Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

“First, take the Karbada horse across the river and sell him to the Chechens.”

“He’s an excellent horse; I will keep him.”

Ah, I had forgotten the stubbornness of youth. I now reconsidered the situation before us.

“Then is there a Chechen on the other side that you trust to hide the horse for a while?”

“Yarbay Khan is my kunak, we’ve raided the horse herds of the Nogay together. He will do anything I ask.”

“Good. Take the horse across the river to him tonight. Second, find an elder from the pro-Russian Chechen village near your cordon, and send the man to me at this gate just before the sun rises tomorrow. He and I will take care of the rest. Now go.”

Yermack had a disappointed look on his face.

“There’s a party tonight.”

“You’ll have several parties if we do this right. Otherwise, you may lose both of your ‘dark eyes’ to the staff captain.”

He brandished his musket. A frown creased his forehead.

“I would gladly shoot that Russian right off his porch, but then I would become an outlaw with no village, no family.”

His horse stood motionless for a while before Yermack spoke again.

“Maybe I will try your way this one time.”

Reining his horse partway around, he suddenly stopped, his head turning back in my direction.

“You and I have not known each other that well. Why do you do this for me?”

“I have an inherent distrust of Turks and Russians. Besides, who knows what the future holds, perhaps sometime you will do a favor for me.”

Yermack nodded and rode off up the road toward the woods along the Terek. He had no idea how soon I might request this favor I’d mentioned, but with the manner of man we were both dealing with, I felt sure I would be in need of Yermack’s services, probably within a day. There was nothing else to do now except sleep and see what the morning brought.

As the stars winked out of the fading night and the sky grew pale blue in the east, I once again stood at the main village gate.

Red streaks had covered the bottom of the distant clouds hanging on the mountaintops before I saw the old man walking out of the morning mist along the river. When he drew closer, he hailed me.

“Are you the Armenian?”

“I am. Are you the friend of Yermack?”

He greeted me in Chechen fashion. In turn, I pressed silver coins into his palm and explained his part in what we were about to do. He agreed and asked no questions.

From there, we walked to the schoolteacher’s house and I roused the teacher from his morning samovar.

“We must speak with the staff captain,” I said.

“He may still be sleeping,” replied the teacher. “Perhaps we should wait until he stirs.”

I shrugged.

“We can wait until tomorrow if it pleases you. But yesterday, the Russian noble seemed anxious to hear word about his horse. The choice is yours to make.”

The schoolteacher pursed his lips.

“I see. And this is a matter of great importance?”

I assured him that it was. Also, that I needed himself and one other male as witness.

The teacher glanced at the Chechen elder, then studied my face as if he could read my mind. And perhaps he could, for he immediately sent his oldest son to get fully dressed, and bawled for his old wife to get his regimental coat ready. The one with all the medals. As he slid into his jacket, his daughter hurried forward with his black leather riding boots.

Made ready, the four of us trooped across the yard and up the steps of the second house. The staff captain must have heard the thud of the regimental schoolteacher’s boot soles on the porch boards. He slung the door open and leaned insolently against the door frame.

“So much noise. Must be important.”

“We know where your horse has gone.” This I could say without a lie upon my lips because I had made these arrangements myself. And since the Chechen elder had come to me at dawn, I could assume that the rest of my message was true, therefore I could speak with a relatively clear conscience. I tugged on the elder’s sleeve until he stood beside me on the porch. “This old man from a village across from one of the cordons has word of your Karagyoz.”

The village elder proceeded to relate a story of watching a Chechen Abrek ride across the Terek leading a dark-colored Karbada horse while yesterday’s morning mist was still upon the water. Horses and rider then disappeared in the direction of the foothills.

The staff captain stared at me.

“How does he know it was an Abrek and not one of the local Cossacks?”

I gently prodded the old man.

“Because I saw his blue trousers; shaved head with the long tuft of hair on the right side; and his red-dyed, short-cropped beard and trimmed mustache. Truthfully, an Abrek has your horse.”

This had been the easy part.

The Russian grunted his displeasure at the news.

I turned the old Chechen around and pointed him down the stairs. I had more business to conduct with the captain.

“You wished me to find your horse and I have done as you requested.”

“True,” replied the Russian, “but since the horse cannot be recovered, you should not expect further reward from me.”