back,” Shekhurdin promised and started to leave.
“Take two men with you, Cossack,” Belyaev called after him. “To carry the powder and ammunition Chuprov will send back.”
CHAPTER VI
Fog shrouded the massacre site. Wispy threads of it trailed into the semi-subterranean dwelling from its dirtroofed entrance, attempting an invasion, but the wavering flames from stone lamps held it at bay, sending up curls of dark smoke from the burning moss wicks that floated on pools of seal oil. The boisterous promyshleniki sat on the floor in the light, heartily consuming the food prepared for them by the Aleut women who cringed in the shadows.
Belyaev shouted for water, then watched with dark eyes gleaming as a young woman hastened forward at his bidding, bringing him a water container made from the heart sac of a sea lion. He took it from her and poured some water into his mouth, then spat out most of it.
“A man needs something stronger,” he declared to his men. “Tomorrow we will send the women to gather sweet grass for us. Then we can distill our own spirits. A man needs his daily draft to keep the chill from his bones.”
The Russian hunters echoed his sentiment. Belyaev thrust the container in the direction of the native woman. When she took it from him, he looked up at her, his interest aroused by the play of the lamplight on her face, highlighting its bone structure. He closed his hand around her ankle, forestalling her retreat.
“Enough food.” He set aside the wooden dish, with a leer. “It’s time we sampled the rest of our spoils.”
His hand glided up her leg, lifting the ankle-long fur parka to reveal a muscled calf. She pulled away from him and backed toward the huddle of silent women in the shadows. Belyaev got to his feet and unhurriedly pursued her, circling to block her from the other women. He stalked her in a cat-and-mouse game, pouncing and retreating, letting her think she could slip by him, then jumping to block the opening, laughing all the while.
Luka watched the sporting play while he scraped his bowl clean with his fingers, then licked off the fish flakes that clung to them. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging it across his beard as the Aleut woman feinted in one direction, then bolted in the other.
“Catch her, Nikolai Dimitrovich!” The men laughed at her near escape from their leader.
But Belyaev grabbed her before she reached the women and hauled her against his body. When she tried to struggle loose, he cuffed her alongside the head. Her resistance crumpled instantly. He snagged his fingers in the black bun of her hair and forced her head back, making her look at him.
“You had eyes for me this morning,” he reminded her, grinning. “Now you have me.” Turning, he surveyed the others. “What are you waiting for? Here, Luka Ivanovich.” Still holding the first captive, he grabbed the arm of the nearest woman and slung her forward. “Take this one.”
She stumbled and fell, sprawling onto the grass-strewn floor beside Luka. She made no attempt to rise, nor did she lift her head to look at him, her attitude one of submission. He looked at the jet-black sheen of her hair and the flash of white bone stuck through her earlobe. He felt little lust, but he knew what the rest expected of him.
Rising to his feet, he seized the arm she used to brace herself off the floor and pulled her along with him. She kept her head down, her face averted, but he had no desire to look upon it. Luka paused, glancing at the partitioned cubicles that lined the sides of the barabara, and chose the nearest one. When he moved toward it, hauling her with him, the woman offered her first resistance. A yank from him ended her opposition, and she went inside ahead of him.
Luka lowered the inner wall matting to obtain privacy, not wishing to perform for the entertainment of his comrades. Turning, he saw her crouched on the sleeping mat well away from the
“Take two men with you, Cossack,” Belyaev called after him. “To carry the powder and ammunition Chuprov will send back.”
CHAPTER VI
Fog shrouded the massacre site. Wispy threads of it trailed into the semi-subterranean dwelling from its dirtroofed entrance, attempting an invasion, but the wavering flames from stone lamps held it at bay, sending up curls of dark smoke from the burning moss wicks that floated on pools of seal oil. The boisterous promyshleniki sat on the floor in the light, heartily consuming the food prepared for them by the Aleut women who cringed in the shadows.
Belyaev shouted for water, then watched with dark eyes gleaming as a young woman hastened forward at his bidding, bringing him a water container made from the heart sac of a sea lion. He took it from her and poured some water into his mouth, then spat out most of it.
“A man needs something stronger,” he declared to his men. “Tomorrow we will send the women to gather sweet grass for us. Then we can distill our own spirits. A man needs his daily draft to keep the chill from his bones.”
The Russian hunters echoed his sentiment. Belyaev thrust the container in the direction of the native woman. When she took it from him, he looked up at her, his interest aroused by the play of the lamplight on her face, highlighting its bone structure. He closed his hand around her ankle, forestalling her retreat.
“Enough food.” He set aside the wooden dish, with a leer. “It’s time we sampled the rest of our spoils.”
His hand glided up her leg, lifting the ankle-long fur parka to reveal a muscled calf. She pulled away from him and backed toward the huddle of silent women in the shadows. Belyaev got to his feet and unhurriedly pursued her, circling to block her from the other women. He stalked her in a cat-and-mouse game, pouncing and retreating, letting her think she could slip by him, then jumping to block the opening, laughing all the while.
Luka watched the sporting play while he scraped his bowl clean with his fingers, then licked off the fish flakes that clung to them. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging it across his beard as the Aleut woman feinted in one direction, then bolted in the other.
“Catch her, Nikolai Dimitrovich!” The men laughed at her near escape from their leader.
But Belyaev grabbed her before she reached the women and hauled her against his body. When she tried to struggle loose, he cuffed her alongside the head. Her resistance crumpled instantly. He snagged his fingers in the black bun of her hair and forced her head back, making her look at him.
“You had eyes for me this morning,” he reminded her, grinning. “Now you have me.” Turning, he surveyed the others. “What are you waiting for? Here, Luka Ivanovich.” Still holding the first captive, he grabbed the arm of the nearest woman and slung her forward. “Take this one.”
She stumbled and fell, sprawling onto the grass-strewn floor beside Luka. She made no attempt to rise, nor did she lift her head to look at him, her attitude one of submission. He looked at the jet-black sheen of her hair and the flash of white bone stuck through her earlobe. He felt little lust, but he knew what the rest expected of him.
Rising to his feet, he seized the arm she used to brace herself off the floor and pulled her along with him. She kept her head down, her face averted, but he had no desire to look upon it. Luka paused, glancing at the partitioned cubicles that lined the sides of the barabara, and chose the nearest one. When he moved toward it, hauling her with him, the woman offered her first resistance. A yank from him ended her opposition, and she went inside ahead of him.
Luka lowered the inner wall matting to obtain privacy, not wishing to perform for the entertainment of his comrades. Turning, he saw her crouched on the sleeping mat well away from the
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