IX
When I awoke it must have been about eleven o’clock. The rays of the sun streamed through the windows of the yourt, playing on the floor. The vagrant had departed. Having to go to the village on business, I harnessed my horse, and started in my little sleigh along the village street. It was a bright and comparatively warm day. The mercury may have stood at twenty degrees. But … everything in this world is relative; such weather as is usual in midwinter in other lands is regarded here as the first sign of spring. The clouds of smoke rising simultaneously from the chimneys did not remain stationary in immovable columns, as they do in severe frosts, but inclined to the west, and an east wind was blowing, bringing with it a warmer breeze from the Pacific Ocean.
The village was settled principally by banished Tartars, and, as it was a holiday, the streets presented an animated appearance. Gates creaked, sleighs issued forth, and tipsy riders were a common sight. The worshippers of Muhammad are not rigid observers of the laws of the Koran, and both riders and pedestrians at times described the most fantastic curves. Occasionally a startled horse would make a sudden leap, upsetting the sleigh, and tearing along the village street, while the owner, clinging obstinately to the reins, was dragged behind, raising a perfect cloud of snow. It might happen to anyone to lose control over a horse, or to fall out of the sleigh, but even in such critical circumstances it was considered a disgrace for a “true Tartar” to loose his hold of the reins.
A moment later, the straight, arrow-like street assumed an unusually bustling appearance. The riders kept close to the fences, the pedestrians fell back, and the gayly dressed women in their bright chadrys hurried their children into the houses. Interested spectators crowded the streets, and all eyes were turned in one direction. At the further end of the narrow street a group of riders appeared, and for the first time I saw the races, of which both Tartars and Yakúts are so fond. There were about five riders, galloping like the wind; and, as the group approached, I saw Bagyláï’s gray horse. With every stroke of his hoofs he increased the distance that separated him from the rest. A moment later, they had all passed me like a whirlwind.
The eyes of the Tartars glistened with fiendish excitement. As they rode by, they shouted, waving their hands and leaning backwards, sitting well back on their horses. Vasíli alone rode Russian fashion, bending closely to his horse’s neck, and occasionally giving a short, shrill whistle, that sounded like the lash of a whip. His gray horse was straining every nerve, cutting the air like a flying bird.
The sympathy of the crowd was, as usual, with the victor.
“Well done!” cried the delighted spectators; and the old horse-thieves, passionate lovers of such sport, bobbed up and down, clapping their hands on their knees, as they beat time to the galloping of the horses.
As Vasíli returned on his foam-flecked horse, he overtook me halfway up the street. His outstripped rivals were far behind.
The vagrant’s face looked pale, but his eyes glowed with excitement; it was evident that he had been drinking.
“I’m on a spree,” he shouted, waving his hat as he bowed.
“That’s no affair of mine.”
“Well, don’t get angry. I can drink and yet keep my wits about me. By the way, do not give up my saddlebags under any pretext whatsoever—not even to me, if I should ask for them.—You understand?”
“I understand,” I coolly replied. “Only, please don’t visit me when you are drunk.”
“You need have no fear; I shall not come,” he said, as he gave his horse a cut with the end of the rein. The horse snorted, reared, and sprang forward a few yards. Vasíli curbed him, exclaiming:—
“Look at my horse! He is worth his weight in gold. I bet on him! Did you see him go? Now the Tartars will give me whatever I ask for him, without doubt, because they passionately adore a good horse.”
“Why do you sell him? What will you have to work with?”
“I can’t help it; it’s fate!”
Again he lashed the horse and curbed him in.
“To tell the truth, ’tis because I have met a comrade here; I will give up everything. Look, my dear fellow, do you see that Tartar on the roan horse, coming this way? Here!” he called out to the Tartar, “Akhmétka, come here!”
The roan horse, arching his neck and prancing, trotted up to my sleigh; the rider took off his hat and bowed, smiling. I looked at him with curiosity.
Akhmétka’s mischievous face was wreathed in a broad smile; his small eyes sparkled merrily, as he gazed on Vasíli with roguish familiarity, a glance that seemed to say to everyone, “We understand each other. I’m a rogue, to be sure, but a sharp one.” His interlocutor, looking at his face with its high cheekbones, its merry wrinkles about the eyes, the large, thin ears that stood out so comically, involuntarily smiled also. Then Akhmétka, concluding that matters were amicable, nodded his head with a satisfied look, as much as to say, “Now we understand each other.”
“A comrade,” he said, nodding towards Vasíli; “we tramped together.”
“Where do you live?” I inquired. “I never saw you before in the village.”
“I’ve come for my papers. I’ve been carrying wine to the goldmines.”
I looked at Vasíli; he dropped his eyes and gathered up the reins. Then, raising his head, he gazed at me defiantly. His lips were tightly compressed, but the lower one trembled perceptibly.
“I will go with him into the forest! Why do you look at me so strangely? I’m a vagrant! a vagrant!”
He was already on the gallop even as he uttered the last words. For one moment a cloud of frosty dust was visible in the street, then nothing was to be seen or heard but the clatter of the horse’s hoofs.
A year later Akhmétka again returned to the settlement for the “papers,” but Vasíli was seen no more.