Wolf of the Steppes Read online

  Far into the plain on the other side raced the herd, only stopping when they could run no farther. Then the beasts separated and came to a halt, trembling and panting. Khlit slipped from his mount and, leading the horse, lost no time in gaining the nearest shelter of woods.

  Once, as he climbed the hill that separated him from the steppe, Khlit looked back at the smoldering plain, smoke-covered, strewn with exhausted cattle, at the wrecked wagon-houses and the Tatars, dimly seen in the twilight, put to their utmost to keep the flames from the camp; then he turned his face to the steppe.

  VIII

  Khlit sat again in front of his house, watching the surface of Father Dnieper. As usual, he was alone. And he was turning over many things in his mind.

  The Cossacks of the Siech had returned from Poland. Menel-itza had come with them. The boy, as Khlit expected, had won fame as a fighter. He was an approved knight. Yet Menelitza had not come to see Khlit nor had the old Cossack sought out his foster son.

  As Alevna had not known of Khlit's battle for her, or of the ride through the Tatar camp when he rode with the herd before the flames, the news had not spread in the Ukraine, for he himself had said nothing. Yet, out of his wise knowledge, Khlit foresaw that a tongue there was no stopping would tell how the ride was accomplished and the camp of Khan Mirai thrown into a chaos of blood and flame.

  That, he thought, was fitting, for the raid upon Garniv should not go unavenged and it would gladden the hearts of his old comrades to know how Khlit had made the Tatar chief pay the price of his daring.

  As before, Khlit's shaggy bead lifted alertly at a sound approaching—a patter of horse hoofs and a jingle of bells. Seeing that it was only Yemel, the Cossack sank back on his seat while the Jewish trader brought his pack animals to a halt and sprang to the ground.

  “Ha!” said Khlit, surveying him amusedly, “I thought you had left your carcass where it would do no more harm.”

  “No thanks to you, Khlit, I am here,” snarled the trader. “Murderer, mad Cossack, do you value lives as little as cattle?” “Less,” smiled Khlit, “in battle. Did you not reap spoil enough without whining for gold and jewels—”

  “My pay!” gasped Yemel. “Noble sir, I have your word! Ten times the value of the costliest emerald. Did I not sleep in the wagon-house with the man I had killed, to take his place? As God is my witness, the Khan and mirza came to the house and sat on the body of the dead shaman while I danced to keep their mind from the taint of the place.”

  Khlit threw back his head and laughed long. Yemel seized his chance.

  “Did not I make an excellent shaman, noble sir? Well for you

  I knew the Tatar camp as a dog knows his kennel. Did I not serve you well, carrying out your plans, even as you said? And the pay is little for such a risk.”

  Khlit waved his hand toward the cottage.

  “Take what you can carry away, Yemel,” he answered. “I need not such things. For I shall be alone now. Menelitza has taken Alevna to wife.”

  Just for an instant the Jew glanced curiously at the old Cossack, somber now and gazing out over the waters of Father Dnieper. He made as if to say something, hesitated, noting the sadness in the Cossack's eyes, shook his head shrewdly, and, taking a heavy bag from his pack horse, vanished quietly inside the hut.

  Tal Taulai Khan

  The gates of the monastery of the Holy Spirit rolled slowly back upon themselves. A cassocked priest of the Orthodox Russian Order thrust his head into the narrow opening and gazed upon those who sought admittance to the monastery, which stood in the mountains overlooking the waters of the Dnieper and formed a place of refuge for travelers in the early seventeenth century.

  He saw, scattered along the road winding up to the monastery gates, a throng of horsemen accompanied by some carts. The riders he recognized as Cossacks by their astrakhan hats and wide sheepskin svitzas. They were impatiently waiting for the gates to be opened, and the appearance of the priest's sturdy head and shoulders was greeted by a wild shout.

  “Hey, the batko!” they roared. “Look how be pokes out his shaven skull, like a baby vulture—come and take a drink of brandy, batko, it will warm your frozen bones! Hey, he must think we are ugly, he makes long faces at us!”

  Several of the riders spurred abreast of the carts and jerked beakers of brandy from servants who acted as teamsters and wine-drawers. Most of the assembly were drunk, the priest knew, for it was a good two days' travel to the Zaporogian Island encampment of the Cossack army—and when the Cossacks rode to escort a fellow member to the monastery it was no crime, as in time of war, to drink on the march. Wherefore few were sober, and he who was too old to serve longer in the army, and who sought peace in the monastery, was least sober.

  “Stand forth, Split Breeches!” rumbled the riders. “Let the batko see how tall you are, and fat. Devil take the man, where is he—”

  At the command of his companions a powerful, gray-haired Cossack pushed to the front. Although he must have swallowed enough brandy to cripple a camel, he sat steadily in his saddle until he had waved farewell to the others. Then he spurred up to the gate. The priest drew himself up sternly.

  “Who is there?” he demanded.

  “Cossack, batko!” growled the warrior.

  “What do you seek?”

  “I am come to pray for my sinful soul.”

  Dismounting, the Cossack stepped toward the gates, which opened wider at his approach. Opened and then closed behind him. His horse, separated from his companion of years, stood patiently where he had been left. Somewhere in the monastery, chimes, which were wont to sound at evening, echoed melodiously. At the sound several of the Cossacks removed their astrakhan hats and crossed themselves. Others sought the brandy wagons, to begin the march back to camp. They had come out of respect to the one they called Split Breeches, who was too old to fight and who sought to end his life in the monastery. The farewell accomplished, they departed for the camp where there were whispered tidings of war with the Tatars across the Dnieper.

  To the free Cossacks, a summons to war was as the scent of game to a trained wolfhound. Wanderers, seekers of adventure, born fighters, they lived by the sword. When one was born the father laid his sword beside it, saying—

  “Well, Cossack, here is my only gift to you, whereby to care for yourself and others.”

  Fighting without pause, it was rare that a Cossack lived to be as old as the one called Split Breeches, or another who had just filled his beaker at the brandy wagon and held it up for a toast.

  He was tall as Split Breeches but lean, his scalp lock gray, and his bushy eyebrows overhanging narrow eyes and high cheekbones. His red morocco boots were of the finest stuff, and tar had been smeared over his costly nankeen breeches to show his scorn of appearances. A high sheepskin hat was perched over one ear. “To our Russian land, and a speedy war!” he cried.

  “Khlit has said well,” several responded.

  “The horde of the Khan is gathering. Without doubt there will be war—”

  “But Khlit will not be there,” spoke up a Cossack who wore a hetman's attire from the outskirts of the group. “He has fought through too many wars already, devil take him, and he has outstayed his time in the Siech.”

  The tall Cossack straightened his hat and, without an instant's hesitation, spurred through the crowd to the speaker. Throwing down his beaker he pointed out over the Dnieper to the farther bank—territory of the Tatars.

  “Hetman,” he growled, “think twice before you say that Khlit, he called the Wolf, Khlit of the Curved Saber, is too old to ride with the Siech. He who rode alone through the camp of Mirai Khan is not ready to seek the gates of a monastery.”

  The hetman, who had spoken hastily, was not prepared to take back his words; as a chief of a kuren his speech held weight. Moreover, he had reason for what he said. And the Cossacks knew that Khlit's years were above those of any other in the Siech. Measuring glances with the angry veteran, he replied:

  “This is not
a time to think of the past, Khlit. War is upon us, and the men from the hills across the Dnieper say that hordes beyond the Krim Tatars are marching to the riverbanks. The name of Khlit of the Curved Saber has gone through the Ukraine to the Salt Sea. But we must fight with our arms, not names. And your arm is lean. Have I spoken the truth, noble sirs?”

  The Cossacks, slightly quieted by the sight of the monastery, listened carefully. The incident had assumed the air of a council.

  And the warriors were jealous of their rights to decide for the welfare of all in a council. Before any could reply Khlit spoke.

  “Mirai Khan would shake in his boots for joy if the word came to him that Khlit was humble. Is it the will of the noble sir to give pleasure to Mirai Khan and the ranks of the Flat-Face? The monastery doors are for weaklings and men who have tasted too much blood.”

  Several of the Cossacks nodded assent but the majority were thoughtful. They were not given to much thinking—that they left to their leaders. Moreover, the hetman had said that Khlit was old, and the monastery was at hand. Many would like to say that they had seen the last of Khlit of the Curved Saber. Cossack usage was not to be put aside, and usage ordained that old men seek prayer for their souls.

  Khlit, keen to judge the feelings of men, and crafty as a war-scarred wolf, saw that delay and debate would not aid him. Cossacks never waste time in quibbling. Inwardly, he laughed, and waved his hand around the assembly. “Come, noble sirs, he shouted, “do you order Khlit to the monastery? How will you fight the Tatars then? What is the decision of the assembly? Come, we are not old women, what is it to be?”

  With his fate hanging in the balance—for the word of a council was law with the free Cossacks—Khlit scanned the faces of his companions and his heart sank as he failed to recognize a friend. All were young men, strangers, and few were from his kuren. The hetman was an acquaintance, but Khlit suspected that the officer was not free from jealousy.

  Instead of replying at once the warriors glanced at each other and muttered uncertainly. The monastery was near. Yet the name of Khlit of the Curved Saber was known to them all. Finally one voice spoke up.

  “The monastery,” growled the hetman. “The monastery!” shouted others, and the assembly cried its assent.

  Khlit wasted no time.

  “So be it—the monastery,” he snarled. “But one fit for a warrior. Tell your leader that Khlit has gone—tell the Koshevoi Ataman that he of the Curved Saber has sought a place where no other Cossacks have been. Get back to your kennels, dogs!”

  Still fuming, he wheeled to the hetman and drew out his whip. “You have put the old wolf from the pack,” he said bitterly, “and you will find many jackals among the pack. When you tell the Koshevoi Ataman what you have done, he will send for me. But a wolf does not run with jackals. Rather, he goes alone until he has silenced the whimpering of the jackals. Hey, alone!” Before the others could respond or move, the veteran Cossack had swung his horse from the throng. Leaving the winding trail to the monastery, he darted forward down the slope of the mountain. It was not long before he was lost to view in the trees.

  The chimes had ceased their tocsin when the Cossacks again caught sight of Khlit. A mile below them his horse was swimming out into the swift waters of the river. Beside his horse, one hand in the beast's mane, another steadying his powder and pistols on the saddle, Khlit was swimming. Horse and rider were headed for the farther bank of the Dnieper, beyond which lay Tatary.

  II

  It was in Winter, the Year of the Ape, according to the Mongol calendar, that Tal Taulai Khan, Chief of Chiefs, leader of the Black Kallmarks, told his wives that he was tired of them. Instead of killing them and obtaining others from Circassia, Georgia, or Astrakhan, Tal Taulai Khan began a hunt through the mountains that separated him from the lands of the West.

  The Grand Khan of the Kallmarks knew no bounds to his kingdom. The wall that girded China, Sabatsey, the Land of Dogs, was no bar to his entrance. His horsemen thronged to the shores of the Salt Sea. When he hunted, the chiefs of the country came to pay homage. If they neglected to do so their towns were sacked. To make easier the royal pathway, the commander of his armies, Kefar Choga, made, as they went along, a road that was wide and level. If a gorge was to be crossed a bridge was built. If the hunt delayed long in one spot pavilions were built of solid tree trunks and ebony.

  It was the will of Tal Taulai Khan to hunt, and never during his life had the will of Tal Taulai Khan failed to achieve its purpose. That it was Winter made no difference. The cold in the mountains of the Black Kallmark land was great. Snows were deep. Passage, for ordinary travelers, was impossible. Yet Tal Taulai Khan announced that it was his will to hunt to the summit of the mountain called Uskun Luk Tugra in Kallmark tongue, or Pe Cha in the speech of the Mongol Tatars, which signified the “roof of the world.”

  Nothing else would be worth the while of Tal Taulai Khan. In the woods that girdled the slope of Uskun Luk Tugra he had heard from an Usbek Tatar that there were noble stags, while on the summit of the mountain was a frozen lake on the shores of which gleamed at night a curious fire the color of emeralds.

  In appearance Tal Taulai Khan was true to his descent, which was from Genghis Khan, leader of the Golden Horde, and the chiefs of the Mongol Tatars. He was taller than most of his followers, impassive of face, with the narrow eyes and high cheekbones of his breed, massive in figure, with a wide, firm mouth, black mustaches, and a heavy chin.

  Men spoke of him as the leader of three times a hundred thousand horsemen. Tal Taulai Khan desired above all things to be waging a war. In the Year of the Ape, however, the peoples on his borders were quiet, so the Khan declared that he would hunt. Whereby came the great hunt of Uskun Luk Tugra, when the rivers that came from the mountain were red with blood on their frozen surfaces and Kallmark warriors drank the blood of dead enemies to keep the life and warmth within them, owing to the cold which smote them when they ascended to the roof of the world.

  The Khan's impassive eyes had shown a gleam of interest when he questioned the bonzes, who were servants of the god Fo and came to his court from the Dalai Lama through the land of the Great Muga, as to the success of this hunt. They had made reply that it was written in the sacred texts of the god Fo that hunting was honorable for such as the Grand Khan, and that in the Year of the Ape he would hunt such game as he had not met with before.

  Wherefore the zeal of Tal Taulai Khan, who had some respect for the words of the bonzes, was great for the hunt, and the death of ten thousand horses the first cold night's march was only an incident in the advance of his horde toward the west of the Kall-mark land and the summit of Uskun Luk Tugra. It is so related in the annals of one named Abulghazi Bahadur Sultan.

  III

  Great was the pride of Khlit of the Curved Saber, whereby great was his anger. As he rode east he cursed hetman and Cossack who had called him fit for the monastery. To Khlit, inmates of monasteries were no more than suckling swine. To be ordered hence by the hetman of his kuren, or barracks, was more bitter than the dregs of arak, the Tatar wine.

  Khlit was not blind to the fact that if he had appealed to the Ko-shevoi Ataman, the decision of the hetman and the hasty council by the gate of the Holy Spirit might well be overruled. Once when his arm was stronger, he had been hetman. Age had lost him his rank. But such an act was not agreeable to Cossack pride, the pride of an old hetman. The matter, to Khlit, called the Wolf, was simple. Some Cossacks, jealous or hostile, had driven him from the Siech. They must live to regret what they had done.

  During the weeks of travel to the heart of Tatary this thought fastened upon the mind of Khlit, even as the sun began to circle farther to the south and the night cold became keener. The Cossacks who had cast him out at the monastery had not seen the last of him. The time would come when they would see him again.

  Khlit knew that the Tatar hordes were gathering for war, and his instinct told him that it was directed toward the Ukraine.

  Where war w
as, Khlit was at home. He did not intend to join the ranks of the Krim Tatars, servants of Mirai Khan, for an old score lay unsettled between the Khan and Cossack, and Khlit's head would have honored one of Mirai Khan's tent poles.

  But beyond the Krim Tatars, his ancient foes, were the Black Kallmarks, of whom he had heard, but who had never set eyes on Cossacks. It was to the Kallmarks Khlit rode. So great was his anger that it carried him swiftly over three wide rivers, the familiar Dnieper, the Don, and the Volga.

  Khlit's anger cooled, as his own danger grew. Riding by night and keeping well to the north, he passed the land of the Krim folk in safety. Tatar horsemen were gathering at the valley camps, he noticed, leaving their herds on the hills. Isolated riders met the Cossack and after keen scrutiny of his horse and weapons, rode by with a backward glance until out of pistol shot. There is a saying that a Tatar's hand goes quickest to his sword. Yet Khlit's aspect commanded respect, and hence the right of way along his journey. Once only did he stop a rider.

  During the first days of his journey the Cossack had the good luck to kill a stag with a pistol shot. Some time he spent in cutting the meat from the carcass, drying it in the sun, and placing it under his saddle, between the leather and the back of his horse, where friction and heat would keep the meat tender and warm. He had dismounted to eat a strip of his meat and smoke a pipe in a slight depression along his path where he would not be visible from the steppe.

  Khlit's ears were not dulled with age, or he would not then be alive, and when he heard a rattling as of saddle trappings and weapons he dropped food and pipe and sprang to the edge of the gully where he had taken concealment. From the sounds he had expected that a troop of Krim riders would be passing, but he saw only a solitary rider trotting slowly by at some distance. At the sight his mustache twitched in a smile.

  By old experience he knew the sight of a Krim shaman, or conjurer, and he grinned as he noted the hideous mask which garbed the man's features, the long cloak that floated over the tail of the horse, and the mass of miniature iron images of birds and beasts that cluttered up the magician's saddle and which had given forth the sounds he had heard.