“No, my friend,” Mordka said when he’d helped Longarm to the bed. “You cannot leave here yet. What good would it do you to be in Junction? You can scarcely walk alone, to say nothing of riding a horse.”

  “I guess you’re right. Looks like I’ve got to put up with being crippled for a few more days. But it’s only going to be a few days, I promise you that!”

  Longarm’s promise proved impossible to keep. A day passed, and another, and though the sharp pain that had caught him when he’d tried to lift the saddle faded away, he still could do no more than hobble about. Mordka sent for Dr. Franklin, who thumped and prodded, and curtly denied Longarm’s urgent plea to do something that would let him resume full activity.

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” the doctor said. “It’s going to be another week before you’re able to get around without hurting.”

  “Well, if you really want the truth, Doc, I don’t feel quite up to forking a horse yet,” Longarm confessed. “And even if I could, there’s something else that bothers me. I put on my gunbelt this morning, and even if it’s my left side that hurts, I can’t make a decent draw with my right hand yet. Now why the hell is that?”

  “Because that rifle bullet went through two muscles that wrap around from your belly to your backbone. They’re called the mandibula obliquus externus and the mandibula obliquus internus, and they lie on top of one another with the muscle fibers running crossways. There’s a membrane between them to let them slide smoothly when you use them. That’s three layers of tissue, if you’ve been following what I’ve told you so far, and all three of those layers are still raw; they haven’t healed fully. The muscles are irritated every time you move. And they’re anchored just about where the same set of muscles on your right side are, so when you tighten up the right side, the left side tightens up in sympathy.”

  “Doc, I just asked why I still can’t make a good right-hand draw. I didn’t want you to give me a damned anatomy lesson.”

  “You asked me why; I told you why. I’ll tell you something else, Marshal. From now on, I can’t give you any medicine that’s going to help you. You’ve got to be your own doctor, starting today. Don’t let it worry you, though. The only prescription you’ll have to fill calls for a little bit of exercise and a hell of a lot of patience.”

  “Patience never was my long suit, Doc. But I’ll try.”

  Tatiana came in after the doctor left. She’d joined Mordka in objecting to Longarm’s insistence on going back to Junction at once. Longarm had discounted Tatiana’s protests. What to him had been a galling period of enforced idleness had become for her a way to see a world about which she was intensely curious, but knew nothing. To the young girl, whose contacts with people had been confined to the Brethren, Longarm was a being from that other world.

  As soon as his wound had healed enough for him to sit up, Tatiana had begun peppering him with questions. The more he answered, the more she asked.

  “Is so many things Amirikanits I do not learn yet,” she had said, a small frown puckering her smooth young face. “Matushka, she says I do not need to know, only to cook and keep clean the house. But is not enough, I think.”

  “Well, knowing about some things works two ways, Miss Tatiana. Like in my case, I’ve learned a lot of things I reckon I’d be better off if I hadn’t. Everything ain’t nice or pretty, you know.”

  “Da. I know. I am not child still, Marshal. I know is bad in world. But if I do not know bad, how do I tell from good?”

  “I guess you just learn to sort ’em out as you go along. If there’s another way, I ain’t run into it yet.”

  They spent more and more time together, and when Longarm became able to move around, the restraints that had existed between them diminished. Even with individuals as different as Longarm and Tatiana, it would have been impossible for this not to have happened. From the first day he’d come to the Danilov house, there had been the physical contact between them of Tatiana sponging his face and arms, of helping him to shift position in the bed. The contact became even more intimate after Mordka botched his first effort to shave Longarm’s sprouting crop of whiskers, and Tatiana volunteered to take on the job.

  After shaving him the first time, her touch light and delicate with the razor, her hands warm and moist with the soap as she moved his face to the angles she needed to pass the blade over his skin, Tatiana asked, “Is all right? I do not hurt you with sharp edge of razor?”

  Longarm felt his cheeks and chin. “Nope. Not a bit. Feels a lot better than some of the barber shaves I’ve had.”

  Blushing, Tatiana confessed, “Is make me nervous, Marshal. Is first time I feel so much a man’s skin.”

  “I sure wouldn’t want to embarrass you, now. Maybe, if it bothers you, I better let Mordka shave me, till I can lift my hands up to my face and shave myself.”

  “No, no. Is all right. I do not mind, so long as I do not hurt you.”

  Even after Longarm could raise his arms without pain, Tatiana continued the daily shave. Longarm came to look forward to the razor, to the feel of her hands on his cheeks. He quickly got the impression that she was no longer embarrassed by their contacts, but in the week that followed Dr. Franklin’s last visit, it seemed to him that she let her hand linger a bit longer than was really necessary when she passed her fingers over his moist face to explore, for any patches of stubble she might have missed.

  Old son, he told himself that night as he lay awake waiting for sleep to come, you better start shaving yourself. First thing you know, that little girl’s going to put her hands someplace else, and you’ll be just horny enough so you won’t want to stop her.

  * * *

  When he suggested the next day that he was well enough to shave himself, Tatiana objected. “Nyet. Is not make me feel nervous. Truly. I like.” She began blushing as she added in a timid voice. “Is feel good to fingers, face of a man.”

  “You’re joshing me, Miss Tatiana. A pretty girl like you, why, you ought to have beaux lined up from here to Junction, waiting for you to take notice of them.”

  She frowned. “Beaux? Ya nipanimayu. What means, beaux?”

  “Sweethearts. Fellows waiting to court you.”

  “Ah, iskateli? Nyet. Is not possible. Already, you see, ya pomoluit. I have betrothed.”

  “You’re engaged to be married? Is that right?”

  “Da. With Antonin Keverchov, so soon as harvest is finish.”

  Longarm frowned. “Don’t guess I’ve met him.”

  “He was at supper the first time you are visit. But was so many new faces to you, maybe you do not remember.”

  “Guess not. Well,” Longarm said, “I sure wish you a lot of happiness.” Then, jokingly, he added, “If you weren’t already spoke for, I’d be tempted to set my cap at you myself—if I was a marrying kind of man, that is.”

  Again, Tatiana blushed. “Now you make me feel funny some more. Is not for you, plain country girl.”

  “You might be a country girl, but you sure ain’t plain, Miss Tatiana. Come right down to it, you’re one of the prettiest girls I’ve run across in a long time.”

  “Spasiba, Marshal. But girl like me, who knows nothing, is not suited for boyar like you.”

  “What’s that mean, boyar?”

  “Boyar is big, important man, is leader for other people.”

  “You got me wrong, Miss Tatiana. I just work at my trade like your pa does, or like your young man, Antonin whatever-his-name-is.”

  Tatiana shook her head stubbornly. “You are boyar, all right. Is in way you talk, way men do quick what you command them. I know, I see how by you is to lead.” She sighed, and to Longarm’s surprise, her eyes filled with tears. Her voice was torn between anger and distress as she went on, “You think I don’t want to be more as farm girl, marry to farm, work hard all my life? I like better marry man like you, be boyar’s wife, lady, live in city, have new clothes, like Ilioana Karsovana. But is not to happen, nyet?”

  Longarm’s hand started involuntarily to reach for Tatiana’s face and brush away the tears that were beginning to run down her cheeks. He caught himself in time and pulled his hand back. His impulse was too dangerous to follow, he realized.

  Angry for allowing himself to drift into such a situation, he said, “Now, you’re just feeling low, Miss Tatiana. You and your young man are going to settle down and be happy. And after you get started, farm life ain’t so bad.”

  “How to be sure this will be the way?”

  “I don’t guess you can be sure. There’s not anybody who knows what tomorrow’s going to be like. We just take our chances, go along day after day, and endure whatever we can’t cure.”

  “Da. Is what matushka tell me all time.”

  “I guess she knows. And Mordka’s a real smart man. Likely he’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “Da. He have say this already.” Tatiana wiped away the film of moisture on her cheeks and found a smile somewhere. “I am silly girl. Prisnatelniey, you don’t laugh at me. Now I wash off soap from your face like always.” Then, sadly, she said, “But it is not the same again next time, nyet?”

  “No. I reckon I’d better start shaving myself.”

  Tatiana finished washing Longarm’s face and put the damp cloth back into the washbasin. She placed the palm of her hand on his cheek. “Am to miss shave you, Marshal. I like feel of your face.”

  “Pretty soon you’re going to have a husband, Miss Tatiana. You can shave him.”

  “Nyet. Antonin is borodach. Like papa.”

  “Sure. I forgot. Well, you’ll be happy with him, whether he’s got a beard or not.”

  “How to be sure?” she repeated.

  “Just make up your mind to be.” Longarm stood up. Tatiana had been in the habit of taking his arm when he moved, but this time he caught her hand and gently pushed it aside. “No. I’ve been leaning on other people long enough. It’s time I start to do for myself. The longer a man leans on somebody else, the easier it is for him to keep leaning. Pretty soon he gets to where he can’t get along without having somebody carrying part of his weight for him.”

  For a moment, Longarm thought Tatiana was going to cry again, but she blinked her eyes hard and smiled, nodding. Quietly she followed him into the house.

  * * *

  As he rode into Junction the next morning after a long series of goodbyes with the Danilov family, Longarm shook his head and heaved a relieved sigh.

  Old son, he said under his breath, you just missed that one by a hair. Next time you need somebody to look after you for a spell, you get a girl like Ruthie. It’s a hell of a lot safer.

  Easily, without even thinking about it, Longarm fell into the routine that he’d established during the first days of his arrival in Junction. He’d ridden slowly on the way to town. Each step the roan took jarred his wounded side. The pain was much less than it had been even a day earlier, though; it was no longer a stab, just an irritating reminder to be more careful in the future.

  After leaving his horse with the liveryman, Longarm strolled up the street to the Ace High and stopped there for a drink before crossing to the restaurant for the steak and potatoes he’d missed in spite of Marya Danilov’s tasty meals. Playing no favorites, after he’d eaten, he recrossed the street for a second shot of rye, this time at the Cattleman’s.

  “Well, howdy,” Bob greeted him from behind the bar. “Missed you while you was gone. First drink’s on the house.”

  Longarm sipped the rye with a sigh of satisfaction. He never had been able to decide which drink tasted best, the one before a meal, or the one after. Since he’d long ago given up trying to make the judgment, he simply enjoyed the whiskey and poured himself a refill.

  Returning from serving, another customer at the far end of the bar, Bob stopped in front of Longarm and snapped his fingers. “Just about forgot,” he said as he opened the till, took out an envelope, and handed it to Longarm, “Ruthie asked me to give you this.”

  Tearing open the envelope, Longarm took out the folded half-sheet of paper it contained and read:

  Dear Longarm,

  One of the Santa Fe brakemen fixed it up for me to ride the caboose to Dodge tomorrow. There might not be another chance for me to leave here until the cattle shipments start, so I guess I’d better grab this one. I went up to your room to tell you goodbye, but you weren’t there. When I got back to the Cattleman’s, I heard them talking about how you got hurt. I hope it wasn’t too bad and you’ll get over it quick. I guess maybe it’s a good thing you aren’t here, because if you was, I’d feel like staying. Thanks for being so good to me. I don’t expect I’ll ever see you again, but you’re the man I’ll always remember.

  Ruthie

  Longarm’s expression didn’t change while he was reading the note. He shredded the paper and dropped it into the spittoon by his feet at the bar rail. His glass was empty, and he refilled it. His side was beginning to ache again and he knew it was time for him to rest awhile; there wasn’t much he could do for the next hour or so, and he could spend the time figuring out where to start over, and how he’d make up for the time he’d lost. He drained his glass, put a quarter on the bar for his drinks, and started for the hotel.

  Passing the store, he remembered that his supply of cigars was running low. He’d finished the box that Fedor Petrovsky had brought with a change of clothes from the hotel while he was recovering at the Danilovs’, and had only two or three left in his pocket. Entering the store, he almost bumped into Madame Ilioana Karsovana. He nodded and touched his hatbrim, and was going to pass on by when she spoke.

  “Marshal Long! How fortunate! I was thinking of going back to Danilov’s house to chat with you again. In the position you hold, you must know something more that would help me to find my brother.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, I told you just about all I could the other day.” Then he frowned and said, “I sort of got the idea you’d decided your brother couldn’t be around here and you were ready to go on to someplace else.”

  “I have been traveling many miles, Marshal. I am exhausted. I need to stop and rest in a quiet place such as this.”

  “I see.” The excuse was a thin one, he thought. He recalled Mordka Danilov’s suspicions of the woman, and wondered if Mordka might not be right, regardless of how farfetched the idea was of a Russian secret agent operating in such a remote spot in Kansas.

  Madame Karsovana extended a gloved hand. “Will you help me, Marshal Long?”

  Longarm had no choice but to accept her hand. She rested it on his wrist, and, lifting the hem of her skirt with her free hand, turned him back toward the door. She kept her hand on Longarm’s wrist while they walked the short distance back to the hotel.

  “Shall we talk in my rooms?” she asked as they entered the building. “You will find them comfortable, and I can offer you some refreshment.”

  “Well, even if I don’t figure I can tell you much that’ll help you find your brother, I sure won’t turn down a lady’s invitation.”

  Longarm’s surprise at seeing the woman still in Junction was nothing compared to that which stunned him when Madame Karsovana opened the door to her room. At the windows, yards of ivory silk had been hung to temper the harsh sunlight and transform its glare to a soft translucent glow. A large Persian rug covered what Longarm was certain was the same kind of threadbare carpet as the one that was on the floor of his own room. In the softened light, the rug glowed in subtle reds, blues, and purples. The bed was a billowing sea of tumbled furs and satin pillows, the soft, fluffy texture of the rich, creamy furs contrasting with the sheen of the multicolored pillows.

  Chairs had been draped with lengths of brocaded velvet, and a large oval table, its legs ornately carved, filled most of the scanty space left in the corner between the bed and the wall. Lace covered the stained top of the battered oak bureau, and a large rectangular pier glass in a chased gold frame had been propped in front of the bureau’s own tarnished mirror. It looked, Longarm thought, as if the Karsovana woman was settling in for a lengthy stay.

  “I’ve got to say, you travel in real style,” he told her. “Sure beats the way my room looks.”

  “I cannot be comfortable in unpleasant surroundings,” she replied with a small shudder. “I have traveled a great deal, you understand, both here, and abroad, and I find most hotel rooms dreadfully squalid. So I carry my little comforts with me, and Boris has learned how to arrange my milieu to suit me, when we stop for more than an overnight stay.”

  A crystal decanter, flanked by tiny, conical-stemmed glasses, stood on a mirrored tray on the bureau, amid a scattering of small boxes of gold, silver, and enamel. Madame Karsovana took one of the boxes and opened it, offering it to Longarm.

  “You will smoke?”

  He looked at the cigarettes in the box—overlong, white, thin tubes—and shook his head “No, thanks. Not one of them, anyhow. I’ll have one of my own cigars, if you don’t object.” He took out a cheroot.

  “No indeed. I enjoy the fragrance of cigar smoke.”

  She took a cigarette from the box, and Longarm flicked his thumbnail across the match he’d gotten out to light his cigar and held it for her, then puffed his cheroot into glowing life.

  “Sit down please, Marshal Long.”

  Longarm settled into one of the chairs. There were pillows under the brocade that draped it. Madame Karsovana had stayed beside the bureau, now she came carrying the decanter and two of the little stemmed glasses. She put the glasses on the table and filled them, then, sitting in a chair facing him, she handed him one of the drinks.