Rosenthal turned to the man. “Skolko prikhodit?” he said. “Sto? Dvesti?”

The disheveled mop jerked back and forth. “Dve tysyachi.”

“Well?” said Leigh. “How many bolos are coming down the line?”

“Two thousand,” Rosenthal said.

“What? Are you sure?”

“You asking me if I can’t count, after all those miser jokes?” Rosenthal snapped. “Look at the poor guy. He’s leaking out of every hole. That’s genuine worry. If he’s not out of that Czarist rag as soon as he gets out of our sight, I’ll eat my hat.”

Leigh turned to Yamaguchi. “I have twenty-five men with me,” he said. “One machine gun and the rest are riflemen. We came in haste and I brought who I could.”

Yamaguchi bowed his head. “We are twenty-three. Twenty-four if you trust your man Jones enough to let him fight for his life. We have a Taishō 14 machine gun, and a supply of rifle grenades.”

Leigh turned to Davis. “You worked on an engine, right? Before the war?”

“Union Pacific stoker, I’ll have you know,” Davis said. “I could’ve ridden out the war behind a shovel if I wanted to.”

“Do you think you can get the engine at the station running before the bolos get here?”

Davis nodded. “With some water, a few tenders, and some fuel, we can get her going. Of course, I can’t guarantee she won’t blow up. But she’ll take fifty men.”

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