Probably an old gunshot wound, Trofim thought. He looked stealthily at Ivan and Pawlik, who were sitting half a yard further on the hut wall with their legs pulled up. Pavlik nodded his head and Ivan rolled his eyes. They wanted to tell him something.
Trofim pulled his shoulders slightly up and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Pawlik's gaze wandered along the hut wall behind Trofim's back. Then he blinked briefly. Trofim still didn't understand.
Once again, Pawlik looked at the spot behind Trofim's back, while Ivan yawned heartily. His mouth formed a silent word as if unintentionally. "G-I-a-s-s."
Now Trofim understood. His hands tied behind his back palpated the ground. Then he blinked briefly at the two comrades. He had found the broken glass. While Iwan and Pawlik stared at the smoke-blackened ceiling of the hut again without expression, Trofim carefully began to work the hemp ropes on his wrists. They had a miserable quality, and one fiber after the other was torn.
Hope rose in the man. The game wasn't over yet. The others still had the better cards, but that could change quickly. They only had to overpower their guards before the helicopter returned with the rest of the militia, and then flee in all directions. Soon darkness would fall and improve their chances.
Suddenly, a detonation tore the silence apart. The reddish glow of fire shone through the window of the log cabin. The two soldiers looked at each other in dismay. Then they hurried to the hut door and looked over at the forest.
"It's the helicopter!" the one said soundlessly. "He shot down the helicopter. So, what do we do now?"
"Wait," replied the man with the red scar, "we Russians have always been able to wait patiently. I'm sure they'll be looking for us soon. That's how long we have to be patient."
The last fibres of the rope were torn. While the two men were still staring over at the forest, Trofim stood up briefly and pushed the shard of glass over to Pawlik. Then he lay still on the floor again, as if his hands were still tied behind his back.
Probably the scar face at the door had unconsciously perceived his movement from the corners of his eye, for he turned abruptly towards him. "Don't rejoice too soon!" the man threatened and stared at him angrily. "We've passed our position on to headquarters. It won't be long before they pick us up here, and then you'll be in a bad way! I promise!"
Trofim did not answer, but looked unimpressed past the man. Inside, however, he smiled. Andrej or Mischka had sent the helicopter crew to hell! They'd probably show up here soon and free them. In the meantime, they would get ready.
But nothing happened. The hours went by without anything happening. The sky had turned dark blue in the meantime. Twilight set over the land. Should the two comrades have been killed together with the militia officers? Or had they just fled to save their own skin? Trofim looked questioningly at his comrades. But they didn't return his gaze.
The scar face had lit a kerosene lamp and now walked restlessly through the hut. Obviously, he wasn't comfortable in his skin either.
Suddenly something hissed through the air outside. A thud on the hut wall! Fire blazed in front of the window.
"Damn!" screamed the scar face. "This pig wants to roast us alive. "Well, wait, I'll get you, as my name is Mikojan!" He rushed to the door.
Gunshots whipped through the air. The bullets hit through the window and clapped into the back wall of the hut. Instinctively, the captured comrades dropped to the ground and held their breath.
With a scream, the scar face stormed through the door into the open, rolled to the floor and put his Kalashnikov in position. But almost at the same moment an arrow pierced his right thigh.
"Damn it! Leonid! Help me, I'm hit! There's another one!"
His comrade rushed to the door and carefully peered out. Suddenly he heard a noise behind him. He whirled around and looked into Trofim's grinning face. Then a stool rushed down on his skull and sent him to the land of dreams.
Almost at the same time, Iwan and Pawlik rushed at the scar face, took his weapon away and knocked him down.
"Everything under control, Mischka and Andrej!" Trofim shouted into the darkness. "We've got them. You can come here. Game is over!"
Behind a spruce trunk a figure rose and walked towards the hut. It was Mischka, the bow casually in his hand.
"Where's Andrej?" Pawlik wanted to know. "Did something happen to him?"
"Yes, he has a gunshot wound," Mischka replied, "but he's doing relatively well. Anyway, he could still open fire on the cabin. He's on a sledge behind the bump, over there."
He pointed in the direction they had to look.
Trofim and Pawlik immediately stormed off to fetch the injured comrade, while Ivan extinguished the burning arrow on the hut wall.
"Hey, isn't anyone helping us here?" Kolja and Boris shouted in the hut. "Free us at last. Our arms are already half dead."
Mischka grinned through the hut door. "One by one," he put them off. "First we have to take care of the militia. We owe that to our state."
He dragged the two soldiers inside the hut, turned them on their stomachs and tied their hands behind their backs. Then he tied the shoelaces of their boots together, intertwining their legs. So, the two would hinder each other in their movements.
Mischka pulled the arrow with a jerk from the leg of the scarred face. The man screamed briefly and fainted again. So, that he would not bleed to death, Mischka pressed a cloth onto the wound and tied it with a hemp rope. Finally he rolled the two against the hut wall and freed Boris and Kolja.
In the meantime, Pawlik and Trofim had also returned and carried Andrej in. Boris, the paramedic, examined the gunshot wound and re-bandaged it.
"You won't die of it, old boy," he encouraged the engineer. "It's a straight through. No major organs seem injured. But you need some rest now so the wounds can heal."
"Rest?" Kolja let himself be heard. "We've got to get out of here. In a few hours, they'll be back on our heels."
"Don't panic," Mischka threw in. "The sky is completely cloudy again. I think its gonna snow tonight. Nobody can follow our tracks then. But we must be on our way soon."
"That sounds encouraging!" Kolja replied. "Wander through darkness in storms and snow, with an injured man in need of rest."
"We have no choice," Trofim interfered.
"Yes, let's pack our sleds and get out of here," Boris shouted.
"And what do we do with them?" Kolja wanted to know.
"They will survive," Trofim replied. "They'll be found."
In less than fifteen minutes, the men had taken the reindeer out of the stable, tied up the sledges and loaded them with their most important belongings. The gold captured was fairly divided among the men. So, they could separate if necessary, should circumstances require. Finally they lifted Andrej onto the sled and padded him with skins so that he was as comfortable as possible. Then they put on their fur coats and snowshoes.
"And have fun waiting," Trofim shouted to the scar face and his comrade. "You Russians are very good at that."
The two of them answered him with curses.
"Come, you tungusian disgust," Ivan laughed at him. "Don't insult my people. We have to make sure we get away."
Silently, the men made their way south. An hour later they turned southeast. Around midnight the wind picked up and drove fine snowflakes over the plain. In the course of the night the snow fell thicker and thicker and soon covered their tracks. Even though this made the journey even more difficult, the men felt an inner force driving them forward. Now they had a real chance to escape their pursuers.
In the morning Mischka separated from the group. His path did not lead east. Even if the winter would continue for many weeks, he wanted to go west again. The time of low temperatures was over. So, he didn't have to be afraid of freezing to death anymore. He'd be all right. The Siberian hunters endured the harshness of winter only in their reindeer tents. He'd do it, too.
The comrades gave him two reindeer and a sleigh, loaded him with skins and supplies for three
weeks and wished him luck.
"We never saw you and do not know who you are, but you will always be in our hearts," Andrej said on behalf of everyone.
The men mumbled in agreement.
"Yes, M ..., what's your name again? Oh, I don't even know you." Ivan grinned mischievously. "Anyway, you saved our lives and gave us freedom again. You will remain our friend for all time." He pressed Mischka to his chest and kissed him on both cheeks.
"If you manage to do what you set out to do, write to Innokennti, the Evenk. Maybe the mail will reach him from the West. We'll hear from him then," Trofim asked him. His black eyes shone wet as he embraced the young man.
Mischka felt a strange melancholy when the friends disappeared in the dense snow. He had become accustomed to their coarse company. Now he was alone again, a lone wolf in the endless taiga. He looked at the compass he had taken from Litschenko's men and headed west. He hoped to reach the Wiljui again at the beginning of spring in order to be able to dig up the hidden supplies and the rubber dinghy at Proschin's cave. He would need the canned food after the long way, even if he was successful in the hunt.
◆◆◆
"The helicopter was shot down by an arrow?" Litschenko jumped up from his chair. "Are you sure, Comrade Karatajew? Are you sure?"
The soldier nodded.
"That's impossible! You can't shoot a helicopter with a bow and arrow!"
"Yes, Comrade Lieutenant, but when you hit the pilot through the open door."
"Come, Karatajew, give me the facts. What happened?"
The soldier leaned against the door frame, thought briefly and began to report. His face seemed tense. You could feel a certain sensationalism behind his words, as if he had been an eyewitness to the disaster.
"After forensics had finished their work, the comrades tried to reconstruct the course of events. That wasn't easy because a snowstorm covered all the tracks. But it must have been like that: The helicopter crew had found one of the fugitive prospectors and probably severely wounded him. A lot of blood was found."
Litschenko waved off. "The blood has nothing to say. If you pour a drinking glass of it on the floor, it looks like you slaughtered a pig, especially in the snow."
"Maybe," Karatajew continued, "in any case, someone has been shot by the militia. Right now, a man with snowshoes must have turned up on that hill. Under the low-hanging branches of a spruce one still found his footprints. He shot two arrows through the helicopter's open door. One of them met the pilot. Although his body is completely charred, the comrades found an arrowhead in his arm. The shot was not fatal, but the pilot must have lost control of the helicopter, so the rotor blades grazed the trees and crashed the chopper."
"It could have been like that," nodded Ivan Litschenko. "A reckless attempt to compete against a helicopter armed only with bow and arrow."
"Exactly, that's what I'm talking about. That's why it immediately occurred to me: "That could only have been Michail Wulff!"
"So, he moved further northeast instead of south. What's he up to? Where's he going? Why is he hiding out in this inhospitable area?" Litschenko scratched his chin. "So, he's found shelter with illegal gold prospectors. He certainly had to help them build up their winter supplies. After all, he's a good hunter. – What happened after that, Karatajew?"
"After what?"
"Well, after the helicopter crashed."
"Wulff and the wounded have returned to the hut and have freed their comrades. The way the two soldiers had been tied up immediately reminded me of our two heroes who had to look after the wagons."
"The trick with the shoelaces?"
"Exactly, and the description also applies to Wulff. The soldiers said he was blond and in his mid-twenties."
"Where did they flee to? Did they find any clues?" the lieutenant wanted to know.
Jossif Karatajew shrugged his shoulders. "No, nothing, absolutely nothing. They've disappeared off the face of the earth. After the snow drifts, all tracks were covered. But they can only have moved to the southeast."
"Only to the southeast?" Litschenko interrupted him. "What makes you so sure, comrade?"
Karatajew smiled. Obviously, he enjoyed having an information advantage over his supervisor. "In the north there is only tundra. Nobody can hide there. But that's not the reason for my suspicion. No, they were seen by an employee of the Evenk collective farm. He was on his way home when he saw a group of seven men in a snow flurry. One of them was lying on a reindeer sled. They passed him to the southeast without noticing him."
"Do you know this man's name?" Litschenko interrupted him.
"I think his name is Wanja Mikojan. So far he was a truck driver of the collective farm. But since he has hit a tree with his truck, in winter he only goes with the reindeer sled."
"We should take Chrapow to this man. Maybe the hunter can pick up the trail there."
"Maybe," Karatajew shrugged his shoulders. "But a lot of snow has fallen by now. I doubt Chrapow will find anything."
"It's definitely worth a try. So, let's pack our things and call Chrapow. I'd like to be on my way this afternoon. Besides, I want to see the gold prospectors' hut. Maybe he left something there that gives us more clues."
◆◆◆
"It was Michail Wulff! No doubt about it!" Olejnik Chrapow banged the broken arrow on the table in the log cabin of the gold seekers and looked grimly at the lieutenant. He had found it next to the cabin. Litschenko took the arrow in his hand and examined the sharp tip of reindeer bone.
"I suspected it when I heard about the helicopter crash," he replied to the hunter, "but I wasn't one hundred percent sure. I've always believed he wanted to go west. But we were wrong about him once again."
"But he will certainly not go over the Amur. He would immediately attract attention as a European in this area."
"And what do you think of the possibility that he might want to stay in Siberia to make it as a hunter and trapper until he is forgotten? Northern Siberia is one of the last places on earth where life as a pioneer and adventurer is still possible."
Chrapow waved contemptuously with his hand. "I don't believe in this theory at all, Comrade Lieutenant! Wulff is an European. He grew up beyond the Urals. It might be an adventure for him to live in the wilderness for some time. But he won't do it forever. It draws him back to the cities. He's not a savage. He needs books, music and people to discuss with." The hunter shook his head. "No, Litschenko! Life in Siberia is for a person like Wulff an immersion into the night, a being thrown out of the world. He can't stand it in the long run. He'll have to return, or his heart and mind will freeze. I know what I'm talking about, Lieutenant."
Litschenko drove his finger over the arrowhead glued with tree resin. "One could exhibit the arrow in a Moscow museum as a hunting weapon of a tungus hunter of the Stone Age. Nice work! You can see that Wulff didn't sleep during the lectures on archaeology. That's why I wonder if he might make it through the next few years as a hunter and trapper. He has the knowledge and the ability to do so." He put the arrow back on the table, raised his hand and went on: "My God, the man has shot down a helicopter with bow and arrow, only to disappear again into the wilderness without a trace! He has survived in cold and snowstorms so far, and he will continue to do so."
Chrapow just snorted unwillingly. "What's so special about it? Any Siberian hunter can do that."
"Perhaps, but only with the advanced weapons of our civilization and the experience of his ancestors. But this man has only primitive tools and textbook knowledge. No, no, Chrapow, this man is different than the other convicts you've hunted so far. The others have always been easy prey for you. But here you will find someone who, despite his youth, is at least as good as you."
Hate glows in the eyes of the hunter. His face turned to a grimace.
"Please, no emotional outbursts, Chrapow. You'd better do your job. Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko is counting on you. I, on the other hand, am just a loser to him, who he will eventually transfer to prison. Y
ou're the professional here."
Wordlessly, Olejnik Chrapow turned around and left the room. The door slammed into the lock.
Yes, yes, Litschenko thought self-satisfied, also he cannot stand the truth. – The only question now is: What's the next step? Where should we look? Hopefully Michail Wulff will show up in the next days!
Litschenko folded his hands as if in prayer. I hope somebody sees him. Otherwise, we can pack up. Everybody can pack up!
◆◆◆
The first fortnight Mischka made rapid progress. The weather had cleared up and the sled glided slightly over the powder snow. The dry climate in this part of Siberia had only created a thin blanket of snow. That's why the sled runners and reindeer hooves didn't sink that deep. Mischka thought this time was like a holiday trip, had it not been for the overnight stays in the open air.
Every evening he built a hut out of his leather blanket and sled and spread out his sleeping bag underneath. Even at night there was no breeze. Silently and extinct lay the taiga before him. Nevertheless, he always lit a fire to warm himself and keep predators away. Every morning he filled a tin pot with the embers of the fire and laid pieces of wood and moss over it. So, it took him only a few minutes in the evening until his campfire blazed to the evening sky again. In addition, the embers spread a pleasant warmth during the sleigh ride.
The third week it got colder. An icy wind came from the north across the plain. Once again the winter rebelled against the sun rising day by day and darkened it with a layer of ice-grey clouds. Mischka froze more and more often, although his clothes consisted of several layers of fur. His supplies were shrinking faster than he thought. The hunt remained unsuccessful, because the forests seemed almost extinct. The reindeer herds had probably retreated to the south. He could not sneak up close enough to the few deer, caribou or moose he saw to hunt them down with a bow and arrow or a spear sling. Since he had heard a pack of wolves in the distance, he did not want to let his sled out of his sight.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 25
