The Cossack Cowboy Read online

  “Send someone for him,” said the Duke. “Tell him to hurry. I cannot die until I look into his dear, sweet face again.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The butler straightened up, went to the door, called a servant inside and gave quiet instructions.

  “Ah, yes,” smiled the dying man. The happiest day of my life.”

  “But My Lord,” said the coachman through the roof flap to Lord Percival Sanderson. “It’s too dangerous to cross here. The upper bridge would be safer.”

  Percival heaved his fat, silk-clad body off the seat and leaned out of the window, his bulging, pale-blue eyes staring out into the dark, his full, petulant lower lip caressed gently by a podgy hand, its fingers liberally adorned with large-stoned rings.

  “I see absolutely nothing,” he snapped peevishly at the coachman. “You must have a selfish motive to insist on taking the longer route.”

  “No, My Lord,” said the coachman tightly. “My only motive is to protect your noble self.”

  “Nonsense,” said Percival. “I know all about you knavish, pious-sounding cut-throats, that’s what you are, always scheming to steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes.” His bulging eyes swelled outward even further as a thought struck. “Dead man!” he screeched. “Hurry, you worthless churl, I must get to Uncle’s before it is too late. Drive on!”

  “Yes, My Lord,” sighed the coachman helplessly. Turning away, he leaned down from his perch to speak with the postilion, who had just returned from a reconnaissance of the bridge, a lantern hanging from his hand, a wide felt hat protecting his face and neck from the torrent. “What’s it be, Jamie boy?” asked the coachman.

  “’Tis a mean one, that it is,” said the postilion, shaking his head. “The water’s racin’ down like it’s fleein’ from the devil hisself, and it’s already a good two ‘ands over the bridge.”

  “’Is Lordship said to go over it. ‘E ain’t got the time to go by the upper bridge.”

  “Well,” said Jamie, pulling his baggy hat further down over his face, “it’ll be God’s own luck if we don’t all end up swimmin’ tonight, so let’s be at it.” He handed up the lantern to the coachman, who hung it back on its hook beside his seat. “Ow do yer want to take it across? Easy as she goes or flat out?”

  The coachman pursed his lips, thinking. “Ow do you see it, Jamie boy?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t think she’ll ‘old no matter what we do, but goin' flat out will get us further across afore she drops.”

  “All right, Jamie boy. We’ll take 'er fiat out.”

  While the postilion walked to the near-side lead horse and mounted it, the coachman flexed his fingers, gripped the whip and set, himself more securely on his seat, bracing his feet tightly against the floor. When he saw Jamie dig his heels into the sides of his mount and slap the rump of the off-horse with his crop, he shouted, “Let ‘er go, Jamie boy!” and they both loosened the reins. The horses sprang forward pulling the heavy carriage down the sloping road leading to the bridge as if it were an empty cart, their hooves flinging up mud and water, the vehicle rocking as it dropped in and out of ruts, the postilion and coachman shouting at the top of their lungs, plying the whip and crop furiously, trying desperately to build up all possible speed.

  The plopping noises of the horses’ hooves became sharp thuds as they reached the wood planking of the bridge and sped onto it. In moments the thuds were drowned by splashes as they entered water rising to their knees. Seconds later, they slowed almost to a walk as the river rose to their bellies.

  Now the coachman could see the peril, a rushing torrent of muddied water sweeping over the middle of the bridge, sending branches, small trees and carcasses of dead sheep smashing against the thin wooden balustrades, the planking under the wheels vibrating and swaying as it shuddered from the battering it was taking from the debris and raging current.

  Furiously the two men struck at the horses, urging them on, fighting not only the dangers of the flood and the weakened bridge but also the terror reflected in the animals’ eyes and their snorts of alarm.

  Foot by foot they waded through the rampaging waters, now rising to their chests, then barely a hand below their withers, the postilion kicking his feet free of the stirrups to thump his heels high on his mount’s flanks.

  They reached the middle of the sagging bridge and started the pull upward, the water lowering a few inches as they made their way laboriously up the slanted planking, the two men shouting encouragement, laying about them with the whip and crop.

  Then suddenly, the bridge collapsed, utterly, swiftly, its death knell a sharp crack as the supports gave way, a crack that was almost a sigh of relief at the end of an unequal struggle. The coachman had barely enough time to lift the flap and shout, “My Lord!” as a warning before he was flung into the cold, greedy current.

  The postilion clung to his horse as it sank in over its head, kicking and threshing wildly to escape the trap of its harness and the merciless river. The instant they broke water, the postilion jerked out a knife and cut it free, then slid from its back and groped for the other animals and the carriage drifting rapidly downstream. He was swept against his off-side horse, cut it loose, then the current tore them apart. As he couldn’t swim, he drowned within minutes.

  Percival Sanderson awakened to the danger only when the horses reached the middle of the bridge and the water rose halfway up his boots. He sat paralyzed, unable to believe that the coachman had been right. Servants never spoke the truth. His mind, seeking to dispel the horror mounting within him, fastened on the punishment he would inflict on that scoundrel once he was safely ashore. The thought of that insolent clod not explaining more emphatically that the bridge really was unsafe was too preposterous to dwell upon.

  Then the carriage was overturned and sent rushing on its side down the swollen river, the horses trapped by the twisted harness and kicking vainly to free themselves.

  To his final moment Percival never knew how he managed to stand upright in the jolting, jerking, water-filled carriage and push open the upper door. As he clambered out, his saturated cloak caught on an obstruction. Frightened out of his wits, Percival lunged back, ripping the cloak from his shoulders. The momentum carried him off the floating carriage into the dark, savage river.

  “Help!” screamed Percival, struggling to keep his head above water. No one answered.

  “Help!” screamed Percival again. “I am almost a Duke! Aid to the Duke!”

  He heard a whisper behind him and turned his head. His eyes popped out of their sockets when he saw the gigantic form of an uprooted tree bearing down relentlessly on him. He opened his mouth to scream again, but it never came out, for at that instant the trunk of the tree struck him fully in the face, breaking his neck like a rotten twig.

  The first indication that something had not gone well with the affairs of Lord Percival Sanderson reached the castle in the form of the coachman, soaked to the bone, reeling with fatigue on one of the horses cut loose by the postilion before he took his final drink of water. Four brief words by the coachman to the doorkeeper flew to each corner of the old stone edifice quicker than a flash of lightning, and to be scrupulously fair to the memory of the departed ‘Almost a Duke’, it must be noted that they drew appreciative chuckles from the servants. The coachman had said, “The shit has drowned.”

  The butler heard the news only seconds later from the mouth of the under-butler, who had been blessed several times by Lord Percival for not having brought up wine warm enough or cool enough during his constant attendance on his uncle.

  The butler hastened to the chamber of his master and tiptoed over to the bed. The Duke had held his own during the twenty minutes since the solicitors had come, but it was merely a matter of time and everyone in the room knew it.

  “Your Grace,” shouted the butler, “the most distressing news has just come. Lord Sanderson has drowned.”

  Trembling, the old man raised himself on one elbow. “What!” he screamed.

&nbs
p; “Drowned. Dead, Your Grace.”

  Horror welled up in his watery eyes. “Quick! Quick!” he called out to the solicitors. “What happens to my estate?”

  Mr. Blatherbell turned pale. “It goes to your next of kin, Your Grace.”

  “Exactly!” shouted the Duke. “To that rum-swilling, hussy-chasing, card-playing blackguard. Quick! Draw up another will!”

  Mr. Blatherbell opened his case and took out a sheet of paper. The butler hurried over with a quill and pot of ink.

  “I hereby leave all my worldly goods to ...” He looked up at Mr. Blatherbell writing swiftly on the paper. “To whom?” he asked. “There’s actually nobody else.”

  Mr. Blatherbell’s face brightened. “To the Crown, Your Grace. He would never be able to contest your will under those conditions.”

  The old man chuckled. “Blatherbell, you’re a scoundrel after my own heart. Quick, let me sign.”

  Mr. Blatherbell placed the paper in front of the Duke and two doctors lifted him upright. The Duke grasped the quill and poised it over the paper. “Hee, hee,” he cackled. “The happiest moment of my life.”

  At that instant, he dropped dead!

  Silence filled the room as the doctors slowly lowered the corpse to the bed. Mr. Blatherbell reached out to take the quill from the lifeless hand. He tugged and tugged, but the fingers had closed in a vice-like grip on the feather. He looked down at the newly drawn-up will, needing only a very small signature to make it valid. He pushed the hand of the dead man closer to the paper, as if by magic it would leap to life and just scrawl his initials at the bottom. His face twisted as he pondered the affect of this evening on his fortunes, for he was quite aware that he had undertaken the execution of the Duke’s will on a percentage basis rather than his usual fee, and that collecting his commission from the black sheep of the family could be somewhat difficult.

  With a low sigh, he released the hand and picked up the paper, tearing it slowly into tiny bits.

  “Well,” he said, to no one in particular. “We had best begin looking for His Grace, Paul Sanderson, the Fourteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire.”

  Chapter II

  The Gare St. Lazare in Paris, France, was crowded. Mr. Blatherbell leaned out of his compartment window as the train eased to a halt and looked up and down the platform.

  “Porteur!” he called, spying a simply clad man with a leather apron wheeling a small cart.

  The man hustled over and took off his hat, “A votre service, Monsieur.”

  “Les bagages. Et appelez un fiacre.”

  “Immediatement, Monsieur.”

  While their cases were being passed out of the window by the car porter to the baggage man, Mr. Blatherbell led his two partners off the train onto the platform. He lifted his cane and stabbed it to the left. “The way out must be there. Forward.” Without a backward glance at his junior partners, Mr. Blatherbell took off, followed at exactly two paces by Mr. Snoddergas, who was followed at exactly two paces by Mr. Poopendal. In perfect time, their canes thrust forward, striking the ground, then lifted for another thrust, they steamed through the crowd towards the exit.

  A carriage driver, observing their fine apparel and foreign appearance, waved off a less affluent-looking customer and moved his carriage ahead a few paces to garner the three tourists.

  “Inspect the baggage,” said Mr. Blatherbell to Mr. Poopendal, and then concerned himself with fingering through a leather notebook for an address. When the baggage handler came up, Mr. Poopendal carefully counted their six pieces of luggage and had them stowed on the rear of the vehicle.

  Mr. Blatherbell finally found the address he was searching for. “La Reine de Coeur,” he ordered the driver as he climbed into the carriage, his two partners on his heels.

  “Ce n'est pas encore ouvert, Monsieur.”

  “I did not ask whether it was open or not,” snapped Mr. Blatherbell. “Just take us there.”

  “Comment?” asked the driver, not understanding English.

  “Rien. Allez.”

  It was spring, and the ladies were out in all their finery, their gaily-colored parasols framing their bold glances, their bustled skirts sweeping within an inch of the sidewalks, the pigeons scurrying out of their way as their high-buttoned boots pattered on the flagstones. Even Mr. Blatherbell sat up straighter and his brows twitched as they started up Rue Lafayette and his eyes grew rounder as they passed the Eglise de la Trinite and rolled along Rue Blanche, where the coquettish looks were not the playful ones of Rue Lafayette but downright serious, seductive magnets which would require the payment of fifty francs to explore.

  The carriage turned into a narrow street, and here were the true sights and sounds of Paris, a marketplace lined with stalls of scarves and stockings and caps, and crowded with push-carts and horse-drawn carts piled high with vegetables and meats and fruits and cheeses, and the owner of each cart vying with his neighbor as to who could shout the louder or drag a customer from the other, and the horses contentedly munching hay and pooping in the faces of all who passed by.

  And here, too, were the ten-franc girls, leaning out of the first-floor windows and making signs spelling out in no uncertain terms what their darlings would receive for their money. Mr. Poopendal blushed and turned his eyes upward. Mr. Snoddergas’ tongue hung from his mouth and his ears stood out even further from his head. Mr. Blatherbell was busy computing ten francs into English pence.

  Barely a block further on, the carriage came to a halt in front of a princely dancehall, its façade of white Italian marble, with wide, tiled steps leading to twin gilded doors, and three royal blue marquees gracing its entrance, one leading directly to the street and the others along the sidewalk for twenty paces in each direction, guarded at each end by a richly-uniformed doorman dressed in silk pants and knee-length stockings, patent-leather shoes, and a brocaded cape with a matching d’Artagnan hat.

  Huge letters stretching from one side of the building to the other indicated that here one found ‘La Reine de Coeur’.

  The doorman on the street sprang to attention as they stopped in front of his marquee, and with a flourish he whipped off his feathered hat, bowed low, opened the door of the carriage, and cried in English, “Welcome, your Lordships,” - all at the same time.

  Mr. Blatherbell stepped down, waited until his partners had also alighted then leveled his cane at the driver, “Attendez-nous,” he ordered sternly.

  “He will wait,” cried the doorman, holding his open hand closer to Mr. Blatherbell. “On the soul of my maitresse’s mother, I promise that not one article will disappear.” Mr. Blatherbell placed a coin in his hand and the doorman’s vast smile of bonhomie turned sour when he appraised its value.

  “We are here to see…” he looked again at his notebook, “Mademoiselle Colette Potier. Is she here now?”

  “Of course, Messieurs,” answered the doorman, forgetting for the moment that he had addressed them as ‘Your Lordships’ upon their arrival. “Follow me.”

  Inside was a small, ornate stage faced by row after row of plush lounge chairs. The floor above consisted of a narrow balcony divided into luxurious boxes. The doorman led them around the chairs to a corridor leading to the rear of the stage. On one side of the corridor were several doors, and as they walked past one which was opened it revealed an opulent sitting-room containing silk-covered divans and lovers’ chairs, and walls decorated with silk cloth in which floral designs were woven, and fresh flowers standing on a centre table next to a bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine. At the rear of the room was another door, and this being open disclosed a vast, silk-covered bed resting under a brightly-lighted mirror fixed to the ceiling.

  “Is this a hotel, too?” asked Mr. Poopendal of Mr. Snoddergas. Mr. Snoddergas had a sudden fit of coughing.

  Finally they reached the rear of the stage and the doorman halted in front of a door and knocked. A maid put out her head.

  “Three gentlemen to see La Flamme”.

  “La Flamme is res
ting,” said the maid pettishly. “Furthermore, she never sees a man without first speaking with his banker. And three at one time! Well, I never! Such things have not been done since she stopped working…” Her voice faded away.

  Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward. “Would you be kind enough to tell Mademoiselle Potier that we are here in connection with a Mr. Paul Sanderson.”

  The door was abruptly pulled open, propelling the maid back into the room. Standing in front of them was a tall goddess, thick red hair falling to her waist, a startling-white face framing huge, deep-blue eyes and a wide, scarlet mouth, rounded shoulders that were being covered by a silk robe, but not before the dimple in each screamed to be kissed, and deep, white breasts, heavy and full as if bursting with sweet-tasting cream, a trim waist flaring into demanding hips touched by reddish-gold at the vortex. Actually, she had been naked when she wrenched open the door, and the three solicitors, their eyes racing down at break-neck speed, managed to get in a glimpse of nerve-shattering delights before the robe slammed shut.

  Paul!” she screamed, dragging Mr. Blatherbell into the room. Her robe fell open, and Mr. Blatherbell grew pale at the sight of a large quivering nipple staring him directly in the face only a couple of inches away and at the exact height of his lips. He started to bite it, but reason prevailed and he shut his eyes tightly and began to recite to himself the preamble to the Magna Carta.

  “Where is he?” screamed La Flamme.

  He opened one eye tentatively and saw the nipple still there, now swelling and growing dark from the intensity of her emotion.

  He snapped shut his eye and leaned forward to conceal the sudden bulge in his trousers.

  “May we be seated, Madame?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Of course, of course,” shouted the excited woman. “Josette, chairs for the gentlemen, quickly.”

  Mr. Blatherbell groped about until he found a chair, sat down cautiously, then opened his eyes towards the floor and worked them up slowly until he saw that La Flamme’s robe was closed again. He took a deep breath and looked into her face.