words of the conjurer in his mind, he decided that after such a successful trance, the message of the raven must be unusually pregnant, wherefore it behooved him to follow the given advice, as his father and father's father had done before him.

  Yet because he was wary, he went to the spot Uztei-Kur named to him, where the rock had fallen from the cliff, mounted and armed. And he went stealthily, approaching through the wood, not from the plain, at a walk, eyes and ears alert for signs of danger. For the shaman had said he would find Khlit by the stag.

  He found time to wonder, as he went, why the stag should be lying in the wood. For Uztei-Kur had said plainly that the deer had escaped him. Khan Mirai was aware, however, that it pleased the shaman to cloak the wisdom of his words in riddles. He was prepared to find something else at the spot.

  But he was not prepared to find the body of a dead Tatar, stiff in the grass, for he had forgotten what Uztei-Kur said, that one of the hunters had been crippled by the rock and left to die. By the body he halted warily, for he saw the rock, a boulder about the height of a short man's belt. For many minutes Khan Mirai did not move. His gaze went from the body to the underbrush about him, and a frown gathered on his swarthy brows.

  His keen ears had caught the sound of movement near him in the wood, just where he could not tell. Something was approaching, and the sound told him that the approach was gradual and quiet, not the careless trampling of a deer or wild horse. Khan Mirai reached back into his quiver, fitted arrow to bow, drew his small target over his left arm, and waited for the sound to materialize into view.

  He had half expected it, yet he gave a soft grunt of surprise when a horse and rider pushed quickly through the undergrowth into the clear space by the boulder, and Khlit confronted him. The Cossack lounged in his saddle, as he guided his mount to within a few paces of the Tatar. In one hand he held a pistol of Turkish design.

  Khan Mirai had last seen Khlit when the Tatars tossed him bound into a tent to await torture at their pleasure, many years ago. Khlit had escaped then, because a reckless Cossack had ridden through the camp with another horse, at night, and released him, at the cost of his own life.

  The Cossacks were surely devils, thought Khan Mirai, for they cared not for their lives in battle. Khlit was older now, but the Tatar did not mistake his scarred face and broad, erect figure.

  Neither spoke, for to do so would be to give the other advantage. The Tatar had his bow bent and ready, but so was Khlit's pistol. An unreliable weapon, but then the arrow might also miss its mark and Khan Mirai was in no mind to meet the onset of the Russian's heavy steel and whirling saber. So each measured the other in silence, while their mounts pawed the turf and strove to get their muzzles down to the grass. It was Khlit who broke the silence.

  “Have you come to count your dead, Mirai Khan,” he said, “to look for a stag that was slain in a hunt? Have you seen one?” “One of our own was slain,” spoke Mirai Khan.

  “Aye,” said Khlit grimly. “Here at your feet. Two others were slain at the same time. It was a good hunt. Does it please you? Every day some of the hunted do not return to camp. For I, Khlit, am a hunter.”

  “You will be the hunt, Khlit” returned Khan Mirai. “If not today, very soon. A prophecy has been uttered that I would find you here, and that you shall be brought to the encampment. The first part has come true, soon the other will be true.”

  “Who spoke the prophecy?” asked Khlit with interest.

  “A shaman, in holy convulsions. His words are truth, O caphar, more true than an oath you swear on that little gold ornament you carry.”

  The Cossack knew Khan Mirai referred to the cross he wore around his neck.

  “Was not my promise true also?” he asked. “Eh, that death should sting the tribe like a wasp, if the girl were not given back to me?”

  The Tatar scowled.

  “Why is Khlit, he of the Curved Saber, eager to gain a woman?” he said contemptuously. “The girl is scarce grown, and with a temper like a vixen.”

  “Harken, Khan Mirai,” said Khlit. “The woman is not for me. Years ago when you had bound me, a Cossack rode through your camp and loosed me, being slain in the doing. His son I have made my son. And his son desires the girl Alevna for wife. Wherefore I have come for her, to pay the debt I owe.”

  Khan Mirai considered these words and saw a light. Verily, the shaman was potent beyond all foreseeing. For he had told the Tatar that Khlit might be tricked through his pride. And there was the solution.

  Khlit, so reasoned the Tatar, was under blood debt to free the girl. So closely was Alevna guarded in one of the wooden houses— none except the Khan and her guards knew which—that it would not be possible to rescue her, even if Khlit were able to gain the camp. So Khlit, failing to terrify him, Khan Mirai, must buy her at a price, and that price should be himself. Gladly would the Tatar surrender a thousand Alevnas to see the Cossack bound before him.

  “So, you have come to pay a debt, Khlit?” he asked, watching the Cossack narrowly. “Good! I swear to you that there is but one price that will buy Alevna. If you would clear your debt, you must buy the girl with yourself. Do that, and Alevna shall choose a horse and ride free into the steppe.”

  Khlit considered this with bent brows.

  “The debt must be paid,” he said. “But I do not trust you. When I see with my own eyes Alevna ride free into the steppe and none follow her, I shall be ready to say that you will r
eceive your price”—he hesitated only for a moment—”and then I will ride into the encampment in the plain. This is how it may be done.

  “Soon, I shall light two fires on the hills to the west. When you see two smokes arise late in the afternoon give Alevna a good horse. I shall watch her go from the camp past the hill out to the steppe and lose herself to view. Think not to trick me. Then, before the sun kisses earth and the blackbird night flies over us, I will ride into your camp, as the father of Menelitza rode when he lost his life.”

  The Tatar studied his foe.

  “Do you swear that on the gold token?” he asked finally.

  Khlit held up the miniature cross in his left hand.

  “I swear it,” he growled. “Devil take it, when did Khlit break his word?”

  Khan Mirai knew that the Cossack's promise was better than other men's. Moreover caphars did not lightly, strange as it seemed, perjure themselves when they swore an oath on their token. When the Tatar remembered the prophecy of the shaman he felt elated. The conjurer had sworn that Khlit would ride into the camp. Had not the first part of the prophecy come true?

  Yes, Khan Mirai thought that the dice of the gods were falling as he wished. To part with the girl was a slight price to pay for the chance—the probability—that Khlit would do as he promised. Of course the Cossack might come galloping with drawn sword. Khan Mirai expected this. But he would be overpowered. The thought of Khlit bound before him settled the question.

  “It shall be as you say,” he snarled, his eyes alight. “I shall look for the smoke.”

  “Aye,” said Khlit, “so be it.”

  The parting of the two warriors was not lightly accomplished. Each urged his horse slowly backward, watching the other. It was not until they were a good bowshot apart that Khlit wheeled his mount and disappeared into the wood that had sheltered him so long from the eyes of the Tatar riders.

  Khan Mirai lost no time in leaving the spot, with a last glance at the dead man, and hastened to present a gift of gold to the shaman, who, as he expected, was still lying in the wooden house after his convulsions, which must have been severe, as two prophecies had been made, and each had come true.

  VII

  When the two columns of smoke rose from the western hill and drifted with the wind over the camp, Khlit watched a girl's form ride past in the distance.

  His eyes were keen, and he could not mistake the figure on an Arab mount, whose poise and movements were those of Alevna.

  Even the tilt of her dark head he recognized, as she looked back at the Tatar camp, and the eager flush of her cheek when she saw freedom before her.

  Khan Mirai had kept his promise. Now he would expect Khlit to keep his word.

  But Khlit was in no hurry. He watched Alevna until the girl disappeared down a ravine. He scrutinized idly the herds of cattle which were grazing near the foot of the hill between him and the camp. He even tried to count the horses which he saw wandering about the plain riderless, their manes whipping in the brisk wind, their heads lifting alertly at the slightest sound.

  The scene was pleasant, revealed by the level rays of the sun, sinking over the steppe to the west. Khlit considered it with appreciation, stroking his gray mustache. It had been several days since he had talked with Khan Mirai and he reflected that the Tatar was probably impatient at the delay. But Khlit was not to be hurried. He had not lit the fire until he was ready.

  Now he scanned the smoke thoughtfully as it floated over the plain, dwindling to a narrow thread and then vanishing. The lives of men, he mused, were like smoke, gathering size and strength at first, then fading rapidly. Like smoke, they drifted where the wind blew, until there was no wind.

  There was nothing to prevent Khlit from mounting his horse and riding away in security back to the steppe, to the banks of Father Dnieper and Russia. The path was open. Night was coming on, and the dark would conceal his flight. Yet he stayed.

  Menelitza's father, Khlit reflected, had shared bread and salt and wine with him. Nay, he had shed his blood for him. And the opportunity was offered now to pay back the debt. Khlit did not bother to wonder whether Menelitza's father would know of it. It was sufficient that the debt could be paid.

  The words of the shaman were true, although Khlit had not wasted a thought on them. The pride of the Wolf would lead him into the Tatar camp. His pride was such that he could not give the Khan the chance to say that he, Khlit, had turned his back upon a foe and broken his word. Yet, Khlit mused, the shaman had said nothing about the cunning of the Wolf. At least he had heard Khan Mirai say nothing of it. And that was very great.

  The sun had almost touched the earth and Khlit rose and stretched himself as a dog does, first one foot then the other. He loosed his saber in its scabbard. Stopping for a moment to light his pipe, he went to his horse and very carefully ran his hand over saddle and bridle, feeling for any weakness. The horse, fat and strong from good feeding, whinnied and touched his shoulder with its muzzle. Then Khlit returned to the fire.

  For the last time he cast a keen glance over the plain. The camp of the Tatars appeared as usual, but the Cossack noted bodies of horsemen darting about here and there, and others among the camels and wagons. All the Tatars except a handful of horse-tenders were near the encampment. Khlit noticed this preparation for his reception without emotion. He had not expected Khan Mirai to do otherwise. Then Khlit acted.

  Stooping over the fire, he caught up a half-dozen kindled sticks and sprang to his horse. The animal snorted and reared at the flame, but Khlit gained its back, and by hand and knee urged it down the slope of the hill, riding swiftly between the trees. In both hands he held the brands.

  The horse needed no further urging than the smoke at his ears to stretch into a frantic gallop, and at that pace Khlit slipped from between the trees to the surface of the plain a half mile from the camp.

  With the wind whipping his svitza about him, Khlit guided his mount on a course along the edge of the wood, which took him parallel to the camp. As he went, he dropped his smoldering brands into patches of the dry, waist-high steppe grass and watched the wind fan the spots into widening circles of black, out of which smoke poured up and tongues of flame shot.

  He was unmolested in his course, for the few horse-tenders had drawn near the camp, loath to miss the spectacle of the Cossack's arrival in the camp.

  Dropping the last of his brands, Khlit wheeled his horse straight for the herd of cattle, which already was alert and watchful of the smoke and flames. As the wind drove the black clouds toward the beasts their uneasiness grew into panic. Running together they began, horses and cattle alike, to move toward the camp. Little was needed to start them into blind fear.

  That little was supplied by the careful Khlit.

  With his horse at a free gallop the Cossack drove into the throng of beasts erect in his saddle, waving his heavy sheepskin coat and shouting at the top of his voice. The animals nearest him broke into a gallop, others accompanied them. The cattle tossed their heads, and here and there Khlit saw a horse rear upon the back of another, or the broad horns of a steer upflung. Closer and closer the frightened cattle pressed together, until he was forced to climb on the back of his horse to avoid hurt to his legs.

  Another moment and the great herd of the Tatars was in full flight, with the roar and crackle of flames at their backs, toward the encampment.

  The Tatars who were near the herd had not been idle. Several of them had pushed into the front of the throng, trying to turn the beasts to one side. Some went down, others were carried along in the resistless mass of several thousand beasts. Shouts, arrows, and waving cloths were useless in attempts to control the herd, now that the patches of fire in the rear had been united and spread out on either bank. The herd had smelled smoke and fear drove them on.

  Jammed in the center of the herd, where he had taken his place at the start of the mad race, was Khlit. Such aid as he could give to his horse he did, with his sword, keeping the pressure endurable by merciless
ly cutting down the cattle around him.

  Probably no one but a Cossack could have been sure of his seat and his horse alike in the herd, but Khlit wasted no thought on either. Puffing at his pipe, his sheepskin hat thrust on the side of his head, he had eyes only for the camp as the herd crashed into the first streets. The wagon-houses were scattered at first, with crouching camels thronging the streets.

  At the advent of the herd the camels scrambled clumsily to their feet and joined the flight. Houses crashed over on their sides at the first impact of the herd, which now split up and flowed through the openings, crushing Tatar riders who did not keep pace with them and pounding underfoot anything living which got in their way.

  Thus did Khlit ride through the Tatar camp, as he had promised.

  Arrows were shot at him from a distance, but none of the Tatars succeeded in getting near him, owing to the herd. The arrows missed their mark. Indeed Khlit was soon lost to sight in the clouds of smoke which swelled around the camp. The confusion grew into a tumult of bellowing beasts and shrieking women and children in the houses, who, comparatively safe from the herd, dreaded fire.

  Once near the farther edge of the camp, Khlit saw a strange thing. From one of the wagons sprang a weird figure, masked and clothed in a mass of hanging iron images that clashed as he ran. In his arms were clutched some bags which he did not abandon, even when he essayed to mount a horse in the tumult. Looking back over his shoulder, Khlit found that the shaman was lost to view in the smoke.

  All the Tatars had seen Khlit enter the camp, but very few saw him leave. By the time that the herd had gained the open space on the farther side of the camp the smoke had descended like a pall over the plain. Such Tatar horsemen as had escaped hurt, and had not been borne away by the rush of beasts, were forced to fight off the advancing flames. Some wagons were put in motion. Others were abandoned. None had time to follow Khlit.