Before the train quite stopped he walked over to the prisoner in second class, kicking him hard enough to break ribs. The prisoner cried out, then bent over with clutched arms nursing cracked ribs.
“I told you to tell me everything. You should have mentioned the sleighs.”
At that, Mokrenko went back to his window, bent, and, like Turgenev, got control of his rifle.
The train slowed… slowed… slowed… and finally stopped. As soon as it did, Mokrenko’s rifle was the first to emerge from the open window. His shot, too, was the first. The robber nearest the horses threw up his arms and fell straight back.
As soon as that shot was heard, twenty-four more rifles opened up on the remaining five robbers. Most shots missed, of course, they always do. But few magazines were quite empty before the one hundred and fifty-odd rounds in the twenty-five magazines and chambers had felled the last of the robbers.
Immediately, all but four of the Strat Recon team charged out, followed by Babin and Natalya. The latter looked on without pity as a few shots finished off the wounded.
Moments after that, the remaining four men came out, or five, if one were to count the corpse of Visaitov, slung across the shoulders of Timashuk. They pushed ahead of them the two remaining thieves, one of whom was still bent, clutching his ribs.
The horses were a bit spooked. Instinctively, the Cossacks of the team went to calm the equines down and ensure they were all in good health.
“Fascinating beasts,” said Novarikasha, gently stroking one of the Yakuts. “They’ve got fur at least three inches long and thick, and they’re fat, fat, I say, despite this weather.”
With the train still stopped, the men went back and began to unload their personal baggage, to include Visaitov’s. This was carried to the two sleighs and deposited, more or less evenly. They left the rifles for the passengers who had joined the fight, but collected back the pistols and Visaitov’s rifle, less the pistols previously given to the colonel and the dining car attendant.
After Mokrenko reported they were ready to move, Lieutenant Turgenev went to stand by the locomotive. He rendered Colonel Plestov a flawless salute, which was as flawlessly returned. Plestov then told the crew to continue on the journey, that he was sending the other men out to hunt down the robbers at their camp.
There wasn’t a lot of discussion. “What the hell,” the lieutenant said, “we’re five days ahead of schedule now and there are fourteen women and girls enslaved and needing rescue.”
And that’s why I follow you, Lieutenant, thought Mokrenko. I am probably ten times the soldier you are but you have the heart of a true and worthy gentleman.
Natalya’s thoughts, expressed rather differently, were, I wish I could be a virgin for you. You deserve that.
The two remaining robbers were mounted on horseback, hands bound behind them. Mokrenko was careful to tie a rope around the neck of each one, lest they decide to escape and warn the others. A few horses were tied in the string to the back of each of the sleighs. The remainder were not tied in a string, but led by five of the men of the team. Visaitov lay tied flat in the back of one of the sleighs.
“Now, you dickheads,” said Mokrenko to the prisoners. “You will lead us to a covered and concealed position about half a verst short of your encampment. If you try any games, the ropes around your necks go over trees and your horses leave you behind, kicking and choking. Hanging’s said to be a slow, hard way to die. Am I clear enough?”
When they’d reached a suitable position, Turgenev called a halt. The two prisoners were then removed from their horses and bent into C shapes, with the ropes leading from their necks being tied to their ankles. Turgenev and Mokrenko led four other men forward, leaving Natalya, Babin, Timashuk, and the wounded Shukhov to guard the horses and the prisoners.
There was a small snow-covered hill—or perhaps a snowdrift with delusions of grandeur—behind which the men with the lieutenant sheltered while he and the sergeant scoped out the encampment, perhaps one hundred arshini away. That consisted of half a dozen buildings, all of them made of logs, and two of them, at least, inhabitable and, based on heat shimmer above chimneys, apparently inhabited. In a fenced snowfield, a couple of dozen more of those marvelous horses hooved their way through the snow to eat the grass beneath.
“Fucking rabble,” Mokrenko said.
“What was that, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.
“Was I speaking aloud? Shit, sir, I thought I was just thinking it. But look, sir; there’s smoke coming from two chimneys. There are people there, but no guards. Even if there are only two of them, as our prisoners said, one of them should be on guard. So, yes, fucking rabble.”
“Yes, rabble,” the lieutenant agreed. “Unfortunately, they’re rabble with fourteen women and girls as hostage. What do you want to bet they’ve got two or three with them in one of those buildings, for obvious reasons, while the others are locked up in the other one? Do we want to risk the females?”
“Not if we can avoid it, sir, no.”
“Then… we need to entice them outside. Who are the best two shots among us?”
“Myself and Lavin.”
“Not counting you.”
“Lavin and… oh, Koslov, I suppose.”
“Okay, leave those two with me. Go back and mount up everyone else. Keep dressed like the train robbers. Come riding in—put Natalya on display like a great prize—and entice the two remaining out. Koslov, Lavin, and I will then shoot them, once they’re away from the women.”
“I kind of like that idea, sir. How much time for you to get ready?”
“We’ll be ready in a couple of minutes. We’ll be right here, so make sure that you and the rest are not in line between us and the remaining robbers.”
“Do my best, sir.”
“I know you will. Keep your pistols where you can get at them.”
“Yes, sir.” With that, keeping low, Mokrenko and the rest returned to the covered and concealed position where waited the rest of the party.
The horses weren’t loud and the snow and trees tended to muffle what sound there was. Mokrenko expected this, and so came in with Shukhov, disguised but otherwise prominently in front, bent but showing a bloody bandage around his midriff. Behind him rode Mokrenko, himself, leading a horse on which was perched Natalya, with her hands behind her. She wasn’t tied but, rather, had an unsecured coil of rope loose around them. Only one sleigh had been taken and the four remaining men of Strat Recon led only a few of the available horses.
On the way, Mokrenko passed them by where the lieutenant, Goat, and Lavin hid behind the snowdrift with delusions of grandeur. He’d already explained about leaving the three a clear field of fire.
Some things, thought the sergeant, are just too easy. Fucking rabble.
On cue, two men came out, only one of them armed and the other doing up his trousers with both hands. The armed one observed, “It went badly, this time, eh? Well, I warned the chief, more than once…”
Three shots rang out in an instant, their bark preceded by the sharp snaps of near-passing thirty caliber bullets. Two hit the armed man, one in the belly, one in the chest, laying him flat on the ground, lifeless and oozing bright blood onto the white snow. The other, Mr. Just-Got-Finished-With-A-Girl, as Mokrenko mentally dubbed him, was not so lucky. He took one in the throat, causing him to clutch it, hopelessly and helplessly, while blood gushed out. In mere moments, though, he, too, lay lifeless on the snow.