The curtains of the carriage were open and they could watch the country as it slipped behind them. Occasionally a cold blast of wind whipped the curtains and Helena snuggled deeper into the blankets and closer to Jean. From time to time they dozed, talked, watched the miles go by.
The farm at which they finally arrived had a high wooden gate, behind which were several log buildings, much less impressive than the gate that led to them. As they drove up two huge dogs ran out, barking wildly. The gate swung back and a man emerged, accompanied by a boy.
They were served a meal, hastily prepared, coarse black bread, pickled mushrooms, boiled salmon, wild strawberries and tea. “He eats too well, this one.” Boyar spoke in an undertone to Jean. “We must be careful.”
Their host was a stocky, powerful man with a heavy beard. His smile was wide but the look in his eyes was hard and calculating. Those eyes took in their warm clothing, the bags in the vehicle, and several times his eyes returned to Helena, lively with curiosity. He spoke to Boyar in Russian, and Boyar commented, “He suggests we stay the night … I think it would be unwise.” “Thank him,” Jean said, “and tell him we have no time.” When they rose from the table to return to their carriage, their host was talking to a stranger who must have come up after their arrival. He also said something to their driver. This was a new driver, a boy scarcely sixteen, with a sallow, vicious face and shifty eyes. His hair was uncut and his clothing was grimy and evil-smelling. Once, after the carriage was moving, he turned and glanced back at them with such an expression of malignancy that Helena shuddered. “I don’t like it, Jean,” she whispered. “I am afraid!” Before them the narrow dirt road dipped into a forest of scattered pines that grew thicker and thicker as they rolled and rocked over the rutted road. The lowering clouds grew darker and a wind blew through the pines, skittering the dried leaves along the frozen ground. Off the road the forest was thick with an unrevealing gloom. Helena had fallen asleep against Jean’s shoulder and slowly he himself relaxed and began to sleep fitfully, jolted awake again and again by the roughness of the road and the capacity of the tarantas to bounce around… He was awakened by a persistent shaking of his foot. He opened his eyes, aware that the vehicle was moving at a walk and something was pressing against him. Then he heard Boyar’s whisper and realized that the weight against his side was the Polish hunter. “Captain, sir?”
“Yes?”
“We’re in trouble. Our driver … I think he fixes to meet someone.” Wide awake, Jean eased himself into a sitting position. He whispered briefly into Boyar’s ear, and the Pole moved back to his former seat. Outside a spatter of rain fell, then ceased. There was no sound but the creak of harness and of the carriage itself. Jean slid his his pistol from under his coat and waited, listening. Suddenly the tarantas stopped moving. Boyar asked a question and the boy replied, his voice surly. Boyar ordered him to keep going but the boy became belligerent. In the vague light Jean caught a gleam on a pistol barrel and then the tarantas began moving again. In the moment before it started Jean heard a rush of hoofs, somewhere in the forest behind them. The carriage gathered speed. Helena stirred, awake now and listening. As if on order there was a rift in the douds and the moon shone through. Closing in around the carriage was a group of horsemen. Jean held his fire. It would not do to fire into a troop of Cossacks or a party of innocent travelers. A voice shouted, the voice of the innkeeper at their last stop. Boyar spoke sharply and must have emphasized his command with a thrust of the gun barrel for the whip cracked and the horses began to run. There was an angry shout from the riders. LaBarge lifted his pistol and took as careful aim as was possible with the tarantas bouncing from stone to rut to stone again. He aimed at a bulky rider somewhat to the right of the others, who might be the innkeeper. He aimed, hesitated, then fired. The rider jerked in the saddle, fell headlong into the road in front of the following horses. Promptly, LaBarge fired twice more into the dark mass of riders, bunched by the timber lining the road. The pursuers fell back, astonished by the sudden burst of firing, and in drawing back they lost the race. LaBarge reloaded his pistol, taking his time. He carried another pistol and a two-barreled derringer as well, the latter in his sleeve holster.
The driver was frightened and sullen but he drove hard. Still it was well after midnight when the tarantas reached the wooden gate of their next stop. Jean got stiffly to the ground and Boyar closed in beside him. Men with lanterns gathered around and Boyar ordered them to change teams and be quick. He had neglected to holster his pistol, and the sight of it lent emphasis to his directions. From time to time the men stared at the boy who stood to one side watching LaBarge and Boyar. One of the men ventured a whisper but the boy snapped a one-syllable reply, his tone ugly.
Once inside the farmhouse Jean chose a seat against the wall that commanded the door, and drawing his pistol, placed it on the table beside his plate. The people outside were acquaintances or allies of those who had attempted the attack, and he wanted them to know he was ready for anything. The room was long and low with a rough board floor and beamed ceiling. To one side there was a fireplace; the house might have been taken right from western America. Food was brought to them, and hot tea. The man who served them was obviously much interested in the pistol: his eyes glistened with envy. “Such a gun!” he exclaimed. “I have not seen such a gun before!” “I carry two,” Jean replied, “and it was fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” The man’s thin face seemed to grow still. He looked at LaBarge.
“There was trouble?”
“We were attacked by robbers.”
There were three men in the room now, and the boy driver as well. Nothing more was said until Jean asked about horses.
The proprietor shrugged. “I am sorry. We will have no horses until morning, but it is better that you stay here. We—“ “We leave tonight.” Jean looked across the table at the man and lifted his cup with his left hand. “And you had better harness the team at once, and with your best horses.”
“It is impossible!” The proprietor was voluble with protest. “It is—!” “If you believe those men who attacked us are following,” LaBarge said coolly, “you’re mistaken. Their leader is dead.”
“Dead?” The proprietor looked with quick concern at the boy, whose face showed white under the dirt.
They stared at him, shocked to immobility. LaBarge put down his teacup and picked up the pistol. Immediately the room broke into movement. “You,” LaBarge said to the proprietor, “come with us. The rest of you stay here. Think hard before you come outside. We don’t care how many you bury here.” Boyar took the man to the stables and returned with three gray horses, in fine condition. Hastily they were harnessed and then Jean told the proprietor to call his driver. The last they saw was a small cluster of people standing in the road, staring after them.
Ahead the road wound over rough country but the gray horses galloped cheerfully on, their breath steaming in the chill air, their feet making a lively clatter on the hard ground. When they had been on the road about an hour, it began to snow.
28
Crowded together as they were, Helena and Jean bumped and jarred against each other as the tarantas jolted over roads made rough by traffic as well as by lumps of ice, frozen earth and ridges of snow. Their bodies twisted and jerked with the motion until every muscle ached. And all the while the driver kept up a din of shouts, yells, whipcracking and cursing which mingled with the jangling bells that hung from the bow over the shaft horse. Occasionally they would emerge from the forest to race along between stubbled fields and clatter through peaceful villages where every dog within hearing rushed out baying and barking, only to be scattered helter-skelter by the charging team. Inside the passengers were pitched, tossed, heaved and battered. At last, in the cold gray of earliest dawn, they drove into the streets of still another village. The street was a mere alleyway of ruts a foot deep or more, lined on either side by buildings of logs or unpainted lumber, their gable ends turned to the road, each with a huge wooden gate beside it. Near the end of the street the horses turned of their own volition toward one of these gates. Then began a period of shouts from the driver and faint replies from within, protesting argument, and finally after an interminable period, the gates swung back and they drove into a court flanked by a low-roofed stable covered with sod and an open-faced shed containing a bunch of decrepit carts, a weird and amazing assortment of vehicles, relics of some vanished era too remote to be guessed. Jean fell rather than stepped down from the tarantas and straightened his bruised and aching muscles. Shin Boyar’s face was sullen with cold, showing its weariness, and when Jean helped Helena from the carriage she looked up at him with a glance of mingled despair and amusement at their situation. Painfully they walked toward the small door that offered little but a promise of warmth. As the door opened under his hand a blast of odorous air struck them in the face. For a moment they hesitated, but the bitter cold left them no choice. They went inside.