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Updated: May 6, 2025
Were we to go to war for Kars and restore it to Turkey, and then to wait till the next misunderstanding between Russia and Turkey, when Kars should have been taken again? Was that an occasion of a casus belli? I do not think your Lordships would ever sanction a war carried on for such an object and under such circumstances.
"You'd stake a roll on Charley," he said, with an upward glance of amusement that was lost in the darkness. "Sure." Kars gave a short laugh. "He's a mascot. It's always been that way since I grabbed him when he quit the penitentiary for splitting another neche's head open in a scrap over a Breed gal. Charley's got all the brains of his race, and none of its virtues.
Its prevention was his sheet anchor of hope. Its realization was his nightmare. The tide of men surged once more. It came on under a rain of reckless fire. The black wings of night were illuminated with a fiery sparkle, and the smell of battle hung heavily on the still air. Kars shouted encouragement to his men. The response was all he could desire.
"I had some scare when I see you come over the hills ther'. The darn neches bin out the way you come, burnin', an' massacrin'. How you missed 'em beats me to death. But I guess you did miss 'em?" he added significantly. "And I'm glad." Kars was only concerned with the information of the Indians' movements. "They're out?" he said. "Sure they're out." The man laughed. "They're out most all the time.
Kars gave no sign. His eyes were steadily regarding the wreck of humanity described as a "great chief." "White man burn the land because neche try to kill white man," he said after a moment's consideration, in level, unemotional tones. "White man come in peace. He want no fish. He want no hunt. He want only gold and peace. White man not go. White man stay. If Indian kill, white man kill, too.
That blond dame of his looks like rolling him for his 'poke' without a worry. He'll hit the trail for his claim to-morrow without the color of a dime." "Which is he?" Kars demanded, with a certain interest. "Why, right there by that table under the balcony. See that dude with the greased head, and the five dollar nosegay in his coat.
He stood staring out in a southwesterly direction. For a while he remained silent. Kars and Bill squeezed the water from their stout moleskin trousers. Suddenly Charley flung out an arm. He was pointing with a lean forefinger. "Neche lodge," he said. "Louis Creal him shack." Kars and Bill were at either side of him searching the dark horizon. A light was shining dimly in the distance.
The capture of Sebastopol was followed by the taking of Kars by the Russians, November 28, 1855, and the war ended. In accordance with the Treaty of Paris, March 30, 1856, Russia abandoned her claim to a protectorate over Christians in Turkey, and the Sultan agreed to grant them more favorable terms.
Kars was standing in the doorway of the storehouse where Bill was calmly prosecuting his work of mercy. The doctor's smallish figure was moving rapidly about the crowded hut. His preoccupation was heart whole.
But he had no words to offer, and presently the other went on. "We gathered him up, and the frost helped us. So we brought him right along home. He's buried here inside this old stockade. His grave's marked. Alec made the cross, I set it up. An' Jessie why, Jessie wrote some on it. That's all." Kars rose to his feet. His cigar was out. "Thanks," he said, with curious formality.
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