Free Riders of the Pale Horse by T. Davis Bunn

had shared camp with seven other trucks, all laden with farm produce and gathered into a separate enclave. Upon their arrival Mikhail had exchanged formal greetings, to let the others know they were no threat. Since then the two trucks of medical supplies had been left alone.
    Rogue squatted next to the road with Mikhail, a greasy map unfolded on the ground in front of them. While Wade broke camp, the pair shared one of Robards’ slender cheroots and a tin mug of steaming coffee. They spoke in hand signs and nods as the old man described the rutted road that led toward the hills.
    The Caucasus Mountains dominated the distance. Their bases were lost in mists that drifted in the still air. The dawn light tinted their looming snow-capped peaks with hues of rose and gold. They rested on earthbound clouds and stretched from horizon to horizon, a serrated nine-hundred-mile wall that divided two worlds. To the north lay the endless steppes, the Arctic, the brutal Siberian winds. To the south opened the balmier Mediterranean realms.
    Rogue waved Wade over. When he hunkered down beside the pair, Rogue said, “Tell me about the conflict up ahead.”
    â€œThere are wars up and down the Caucasus range,” Wade replied. “But the one that concerns us most is between the Chechen and the Russians. Other than that, there are constant skirmishes between the Chechen, the Ingush, and the Ossetians.”
    â€œOssetia is the state next door, right?”
    â€œRight,” Wade agreed. “Well, technically, it’s North Ossetia, or Severnaja Osetija. They’re another autonomousrepublic, part of the Russian Federation just like here. Then there’s South Ossetia, below the mountain range, which is a part of Georgia.”
    â€œAnd these three tribes don’t get along.”
    â€œNot for centuries,” Wade agreed. “Chechen and Ingush are Muslim; Ossetians are Christians. They hate each other. Then there is the local Russian population, brought in by Stalin to dilute the tribes during his policy of Russification. They made up almost forty percent of the population before the Chechens started fighting to secede. The Chechen warlord recently vowed death to all Russians who attempted to remain in his homeland.”
    â€œChechen warlord,” Rogue mused aloud. “This place is getting more interesting by the minute.”
    Wade took a moment to translate for Mikhail. When he was finished, the old man waved a veined hand toward the mountains. “The Chechen are traders and sheep farmers and cleverer than the Ingush,” Mikhail began. “The Ingush tend to hug the land. They put down deeper roots. They raise cattle. They and the Chechen were neighbors and only sometimes enemies until Stalin, may his name be erased from the earth, stole their lands and brought in the Russians. Then more Russians lived on Chechen land than the Chechen themselves. More Chechen died in Siberia than survived to tell the tale. Ingush as well. Now they taste the wind of liberation and seek to steal both what was theirs and what their neighbors have managed to settle—neighbors such as my own Ossetians.”
    The old man ran a knotted hand around the back of his neck. “The winds of change are not always kind. I myself have lost sons and grandsons to a war that means nothing except misery for everyone.”
    â€œWhich war was that?” Robards demanded, nodding to Wade for the translation.
    â€œThe war beyond the count of man’s days. The war that has continued since before the birth of my father’s father.”
    Mikhail stooped, picked up a stick, and drew a crude mapin the dust at their feet. “This long line is the Caucasus range, separating Russia from Georgia for all of time. Here to the west of us lies the Black Sea, where the mountains begin their eternal march. The lands bordering sea and western hills belong to the Abkhazi, those whom Stalin left alive. Next to them, south of