The next morning Zhílin saw the red Tartar, followed by three others, leading a mare out of the village. When they were beyond the village, the red-bearded Tartar took off his tunic and turned up his sleeves, showing his stout arms. Then he drew a dagger and sharpened it on a whetstone. The other Tartars raised the mare’s head, and he cut her throat, threw her down, and began skinning her, loosening the hide with his big hands. Women and girls came and began to wash the entrails and the inwards. The mare was cut up, the pieces taken into the hut, and the whole village collected at the red Tartar’s hut for a funeral feast.
For three days they went on eating the flesh of the mare, drinking buza , and praying for the dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day at dinnertime Zhílin saw them preparing to go away. Horses were brought out, they got ready, and some ten of them (the red one among them) rode away; but Abdul stayed at home. It was new moon, and the nights were still dark.
“Ah!” thought Zhílin, “tonight is the time to escape.” And he told Kostílin; but Kostílin’s heart failed him.
“How can we escape?” he said. “We don’t even know the way.”
“I know the way,” said Zhílin.
“Even if you do,” said Kostílin, “we can’t reach the fort in one night.”
“If we can’t,” said Zhílin, “we’ll sleep in the forest. See here, I have saved some cheeses. What’s the good of sitting and moping here? If they send your ransom—well and good; but suppose they don’t manage to collect it? The Tartars are angry now, because the Russians have killed one of their men. They are talking of killing us.”
Kostílin thought it over.
“Well, let’s go,” said he.