section7mfu | "To the rescue!" for the impromptu horse challenge

I have a fair number of horse related stories, so much that I surprised even myself.

In the old Western movies the cavalry comes to the rescue and sometimes even for an U.N.C.L.E. agent. a vignette, just for fun.

“To the Rescue!”

Napoleon Solo knelt on the ground, covered in dirt and muck and hissed as he felt the burning sting from a of cactus spine jabbing his calf.

The Thrushman, Cal Washburn, pushed against the middle of Solo's back, sending the U.N.C.L.E. agent forward onto his face. Then pressing his boot onto the side of Napoleon’s head, he dangled his razor sharp spur dangerously close the the man’s handsome chin.

“Say your prayers you U.N.C.L.E. Yankee, yer about to meet yer maker.” The man spoke with a heavy Texas drawl.

“Couldn’t we talk this over?” Napoleon asked out of the side of his mouth.

“Not a chance Solo, you been a thorn in Thrush’s side for too long. If you’re a prayin’ man, then I suggest you do it right quick.”

Napoleon heard the sound of a revolver being cocked and squeezed his eyes shut, figuring this was finally it; the Solo luck had run out at last.

He opened them again when there was a commotion and Washburn’s foot was abruptly removed from his face.

Shots rang out from a Winchester repeating rifle, hitting one of the two Thrushmen, killing them instantly and sending their horses scattering in a panic. Whoever it was, was a dead shot.

A lone mounted figure was riding towards them like a mad man, his horse at full gallop, the rifle in one hand and the reins in the other. He spun in the saddle and ducked from the bullets. Balancing himself with one foot in a stirrup, he hung from the side of his horse while he continued to shoot.

Washburn dropped to his knee, getting off several shots from his Remington, but he avoided being hit by diving to one side of the horse with the ease of a trick rider.

Then one more shot rang out, hitting the Thrushman and sending him tumbling backwards into the sagebrush.

The rider reined the winded Appaloosa to a quick stop and dismounted in one fluid motion, pausing to give the beast a reassuring pat on the neck before walking over to Washburn, making sure that he was dead; he then helped himself to the man’s pistol.

“Hmmm a Colt revolver?” The rider thought as he nodded, weighing the balance of the pearl handled pistol in his hand before tucking it into his belt. “This will make a nice souvenir.”

Then he turned to the dude wearing the suit who was laying on his stomach with his hands tied behind his back. Standing over the man with the late afternoon sun shining at his back.

Solo could see a pair of black leather Western-style boots clearly enough, but the rest of the man was silhouetted against the glaring light.

As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the figure of a man with a straw cowboy hat on his head wearing jeans, and a plaid shirt, but the light still blinded him for a clear view of his deliverer's face.

“Thanks Mister. I appreciate your coming to my rescue. Now if you could cut me loose...I’d be much obliged,” Napoleon said, slipping into the vernacular just to be on the safe side.

“Pozhaulista.”

“Illya?” Napoleon finally said as he was told. ”Please.”

“That is my name...pardner.” the Russian quipped as he knelt, cutting the bindings from his partner’s wrists, before offering him a hand up.

“Where the hell did you learn to ride like that?” Napoleon asked as tried dusting the dirt from his suit, though his efforts seemed futile.

“Napoleon, do you not sometimes refer to me as a Cossack? And are the Cossacks not famed for their riding abilities?” He grinned, flicking his eyebrows.”You know I always wanted to do that.”

“Do what, ride like a Cossack? I know for a fact you're not a one."

"I was not born one, but the Zaporoche welcomed me into their family and taught me how to ride their way. Let us say I am an honorary Cossack."

"Okay, so what is it then you always wanted to do...tovarisch?" Napoleon shielded his eyes from the son with his hand.

“To ride to the rescue like your American Cavalry...well with a touch of Russian style of course.”

“You’ve been watching too many westerns.”

“What, you do not like your John Wayne?”

“Oh I like the Duke well enough, but I’m more of a Clark Gable...Rhett Butler man myself.

“Gone With the Wind was not a Western, it took place during your Civil War.” Illya corrected, eliciting a sneer from his partner.

“Well shame there’s no damsel for you to kiss tovarisch, the good guy usually got the girl in Westerns you know.”

“Yes, but I imagine you being a good guy yourself, as usual have gotten to her first. So all I have is you and I am most certainly not kissing you.”

“There’s always the horse?” Solo smiled.

Illya snorted his reply. The horse however, was their only means of transportation for them, as the others had bolted.

The Russian mounted his horse, giving his partner a hand up to sit behind him. As urged the horse on, he began to whistle 'The Gary Owen' and together he and Napoleon rode off into the sunset.

"You have been watching westerns. Not everyone knows the official song of the 7th Cavalry. By the way...” Solo complained, "This is not a very comfortable way to ride a horse, I'll have you know.”

Illya snickered before he hollered “Yah!” Spurring the horse to a gallop; he laughed wickedly.