Lying under some bushes, Cass let the adrenaline leak away from his system. He’d been an avid hunter since he was ten and a halfback all though high school. Since the Ring of Fire, he had hunted wild boar a lot. Moving fast, moving through woods, and shooting were all things he did quite well. Being shot at in return was a lot less fun.
He reloaded the shotgun, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else. His hands were shaking a bit.
Bernie’s marksmanship had been too good. The man whom Vladimir thought was the commander of the bandits couldn’t be questioned because he was dead. Bernie’s shot had gone into his chest just above the chest bone, shredding the aorta and cutting the spine-as deadly a shot as could be made. He must have been killed almost instantly.
The attackers who had been captured were run-of-the-mill bandits, collected for this. They knew very little. Just that they had been hired and paid unusually well to attack this particular group. They were to kill everyone, take as much as they could carry and burn the rest. His equipage and clothing suggested that the commander might be Polish, but anyone could have hired him. The troops were spending quite a bit of time talking about Cass’ “broken-field running,” as Bernie called it. It made up some for the things he had been saying since he arrived. If he could learn manners, he could be an asset.
“Vas’ka Kadnitsa will probably recover.” Bernie washed his hands. “But I wish we had a real doctor.” He didn’t specify what he meant by a real doctor. Another example of Bernie learning manners. By now, even the doctors at the Dacha acknowledged that they needed to go study with the up-timer doctors in Grantville. Bernie knew it, Natasha knew it, Vladislav knew it. There was no reason to harp on it.
“I have sent a man to the nearest village to report and bring more troops,” Vladislav reported. “About all we know is that it wasn’t a random attack. It could have been the Poles trying to deny us access to up-timer knowledge. That will be what most people will assume. On the other hand, it could well have been a faction in the court, perhaps someone who opposes the income tax or the constitution.”
Vladislav paused a moment, then his curiosity overcame him. “Bernie, what was that long gun Cass used?”
“A pump-action shotgun.” Bernie grinned, albeit mirthlessly. As though he knew that more information would be requested, he continued. “It’s a smooth bore weapon that can fire a solid shot or a bunch of smaller pellets every time it’s fired. Cass was apparently using buckshot. It spreads, so you don’t need to be all that accurate and is heavy enough to take a man down at close range.”
A scout rode up. He and Vladislav conferred for a moment. “We will camp a mile or so up the road. There is a good spot that can be made quite defensible. I don’t want to do any more traveling than we have to, not before we are reinforced.”
Bernie and Natasha nodded. He was the captain and knew what he was doing.
Chapter 43
Dinner had been served outside and Natasha, Anya and Sofia had gone to their tent. Cass Lowry remained at the table, drinking vodka. The American had been drinking all afternoon. Vladislav kept a close eye on him. Lowry was a dangerous man-savage in a fight, and reckless and careless even when sober. He was also apparently a drunkard, judging from the relentless way he’d been working on the vodka.
It was a volatile combination. The camp was defensible, which left the nyekulturny outlander as Vladislav’s major worry. Lowry hadn’t let loose of the shotgun all day and had been passing out insults ever since the battle. After-combat jitters, perhaps. Trying to convince everyone, especially himself, that he wasn’t afraid. Vladislav had seen the reaction before. Then Cass had gotten quiet. Vladislav expected trouble. Soon.
The madman stood up and began to walk toward Natasha’s tent. What were his exact intentions? He was probably too drunk to know himself, beyond a raw desire to enter a tent that held two very attractive young women.
Bernie stepped in front of him and said something. Vladislav didn’t quite understand the words he spoke, since his English was still poor. But it was obvious he was trying to deflect his fellow American.
Lowry shoved Bernie away and said something Vladislav also didn’t understand. It was obviously rude; viciously so, Vladislav thought.
More so than Bernie had expected. That was also obvious. Bernie had the disadvantage of being a sane and civilized man dealing with someone beyond those boundaries. The uncultured outlander’s shove had pushed him back and his foot slipped on some rocks.
Vladislav stepped in. The shotgun had to go. He grabbed it from Cass and tossed it to one of his men, keeping the barrel pointed to the sky. Fighting man or not, valuable outlander or not, this one needed a lesson in manners. He hit Cass in the gut. Hard. Then in the face.
Vladislav had been restraining both himself and his men with some difficulty. He had orders to treat the new American carefully. He actually did respect the courage of the man in combat, though no more than he respected Bernie’s cool-headed shooting or his own men’s courage and discipline. But now that Lowry was posing a clear threat to the knyazhna, he had crossed the lines.
Lowry had gone down at the second blow but he was getting back up. He went for the pistol holstered at his side and Vladislav kicked him in the head. The American boor went down again.
“I’ve been protecting Knyazhna Natasha since she was a child, little man.” The outlander might not have been little physically, but he had a little soul. “I can live with your uncultured ways if I have to…”
Vladislav pulled Cass up from the ground, took the pistol out of the holster and set it on the table. Behind him, he heard Bernie talking to the guards. “Hey, guys, I can wait my turn, but at least let me watch.”
His Russian had gotten quite good, idiomatic and almost fluent. Vladislav chuckled. Some of the guards must have thought Bernie was coming to the outlander’s defense.
Still holding Cass by his collar, Vladislav said, “I can put up with your arrogance but you won’t lay a hand on her. Not if you want to keep that hand.” Vladislav hit him again.
Cass flew into the table and made quite a racket going down this time. Then Natasha appeared.
“What are you doing, Vladislav?” The noise had brought her from the tent. She was shouting. “And why are your men holding Bernie? Neither of these men is to be harmed. You know that. Let them go.”
Vladislav let go of the outlander, who promptly fell on the ground, holding his guts, trying not to heave. The other guards let Bernie pass.
Bernie took a few steps and bowed graciously to Vladislav. “I didn’t really mind waiting, Vladislav Vasl’yevich, but you might have left a bit more for me. Don’t worry about it, Natasha. Every man here has wanted to give Cass a lesson in manners from the moment he arrived. He’s earned this, in more ways than you know.”
Bernie picked Cass up and leaned him against the handy cart, propping him carefully. Cass’ knees buckled and he went down again. “I do think you could have left me some, Vladislav. Considering it was me he pushed.”
“I apologize, Bernie Janovich.” Vladislav bowed precisely. “But there was very little to it. I thought there would be more. Perhaps tomorrow.” Cass groaned.
Natasha sniffed loudly and retreated to her tent. “Men!” She stopped at the entrance. “It has been a busy time and I do not read well in a sleigh. I have not had time to read any but the most essential messages from Grantville. We finally have an evening not filled with politics and you children decide to throw a brawl. Keep the noise down. I don’t wish to be disturbed again tonight.”
Fifteen minutes later Bernie and Vladislav had arranged the semiconscious Cass on one of the carts. They were about to walk back to the fire when Natasha came storming out of the tent again. There was a letter in her hand.