boiling about them.
Oscar and his mare stood solidly beside me. He nodded. “Come."
Roger that.
Now we had to intercept the boz. It had circled both posts, so whoever threw it into the circle of justice would win.
We charged the coming mass, and it split around us. A Canadian had the boz again, and Echo had a Tajik-style club-whip. Echo twisted to his left and slashed his whip at a chapandaz. Someone's knife went spinning high into the air, a nice image if CNN could catch it.
A Canadian with blood soaking his shemagh rode beside me, his leg jogging against mine. His horse stumbled.
I automatically pressed my mount to the left, so she wouldn't fall with his, just as he slung the boz at me. “ Allez! Allez !"
I caught one leg, with broken bone jutting through the hide, and dragged the front end of the carcass over my pommel, leaning in the opposite direction to try to balance the weight. The hide tore, sliding the slick mass back over my thigh and down my leg. I fumbled for a better grip.
Horses and men surrounded me. Whips and fists came out of the dust.
I leaned sharply over the carcass, and my mare stopped dead. The other riders plunged on, then entangled one another as they turned to get at me again.
Oscar reached across my saddle and into the neck of the boz, found something to grip, and dragged the lumpish mass squarely over my pommel. “Go!"
We rode together for the circle, barely visible in the hoof-churned dirt, and flung the broken carcass down.
My mare huffed and blew wads of brown-stained foam. I slid down and grasped her halter, anxious to inspect the mud-crusted whip-cut across her nose. The tender skin had welted, but wasn't bleeding so much as seeping a bit.
I felt the bones gently, working from the side to make sure any pain would be from the bones, not from the bruised skin. She seemed all right.
Two oozing welts decorated the back of my left hand. I couldn't recall being struck.
Someone was at my back. I turned, but it was Oscar, his back to me, facing a mob of chapandaz, the fox-hatted Tajiks in front. Their faces were animated, amazed; they kept bowing to look under the mares. “Mares? Mares ?"
"Tatar mares,” I said, remembering to use English. “Very fast, but not so strong as yours. In a long game, you would win."
They grinned. “Very fast. Very fast."
Then they switched to their language, chattering at me and at Oscar. I felt no threat from them. They'd been shamed by a loss to nonstallions, but were far enough from home to hope no one who mattered would ever hear of it.
Another group of riders now surrounded Echo; they'd pushed back his shemagh and fingered his short gold hair, talking. He had one hand on his wallet pocket and one on his weapon, but he grinned and let them paw him. I saw his empty knife holster, but for all I knew he could have lost it when doing that kick.
A woman with a camera elbowed in through the crowd. The chapandaz sprang away as she passed. She thrust a microphone into Echo's face.
I watched the chapandaz, amused by how the woman's forwardness stunned them. Maybe they thought she was Echo's wife.
Then I remembered the bloody-faced Canadian. Some cameras had focused in on the three of them, and the bleeding one was still wearing his shemagh. For right now, I was their doc. I should be handing Oscar my reins and making my way over there, to see whether the injury required urgent attention.
But a man in a sanitized camo uniform and a shemagh like Mike's was leading Mike's overladen gray gelding daintily among the power cords and clusters of newspeople. And Oscar, who had shed his red vest, was pointing his face at me, jerking his head in a way that probably didn't mean my neck is stiff.
I swung up into the saddle, tossed my red vest into the crowd, and followed Oscar around the back of a CNN trailer, trusting Mike to extract Echo, and leaving the Canadians to handle any prizes or interview requests.
We rode between clusters of horses and riders,
Oscar and his mare stood solidly beside me. He nodded. “Come."
Roger that.
Now we had to intercept the boz. It had circled both posts, so whoever threw it into the circle of justice would win.
We charged the coming mass, and it split around us. A Canadian had the boz again, and Echo had a Tajik-style club-whip. Echo twisted to his left and slashed his whip at a chapandaz. Someone's knife went spinning high into the air, a nice image if CNN could catch it.
A Canadian with blood soaking his shemagh rode beside me, his leg jogging against mine. His horse stumbled.
I automatically pressed my mount to the left, so she wouldn't fall with his, just as he slung the boz at me. “ Allez! Allez !"
I caught one leg, with broken bone jutting through the hide, and dragged the front end of the carcass over my pommel, leaning in the opposite direction to try to balance the weight. The hide tore, sliding the slick mass back over my thigh and down my leg. I fumbled for a better grip.
Horses and men surrounded me. Whips and fists came out of the dust.
I leaned sharply over the carcass, and my mare stopped dead. The other riders plunged on, then entangled one another as they turned to get at me again.
Oscar reached across my saddle and into the neck of the boz, found something to grip, and dragged the lumpish mass squarely over my pommel. “Go!"
We rode together for the circle, barely visible in the hoof-churned dirt, and flung the broken carcass down.
My mare huffed and blew wads of brown-stained foam. I slid down and grasped her halter, anxious to inspect the mud-crusted whip-cut across her nose. The tender skin had welted, but wasn't bleeding so much as seeping a bit.
I felt the bones gently, working from the side to make sure any pain would be from the bones, not from the bruised skin. She seemed all right.
Two oozing welts decorated the back of my left hand. I couldn't recall being struck.
Someone was at my back. I turned, but it was Oscar, his back to me, facing a mob of chapandaz, the fox-hatted Tajiks in front. Their faces were animated, amazed; they kept bowing to look under the mares. “Mares? Mares ?"
"Tatar mares,” I said, remembering to use English. “Very fast, but not so strong as yours. In a long game, you would win."
They grinned. “Very fast. Very fast."
Then they switched to their language, chattering at me and at Oscar. I felt no threat from them. They'd been shamed by a loss to nonstallions, but were far enough from home to hope no one who mattered would ever hear of it.
Another group of riders now surrounded Echo; they'd pushed back his shemagh and fingered his short gold hair, talking. He had one hand on his wallet pocket and one on his weapon, but he grinned and let them paw him. I saw his empty knife holster, but for all I knew he could have lost it when doing that kick.
A woman with a camera elbowed in through the crowd. The chapandaz sprang away as she passed. She thrust a microphone into Echo's face.
I watched the chapandaz, amused by how the woman's forwardness stunned them. Maybe they thought she was Echo's wife.
Then I remembered the bloody-faced Canadian. Some cameras had focused in on the three of them, and the bleeding one was still wearing his shemagh. For right now, I was their doc. I should be handing Oscar my reins and making my way over there, to see whether the injury required urgent attention.
But a man in a sanitized camo uniform and a shemagh like Mike's was leading Mike's overladen gray gelding daintily among the power cords and clusters of newspeople. And Oscar, who had shed his red vest, was pointing his face at me, jerking his head in a way that probably didn't mean my neck is stiff.
I swung up into the saddle, tossed my red vest into the crowd, and followed Oscar around the back of a CNN trailer, trusting Mike to extract Echo, and leaving the Canadians to handle any prizes or interview requests.
We rode between clusters of horses and riders,
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