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Chrapow followed Mischka's trail like a bloodhound. Even Litschenko and Karatajew could easily spot the fugitive's footprints in the forest floor. The stride length indicated that the man's strength was weakening. The thought of being able to seize him in two days at the latest drove them forward.
They found his campsite. It revealed that Michail Wulff had slept only briefly and restlessly. He probably knew they were after him. This was an advantage for them, because panic causes wrong decisions and paralyses muscles and mind.
Hunting zeal seized the men. They forgot all their fatigue. In the light of their flashlights they walked on. Only at dawn did they allow themselves a short break. After a short breakfast they continued the chase. The footprints were clearer than ever. Wulff couldn't have been far away.
Suddenly Chrapow stopped. He raised his nose like a hunting dog smelling something unusual. Then Litschenko and Karatajew smelled it too. They were struck by the smoke of a wood fire. Should Michail Wulff have dared to light a campfire even though he was in danger? The men looked at each other questioningly.
"Maybe he thinks he's safe after this forced march," Karatajew whispered. "Maybe he's also lost his senses due to blood loss and overexertion."
"But it could also be one of his traps," Litschenko said. "It wouldn't be the first time."
"Shush!" Chrapow hissed at them. With a gesture of his hand he asked them to go on.
The men cautiously crept on. The hunter took the safety off his rifle and got it ready to fire. A silvery shimmer appeared between the trees. It was certainly one of the tributaries of the Tschunja. The smell of burnt wood intensified. Wads of smoke hung like spinning threads between the trunks of the spruces.
Avoiding every dry branch, the pursuers worked their way closer. Then they saw the man. He lay wrapped in skins on the bank of the river. Next to him, the embers of a wood fire smoldered. He seemed to be fast asleep. Obviously, he was at the end of his rope.
Litschenko and Karatajew looked at each other meaningfully. The hunt was over. They could go home tonight. Finally they had made it!
Chrapow showed them to spread out to encircle the hunted. He didn't want to take any chances. Then the hunter jumped towards the sleeper like a cat of prey and pointed his rifle directly at his chest.
"Wake up Wulff!" he yelled. "Your trip is over. It's time to go back to camp!"
As if stung by a tarantula, the sleeping man woke up and stared into the mouth of the hunting rifle with his eyes wide open. Panting escaped his chest. Then he trembled and raised his hands as if begging for mercy.
Laughter echoed through the forest, shrill and hysterical. It was Karatajew. He leaned on his AK-47 and pointed to Chrapow while his body shook with laughter. Lieutenant Litschenko looked at the scene as if he were seeing the surrealist film of a modern filmmaker: a Tungus torn from sleep with confused hair and slit eyes twisted with horror, his hands stretched out to the sky. Chrapow, with a face as if he had run into a tree in broad daylight, and Karatajew, who was alternately shaken by cramps of cry and laughter.
He couldn't help himself, and in him too rose amusement. It mixed with a bitter taste in the mouth. Litschenko closed his eyes. All this time they had been chasing a Tungus drifter and hunter. They had been so sure that the wounded had been Michail Wulff that nobody had questioned it. What heroes they were!
Chrapow awoke from his numbness. Swearing, he stepped on the leather bag of the Tungus, threw the rifle over his shoulder and turned to walk. Karatajew followed, still laughing. The Tungus watched them in amazement and slowly let his hands sink. Litschenko came up to him and said apologetically: "It was a misunderstanding, comrade. We're looking for a criminal, and we thought you were him. However we have after the wrong guy. Forgive us for ripping you from your sleep so brutally. By the way, how's your wound?"
The Tungus looked at him with his mouth open, as if he heard the words, but did not understand their meaning.
"Well, then recover from your shock, and please excuse us." With these words Litschenko also turned to go. He could understand the poor guy. Chrapow hadn't gently woken him. His heart would surely also have stopped if he had stared sleep-drunk into the barrel of a rifle.
He had not yet come far when the Tungus awakened from his numbness. "So, what about my canoe?"
Litschenko spun around. "Your canoe?"
"Damn!" cursed Chrapow. "I knew it! I knew it!"
Like a possessed person, he ran to the bank of the river. At first he couldn't see anything, but then he saw two footprints of different sizes. So, he wasn't wrong after all!
"Where'd he go?" he yelled at the Tungus and shook his fur jacket. "Where'd that scumbag go?
The man just stared at him and then looked over to Litschenko looking for help. "Let go of the man, Chrapow! You see, he doesn't know anything."
Reluctantly, the hunter loosened his grip. Litschenko sensed that Chrapow would have preferred to knock down the Tungus to calm his anger and disappointment, even if the man was not to blame.
"We mustn't waste time arguing," the lieutenant said. "Wulff can't have gotten far with the canoe yet. He's hurt. We found a lot of blood. I don't think he paddled upstream with his gunshot wound. Either he lets himself be drifted down the river immediately, or he has gone to the other side of the river to get to safety."
At that moment they heard the engine sounds of a helicopter. Karatajew switched on the radio to involve the pilot in the search. The helicopter could fly a river route in a few minutes, for which a canoeist needs many hours. Maybe they’ll get lucky.
The pilot called. Karatajew made his report: They pursued a fugitive who unfortunately escaped with a canoe.
Suddenly the radio cracked and a familiar voice came in. Jossif immediately stood tight as Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko roared from the loudspeaker. "Say that again, Karatajew. Wulff got away again?"
"Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel!" the soldier replied zealously.
"Where's Lieutenant and Comrade Chrapow?"
"They're standing next to me, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel."
"What can you say for yourself, Lieutenant?"
Litschenko reached for the microphone. "We almost had him, but he escaped in a canoe at the last minute."
"Where to? Upstream or downstream?"
"That's exactly what we don't know, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. But because he has a gunshot wound, we're assuming he took off with the current. To check that out, we wanted to ask you to follow the course of the river in both directions."
"Good!" Wdowetschenko's voice sounded determined. "We're only flying upstream, because so far Wulff has always done the opposite of what you expected. He probably knows you better than you know yourself. If we can't find anything, we'll turn around and look downstream. Understand?"
"Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel," Litschenko replied. The arrogance of his superior peeved him. Secretly, he wished him a good failure.
The helicopter made a curve across the sky and followed the river to the northeast. A few minutes later the sound of the engine had died away behind the hills. Litschenko and Karatajew settled on a fallen birch trunk, while Olejnik Chrapow searched the shore with a dogged face. Finally, he gave up, squatted on a stone and stared over the water to the other side of the river.
"Do you think, Comrade Chrapow, that our man only crossed over to continue his escape on foot?" Litschenko asked the hunter. Chrapow answered with a grunt. You could feel that he was dissatisfied with himself.
"Well, you know, Lieutenant," Karatajew replied instead of the hunter, "if I were Wulff, I'd bring many miles between me and my pursuers. He knows that we didn't carry a canoe with us. If he hears a helicopter early enough to crawl into the thicket on the shore in time and covers the canoe with birch and Blackberry branches, you can barely see it from above."
He threw a pine cone after the Tungus, who was still standing indecisively in front of his camp, but it did not hit him because the man skillfully do
dged, and continued: "With his injury he can only advance quickly downstream, and perhaps he actually thinks that after all his deceptive maneuvers we are looking for him first upstream. In any case, he must extend his lead to find a safe place to recover from his injury."
Litschenko nodded. He had already thought of it. But what if Wulff had once again deceived them and returned to his old track? Maybe he was lying in wait, well camouflaged, watching them with a gloating grin?
He wiped that thought away again.
"How do we even know that the man shot is Michail Wulff?" he asked following a sudden inspiration. "What makes us so sure?"
Jerkily Chrapow raised his head and stared at the lieutenant as if he could no longer be helped.
"I've been following his trail for weeks now," he hissed. "I know his shoe size. I know how he sets his feet, how he pushes himself off the floor. I studied him, Comrade Lieutenant. He's our man! There is no doubt!"
He turned back to the river and said over his shoulder, "Why don't you go back and look at the trail again? His feet are always slightly turned inwards. "He walks like a cat, whereas Karatajew stomps through the forest with bow-legs."
Litschenko had to grin, while the offended man stared at his feet with stunned eyes.
"Don't be angry, Jossif," Litschenko tried to comfort him, "but you're a good football player."
The Tungus suddenly took a few steps towards them, but kept a proper distance, as if fearing fist fight.
"Do you want to hear my immaterial opinion, comrades?" The man rubbed his hands like a Chinese merchant suspecting a business. "I don't want to interfere. I'm just a simple Tungusian hunter."
Litschenko beckoned him closer. "Let's hear it. Maybe it'll help us."
The man took a quick look at Chrapow, then said in a confidential tone: "Downstream, about seven miles from here, the river divides into several arms. There are many islands, swamps and dense undergrowth. It's a good place to hide. If I were wounded and couldn't go on, I'd go there."
Again the Tungus looked over to Chrapow, as if expecting his recognition. But the face of the hunter remained expressionless.
Litschenko jumped up. "All right, man, let's try it. There's no harm in trying. Maybe Michail Wulff actually hid there. Karatajew, see if you can reach Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko on the radio. Ask him to search the swamp and island area with the helicopter. In the meantime, we will build a small raft so that we can look for traces on both sides of the shore and cross over to the islands."
Mischka gave the canoe a push so that it drove a few meters out into the river. Satisfied, he watched the boat, filled with boulders and perforated, sink into the stream. Then he climbed up the slope from stone to stone in the bed of the mountain stream. He moved slowly in the twilight of the early morning to leave no traces.
The sleeping Tungus with his canoe had been his salvation. The coming confusion would certainly give him a head start. During the last hours he felt more and more that his pursuers were right on his heels. Fear and anger had mobilized his last energy reserves and pushed him forward.
On the river it had immediately become clear to him that he could not paddle against the current with his injured shoulder. The pursuers had to know that, too. That's why they'd probably look for him downstream first. His chances of escaping by canoe were slim. In addition, people often lived on the banks of rivers who could recognize and betray him.
Mischka decided to cross the river to continue his escape on land, despite his weakness. Shortly afterwards he had discovered the bed of the stream filled with boulders. If he jumped from stone to stone, the pursuers wouldn't find any traces.
After half an hour of strenuous climbing, he reached a field of rocks. At the foot of the rocks water bubbled out under a stone slab. Mischka looked astonished at this natural wonder. Huge boulders lay like pebbles on the slope of the mountain. They piled on top of each other, forming stairs, niches and caves. Probably glaciers of the ice age had pushed together this sea of abraded boulders and stones like a heap of sand.
High spruce trees framed the natural wonder and hid it from the eyes of the people along the river. It'd take a search party days to track anybody down here. Mischka decided to seek shelter. He was at the end of his strength and desperately needed rest so that the wound could heal. In this maze of rocks he had a real chance to escape persecutors even if they were to discover him.
In the next quarter of an hour he searched the sea of rocks for a crevice or cave. Soon he discovered a suitable shelter, whose entrance he could close from the inside with a wedged stone. No one would suspect a cave here.
Exhausted Mischka took off his soaked clothes. The wound was still bleeding. In his backpack he found a piece of cloth, the rest of his shirt, which he had kept for such cases. He knotted it into a bag, filled it with charcoal and tied it firmly to the wound with two strips of leather. The charcoal would, as with Aljoscha, suck all toxins out of the wound and prevent suppuration. Everything else he had to leave to the self-healing powers of his body.
Mischka was too tired to eat anything. He crawled into the elk leather sleeping bag, pushed the backpack under his neck and stretched out on the slab. Although the ground was unusually hard, he soon felt the coolness of the stone, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He didn't know how long he had slept, but a ray of sunshine shining through a crack in the rock woke him. Mischka felt dizzy, powerless and battered. His forehead was hot. Overexertion, blood loss and wound fever were noticeable.
He drank a sip of water and lay back. Now he felt every bone. Compared to the springy underlay of fir branches, the rock slab was an uncomfortable sleeping surface. Nevertheless, he fell asleep again after a few minutes.
The rustling of a red field mouse woke him up again. He was about to throw a stone at the rodent when he heard voices and footsteps. They were looking for him! Maybe they found his trail. A tracker like Chrapow would make out every twisted blade of grass, every moved stone. The steps came closer. Mischka held his breath. His heart pounded up to his neck.
"This is an ideal place to hide, Comrade Lieutenant," he heard Karatajew say.
"That's right," Litschenko replied. He had to be standing right over the cave. "But Michail Wulff couldn't have known about this place. If Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko hadn't discovered this pile of giant stones from the air, we would have walked past it. Only chance could have brought Wulff here."
Not bad at all, Lieutenant, Mischka thought grimly, not so bad at all!
He already felt halfway relieved. Obviously Chrapow wasn't with them. He had little fear of Litschenko and Karatajew. They weren't sniffer dogs like the hunter. Besides, they were standing right in front of his hideout, unnoticed. Chrapow, on the other hand, would have smelled him by now.
"And what do we do now, Comrade Lieutenant?" Jossif Karatajew was heard again. "In this labyrinth we can wander around for days and still find nothing. Aren't we wasting our time here?"
The red field mouse rushed again. Mischka stared angrily at her.
"What was that?" Karatajew must have heard the sound.
"Well, don't look at ghosts, Jossif. Surely it was just some rodent scurrying between the rocks. You see, there's no crevice or cave here to fit a human."
Mischka felt a slight tingling sensation in his nose. If he had to sneeze now, it would all be over! To suppress the stimulus, he tickled the front palate with the tip of his tongue. Slowly the tingling subsided.
"We need dogs, Lieutenant. Then the question would be quickly resolved. But they'd have to be flown in by helicopter first."
"It's all too uncertain for me." Mischka heard clearly how the lieutenant scratched his head. "Where's the canoe anyway? Would an injured person continue on foot if he had a boat at his disposal and knew that he was being followed? What if the Tungus is right? In the delta of islands and swamps, Wulff will escape us while we lose precious time here."
The radio cracked.
"This is Chrapow. Found
a trail across the river. Our man used one of his old tricks. Come over here and take a look at this."
Mischka grinned relieved. Before he had crossed the river, he had gone downstream again to the shore. It was littered with stones, an ideal place for a false path. He laid a visible trail up to a spruce and then climbed halfway up the tree, deliberately kinking some dry branches and leaving some blood on the bark. Then he balanced back over the stones to the canoe. He didn't know how long it would take them to find out that this time he hadn't made off over the treetops. In any case, it would give him another time advantage. His plan worked out. The trick had distracted the pursuers from his track.
The footsteps of the men faded away. Mischka straightened up and relaxed. The shoulder still hurt, but he could stand it. In a week he'd be able to strain the shoulder again. Until then, he had to hide in his safe house.
The red field mouse scurried closer and stared at Mischka with her black ball eyes.
"In winter you cuddle up tightly to warm each other up, but in summer you're quite quarrelsome loners," Mischka whispered to her. "Besides, as far as I know, you're infected with viruses of some kind. So, stay off me so I don't want to get infected."
Then he threw the pebble at her, which he had held in his hand the whole time. The red field mouse disappeared between the rocks.
Basically, I'm a loner too, thought Mischka. Loneliness can make us grow inside, but it can also cripple our soul. It can turn us into orphans or loners. It's probably just a matter of time. How long can a person actually get along without people, without damaging to his soul?
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Juri Wdowetschenko ordered the pilot to fly downstream. The search on the upper reaches of the river had been unsuccessful. He discovered the field of rocks by chance and gave the order by radio that Litschenko and Karatajew should take a closer look at the crevices. While Chrapow was looking for tracks on the shore, he wanted to search the river delta by helicopter. In the low flight they went over the islands, river arms and swamps.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 17
