* * * *

  Before he even realized his danger, and the certain death he was returning to to save a possibly stricken man, he kicked his horse below the girth-line and the animal darted off like a streak in the direction of the bomb planted railway to the shouts of “NO! NO! Stay here, don’t go!” from the prostrate men.

  But Mickey had not heard. And if he did, he completely disregarded his danger and drove his horse on toward the pass four miles ahead.

  The sound of the locomotive exhaust seemed dimmer now. Not so much with distance as the muffled effect that comes as the train passes through a tunnel or a depression between high hills.

  This served to accentuate the sound of the horses’ hoofs beating echo-less on the padded grass under his feet.

  The sound of the dull hoof beats; the muffled heartbeat of a laboring locomotive suddenly went out. The sky was ablaze with a blinding light; the earth fell about Mickey and his eardrums seemed to split in two as the world blasted apart.

  His horse stopped with a suddenness that made him think the animal had blindly driven into a stone wall. It staggered back as though it had been struck by a giant hand. It rose on its hind legs a brief second, and tried desperately to maintain an equilibrium it no longer possessed. Its head wavered frantically from side to side. It was blown back on its two hind legs, throwing Mickey clear as both were blown up the hill they were descending a moment ago, in defiance of all natural physical laws.

  Over and over they rolled as the first explosion was followed by others; many others.

  Dirt and grass and the shattered bodies of German trainmen mingled with the peaks of the hills near the blast as they were blown off their centuries-old Caucasian bases. But Mickey did not see that. He felt it. He felt the earth suddenly drop away. He seemed suspended in the atmosphere. He saw the stars. Millions of them. Then he saw the overcast that was aflame with the fire on earth and he knew there could be no stars. Then came—utter darkness.

  But the attack of unconsciousness was brief. The rumblings of more and smaller explosions vibrated through him as he lay on the soft earth and these had the effect on him that an alarm clock bell might have on a sleeper.

  As he came to, he saw his horse struggling to rise. Someone was standing near it. He saw a hand stretch out and touch the animal in the middle of its forehead. There was a flash of fire; and the animal lay perfectly still.

  * * * *

  Feodor came up after seeing to it that the stricken animal would no longer suffer.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.

  “No,” replied Mickey pressing himself all over. “Just dazed.”

  “You’re a very lucky man, Comrade,” said Feodor.

  “I’d forgotten about the impending explosions,” said Mickey.

  “That was because you thought more of the safety of one of our men, than of your own,” said the young guerrilla leader. “We shall remember that.” He took Mickey by the arm. “I think you will have to get up behind me. I just had to shoot your horse. His forelegs—both of them—were broken.”

  Mickey lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Feodor,” he said. “Guess we have to think before we act.”

  “We haven’t always time,” Feodor Koslovitch qualified for Mickey’s impetuosity. “Come,” he said with another one of his characteristic sweeps of the hand.

  “Don’t you want to see what happened to Pavlovitch?” asked Mickey anxiously.

  “I don’t think we need to,” Feodor reminded him. “If you were knocked off your horse and your horse’s legs broken four miles from the blast, you can imagine what must have happened to poor Pavlovitch who was a lot closer to it.”

  “Yes,” said Mickey thoughtfully.

  One hour later the nineteen men halted on the crest of a high hill and looked back to where the sky was still alight with the flames still consuming the ammunition train the Nazis would have no further need for.

  Less than a half-hour later, the small band of Russian guerrillas trailed into the stable cave, stalled and covered their horses, and returned to their quarters in the main cave, still wondering what had happened to Pavlovitch.

  The night had gone well but for that one thing. The destruction of the ammunition train would delay the Nazi timetable in the insane drive toward the Grozny oil fields.

  The men lay on the beds of straw and looked up at the dirt ceiling above them. They didn’t know why but they could not sleep. Mickey had rested his daze off and was about to drop off when there was a slow, plodding noise outside the cave. This was followed by a shout from the sentry outside.

  “Doktarah!” he cried in Russian, “Doktarah Tchekov! Pavlovitch comes! Pavlovitch comes!”

  Mickey sat up on his bed on the floor. A candle was lit hurriedly. Other candles were lighted. Their yellow flickering lights cast weird shadow shapes on the walls of the cave as the still-awake men jumped to their feet. The light fell upon a strange pair. Pavlovitch, the guerrilla, hung to the mane of his horse which, though wounded seriously itself, had brought him safely back to the cave.

  * * * *

  As they stood in the doorway, a forlorn, desolate looking pair, they made a picture of utter despair and hopelessness. Mickey was the first to reach Pavlovitch’s side. The man was unconscious from loss of blood.

  “Start a fire,” shouted Mickey. “I’ll need some hot water.”

  Pavlovitch was removed to a long table in the rear of the cave. Mickey went to work on him. Examining him, he found the man’s body was filled with shrapnel.

  Mickey gave the wounded man an injection of adrenaline, for his heart beats had slowed from loss of blood. An immediate operation was necessary; he would need help, help in addition to that he would receive from the woman. Feodor would help. The lad had had first aid training.

  Mickey went to work on Pavlovitch with Feodor’s and the woman’s help. He removed most of the shrapnel; all but one piece in the region of the man’s heart. He did not dare touch that just then. The operation was performed by the light of many candles.

  Pavlovitch regained consciousness two hours later. Dawn was breaking into the underground haven and gently lit up the front part of the cave.

  He moved as the tired Mickey turned to him.

  “Hello, Pavlovitch?” said Mickey.

  Pavlovitch turned his dazed eyes toward the American.

  “How do you feel?” asked Mickey.

  A faint smile crept over the man’s face as he recognized the guerrilla doctor. Slowly, painfully he spoke.

  “Kakvahshe Zdarovyeh?” he asked weakly in Russian repeating Mickey’s question a little dully. “How are you?”

  * * * *

  Feodor was standing by the man’s bed.

  Neither he nor Mickey had slept that night.

  “What happened?” asked Feodor of Pavlovitch.

  “I wouldn’t tax him too much, Feodor,” warned Mickey. “At least, not just yet.”

  “We must know,” insisted Feodor seriously. “I feel extremely uncomfortable about the whole business. Pavlovitch may know something.”

  “I—do,” said the man slowly. Painfully he turned his head to Feodor. “I’m—sorry—this— happened, Comrade Koslovitch,” he said. “I— ran—after you. I slipped and fell back down the hill to the tracks.” He paused for breath. After a moment’s rest, he continued: “I—tried—to walk. My—ankle—was broken. When—I—managed to crawl—to the top—of the hill—you—were gone. My horse was at the foot of the hill—on—the other side. I was just about to crawl down when the explosion came.”

  Pavlovitch had to pause again.

  “Take your time Pavlovitch,” said Mickey gently.

  The wounded man smiled gratefully at Mickey. “I have—not time,” he said prophetically.

  “Nonsense,” encouraged the American. “You’ll outlive us.”

  “No,” said Pavlovitch. “No. I know.” He turned to Feodor. “I don’t know how—I got—on my horse. Maybe—I think—my horse was blown down too. I—think—I—got on him while he was still on—the ground. When it was all over—we headed for—home.” He smiled weakly at the thought of home. “Home,” he murmured, as though it were a sacred word. He went on: “We were getting—along—all right—until we met Nazi guerrillas. They shot at us—at me. I heard their leader—tell the men—not to kill the horses. He didn’t care what—they did—to me. They called him—Captain Von Starheim.”

  “Von Starheim!” gasped Mickey. Turning to Feodor he shouted: “Do you know what this means? It means that Von Starheim had followed that horse here . . .”

  But Feodor was not listening to Mickey. He was listening to machine gun fire outside the cave. Mickey realized what was happening. Von Starheim and his gang of Nazi killers had found the hideout of the Russian guerrillas and they were attacking it.

  “To arms! To arms!” shouted Feodor. But he could have saved his breath. His men were already blasting at the Nazi invaders and machine gun fire raked the pass from both ends.

  Hand grenades blasted at the mouth of the cave.

  Mickey drew deeper inside. Then he saw the hundred boxes of dynamite. One little stray bullet, and the mountain in which the cave lay, would blow apart.

  Outnumbered four to one, the Russians had little hope of destroying this band in open combat. There was a small passage in one side of the cave which led to the other underground hideout in which the horses were kept. There was just room enough for a man to stand up stoop-shouldered.

  “Help me get the wounded into the other cave, Tanya,” he said.

  * * * *

  Those wounded who could walk struggled through the passage. The others were carried on stretchers to the stables, tied to the back of some of the horses, and led out of another passage into the daylight at the rear of the mountain. He urged them to make their getaway.

  “Come with us,” they insisted.

  “No,” said Mickey. “My place is here with Feodor Koslovitch. You people cannot help us. Go down to the valley behind Pyatigorsk. Friendly hands will take care of you all there.”

  “What about Pavlovitch?” the woman asked.

  “He’s dead,” said Mickey. “Get going,” he ordered.

  The woman mounted one of the horses and Mickey handed up her youngster. They whipped up the horses and disappeared into other passes which led them in a roundabout way toward the valley behind Pyatigorsk.

  Mickey returned to the stable. About twenty of the guerrillas were mounting their horses for their getaway.

  “Where are you going?” he asked of the mounted men.

  “Koslovitch ordered us to evacuate while we still can,” one of the men replied. “We cannot win. We are outnumbered four to one. He is wounded: the others remaining with him are wounded and cannot escape. But you— Come with us, Comrade.”

  “No, thank you,” replied Mickey. “My place is here. I have no orders yet to evacuate. But you go while you can. Take the back pass. Follow your wounded comrades and protect them.”

  Mickey picked up two submachine guns lying on the stable floor. Those men were not running out, Mickey knew. If Feodor had insisted they save themselves while they could, the plight of the little guerrilla band must be hopeless. At least, he could get a shot or two in before they were all finished off; one good shot and that one in the rotten carcass that was Von Starheim.

  The American doctor slouched through the passage that connected the stable cave to the cave used by the Russian guerrillas as quarters. As he neared the passage, he observed a sudden quiet. The deadly fire had ceased. The two machine guns he held in his hands were knocked out of his grasp as he emerged into the larger cave. A flashlight was thrown in his face and momentarily blinded him as he emerged from the dark of the subterranean passageway. When he could see clearly—he saw that he faced the grim, dark barrel of a Luger pistol. And it was held in the hand of the Nazi Oberst— Von Starheim.

  VI.

  “How nice, Doctor Tchekov,” smirked Von Starheim. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Not very original, are you, Von Starheim?” smiled Mickey. “I think I said that once before somewhere.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have any occasion to use the phrase to you in the future, Doctor Tchekov,” scowled the Oberst. “For you—like your band of Russian guerrillas—there is no future.”

  “What have you done with the boy, Feodor Koslovitch?” asked Mickey hurriedly fearing the worst.

  “Shot him,” replied Von Starheim. “As he deserved for blowing up that ammunition train—he and his band—last night and with it five hundred of Germany’s finest infantrymen.”

  “I can see where the ammunition would be a loss,” smiled Mickey with satisfaction at hearing that five hundred Nazi smudge pots went up in smoke with the ammunition. “But as for the men,” he added, “they can mean nothing to your inferior Fuhrer judging by the number he keeps sending into the muzzles of the Russian guns to be slaughtered like diseased cattle.”

  “Silence!” shouted Von Starheim in a fury. “You will not long live to see much more of that Russian luck.” With a wave of the Luger in the direction of the mouth of the cave he motioned Mickey to get outside. As he started for the entrance, two or three shots outside made him halt. He turned to Von Starheim, enquiringly.

  The man smiled fiendishly. “The coup de grace,” he explained, guessing what was on Mickey’s mind. “We don’t like to leave wounded Russians to suffer unnecessarily”—his eyes narrowed, his lips curled significantly as he added—“we don’t take prisoners.”

  “Knowing you as well as I do, Von Starheim,” said Mickey bitingly, “I can understand that.”

  “That applies to you too,” added the Nazi, smiling.

  “I didn’t think I would be immune from your Nazi form of civilization,” retorted the American. “I wasn’t fooling myself for a single moment.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Von Starheim, “because I have saved you for myself. But first, I want you to witness a small ceremony.”

  They emerged into the light of the pass. As Mickey looked about him for the body of young Feodor, his eyes fell upon eight of his guerrilla comrades lined up in front of the wall of the pass. Their hands were tied behind their backs; their machine guns lay at their feet temptingly, but they could not reach for them even if they were not tied for they were faced with a row of Nazi submachine guns in the hands of Von Starheim’s men.

  Mickey’s eyes widened. He was about to turn to Von Starheim when he heard the man cry in German: “Take aim!”

  “Von Starheim!” Mickey cried. “You can’t do that! You can’t kill men in cold blood like that! It’s murder!”

  Von Starheim merely laughed.

  “Blahadaryoo, Doktarah!” cried the doomed Russians to Mickey. “Praschaheeteh!” They were thanking Mickey for all he had done for them and their stricken comrades; and they said goodbye.

  * * * *

  Mickey’s eyes filled as he smiled and waved a trembling hand at the brave men who waited for death. They smiled back at him, grateful that there was one friend to see them make the last great sacrifice.

  “Fire!” cried the Nazi Captain Von Starheim. The German machine guns raked the bodies of the Russians until the weight of the lead, added to the loss of life that made it possible for them to stand so courageously up to the Germans, brought them down and they fell across the guns with which they had laid so many of the Huns so low.

  When the smoke from the guns cleared in the draft of the pass, Mickey saw the inert body of young Feodor lying about twenty feet above the opening to the cave. He turned to Von Starheim: “These people were my friends,” he began. “I don’t expect you to do favors for me; but like your own men, they still were soldiers and deserve, if not a soldier’s burial, then a spot where the carrion birds won’t thrive on the men who gave their lives to defend their homes and their land. Will you let me put their bodies inside the cave?”

  Von Starheim grinned: “The indomitable Tchekov asks me for a favor,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, why not? We were classmates in Breslau. And this is a last request. Make it snappy and don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  Mickey did not stop to thank his enemy. He stepped across the still bodies of his friends to where young Feodor lay. He stooped down and picked the boy up in his arms; gently he carried him inside the cave.

  With his handkerchief, Mickey wiped the blood from the boy’s face. With a torn sheet taken from the bed on which he used to sleep, he covered the silent body as a tear fell from his cheek and baptized the little hero.

  One by one Mickey brought the fallen Russians into the cave. Von Starheim accompanied him on several of his trips to see that he did nothing other than that which he had requested permission to do. The other Nazis climbed up the side of the hill in which the cave lay and threw themselves down to wait for Mickey to finish.

  Mickey took another man into the cave and, as with the others, laid him on the bed he occupied in life. This man he carefully carried to one of the beds near the piled-up boxes of dynamite. Von Starheim, satisfied that Mickey was resigned to his fate, and that he would not attempt to escape, did not follow him into the cave. This was what Mickey wanted. As he laid the dead man on his bed near a box of time bombs, the Yankee guerrilla doctor grabbed one, set the fuse for five minutes, placed it in a box of dynamite the cover of which had been ripped open before, and stepped hurriedly out of the cave.

  * * * *

  There was one more man left to put in his bed. This took Mickey another minute for he laid the man on some straw near the cave opening.

  Quite calmly Mickey stepped over to the waiting Von Starheim who smiled at him as he approached.

  “I’m ready, Von Starheim,” Mickey said. “Let’s get it over with. Call your men.”

  Mickey waited for Von Starheim to call his men.

  “Oh, please don’t be silly, doctor,” said the man sarcastically. “That is my privilege. That is an honor I have looked forward to for many years. I want the pleasure of killing you myself—and alone. Only I shall enjoy your great death scene. I have earned it with patient waiting. It can mean nothing to the others.”