Last of the Breed (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  To think that only a few weeks ago he had driven in from Edwards Air Force Base to lunch with some friends in Beverly Hills, looking forward to his few days in Alaska. Now he was a fugitive, fleeing for his life in the interior of Siberia.

  He was six feet two inches, and when he had left for Alaska he had weighed one ninety. He smiled wryly up into the branches overhead. He doubted if he would weigh more than one seventy-five now, and he would probably be leaner than that before this ordeal was over.

  The nights were growing longer and colder. He would need warmer clothing, and he would need, most of all, a place to hole up and wait out the winter.

  But where? How?

  He slept then, and awakened to a faint stirring in the brush nearby. He sat up, reaching for his weapons.

  The stirring stopped. Something was there, watching him. He got to his feet and took up his bow and notched an arrow, waiting. Nothing happened.

  The day was gone. Now it would soon be dark. Ignoring whatever was in the brush, he started away, following the stream down toward the Olekma. An animal, he thought, perhaps a wolf prowling in search of prey. But not in search of him.

  The river lay suddenly before him, its dark waters glistening in the dim light. There were many willows along the shore and some larger trees he could not make out in the semidarkness. He looked across. He was a good swimmer but not a great one. He had never spent much time in the water. The mountain streams of his homeland had been narrow, rushing streams, rarely deep. He looked around for a drift log but found none. There was driftwood everywhere, but most of it too light to be of use, except for a few gigantic old floaters that had buried themselves in the mud, their roots splayed out like immense black spiders.

  Then he found what he wanted. This time it was a plank, a three-by-twelve fully eight feet long washed down from some lumber mill or construction project. He pushed the plank into the water, sliding it over a log. When the end dropped off the log, it splashed.

  Instantly the quiet of the night was ripped apart by the vicious barking of a big dog, and not far away.

  A dwelling nearby? He had seen no signs of it. Yet suddenly, not fifty yards off, there was a rectangle of light as a door opened. A gruff voice demanded the dog be still.

  The man stood listening; then he admonished the dog in a softer tone and went back inside.

  Joe Mack waited until the dog walked back and lay down at the door. Carefully, then, he removed his vest and sweatshirt, wrapped his bow, arrows, and sling, and waded into the water, trying to make no sound.

  The water was icy cold, and the night was still. Despite his efforts, the water splashed and the dog came to its feet growling. He pushed off, and the dog rushed down to the water, barking furiously. The door slammed open and the man shouted angrily; then, flashlight in hand, he walked down to the water’s edge.

  He was downstream of Joe Mack, and when he flashed the light out upon the water it swept fifty feet away from him. One hand on the heavy plank, Joe Mack swam across the current, but inexorably he was moved down toward the spying, examining light.

  Joe Mack, his heart pounding, turned the plank downstream and tried to swim more strongly, going with the current but across the stream. The light swept above him, hesitated, and swung back, as if the man had glimpsed something to arouse his suspicion. Joe Mack let himself sink under the water but kept the plank and its small burden between himself and the light.

  The light’s rays reached them, but feebly. Slowly, Mack had been working his way across and downstream, carried by the current at a swifter pace than his swimming could have done. The flashlight touched his burden, but he knew he was by now so far out that the light would reveal nothing but some floating debris.

  The light veered away and he heard the man calling to the dog, his light bobbing as he walked back to the house.

  It seemed a long time before he reached the opposite bank, and when he at last scrambled ashore on a muddy bank and retrieved his small bundle, he was at least a mile further downstream than he wished to be.

  Shivering, he tried to wipe himself dry with a handful of grass. Then he donned his clothes again. They were only partly dry, but brought almost immediate warmth.

  Going back on the mudbank, he shoved the plank back into the stream. There was no time to erase the footprints he had made.

  Walking swiftly, he pushed his way through the willows into a thick stand of birch. Weaving among the slim white trunks, he climbed steadily, getting away from the river. He entered a forest of mingled birch, mountain ash, bird cherry, and a kind of poplar. When he had a good mile between himself and the river, he slowed his pace. Soon he was going to have to stop, rest, and prepare food. Better still, he would make a hot drink of some sort.

  He was tired but he struggled on, holding to the edge of the forest and working his way back north until he reached the stream he had glimpsed coming down from the ridge above him. The streambed was cut into the mountain, offering him cover for his climb up the bare rock.

  Only a few shrubs appeared, but considerable moss. It was hard climbing now, all uphill, and morning had come. He would either have to remain hiding in the streambed or cross the ridge in daylight and hope he would not be seen.

  If he were to remain in the streambed, there was no chance of being seen unless somebody flew along the ridge or some chance hunter or prospector came upon him. Nor did he know what awaited him on the other side of the ridge.

  Finding a mossy bank sheltered from the wind he lay down to let the sun’s warmth take the chill from his flesh. Long ago he had learned to relax completely, to simply rest. He did so now.

  The sky was an impossible blue, the soft wind was chill but fresh and pleasant. There, under the open sky, he rested and then slept for a few minutes, awakening refreshed.

  He restrung his bow, hung his quiver in place behind his shoulder, and slowly began to work his way up the streambed toward where the stream began, flowing from under the sliderock near the top of the ridge. He mounted slowly, working his way through a vast tumble of broken granite slabs that offered some concealment.

  He was behind the slabs when he heard a sudden rumble of heavy machinery, then a shout, and again a rumble. His heart pounding, he squatted behind a slab, waiting and listening. Again he heard it.

  In the valley below him some kind of heavy work was under way. He heard the rumble of what had to be a Caterpillar tractor. Easing himself forward he found a place to peer around a boulder and look down into the valley.

  Another river! He swore under his breath. But between where he crouched and the river, there was work going on. He could see for more than a mile in either direction, and at least three pieces of heavy equipment were working. A bulldozer, a backhoe, and a third piece that he could not make out. Fifty or sixty men and women with shovels were working down there preparing the roadbed for a railroad.

  He swore again, looking at the mountains beyond. Somehow, he would have to cross to the mountains. He would have to get past the railroad bed they were preparing, cross the river, and get into the mountains beyond.

  Somehow, but how?

  From his pack he took another bit of the dried mutton. It was stiff, hard, and cold, but he bit off a piece and began to chew, studying the situation.

  At night, they would surely stop at night. He had heard of this railroad, had known it would be somewhere ahead of him, but just where he had not known.

  Something moved! He turned sharply, half rising. He was looking into the business end of a pistol. The man holding the pistol was thirty feet away, standing with his feet apart, staring at him. It was a narrow, scholarly sort of face, and the man had sandy red hair and cool, blue-gray eyes.

  Joe Mack looked at the gun and considered the distance. His muscles tensed. He leaned slightly forward.

  NINE

  COLONEL ARKADY ZAMATEV was shaving. He looked a
t himself in the mirror, but without approval. There was still power in the heavy muscles of shoulders and chest, but there was a hint of softness, too, and he did not like it. He finished shaving and cleaned his razor. Looking in the mirror he could see the girl. She was sitting up in bed, watching him.

  Kyra was, he reflected, the best of them. This one had brains. She would make a good wife. The trouble was there was no place for her in his plans, though marriage was an important part of them. To marry the right woman, that was important. Deliberately he had avoided entanglements, avoided anything that hinted at permanence. When he married it would be the daughter or sister of an important man.

  Arkady Zamatev knew where he was going, and he knew how to get there. So far, he had made no mistakes. So far, all the pieces had been falling into place, all but this damned American. His escape could ruin everything.

  “You’re a handsome man, Arkady.”

  He glanced at her, making a slight bow. “I thank you.”

  She was beautiful, and there was something special about her, something different. Or was that his glands speaking? He looked at himself wryly in the mirror and said in his mind, Don’t be a fool.

  “I think,” she was lighting a cigarette, and for a moment a flicker of irritation went through him, “you will go far, just as far as you wish.” She paused. “If you catch the American.”

  “You know about him?”

  “Everybody does. When the Army is alerted, word gets around. You will catch him, I think. How could he get away?”

  Zamatev did not like talking about it. This one was closemouthed; he had already made sure of that. Nevertheless—

  “He may already be dead. How could he survive? Without food? And it is growing cold.”

  Arkady Zamatev said something that had been in his mind but unspoken until now. “This one is different,” he admitted, “but we will get him.”

  “Shepilov wants him, too.”

  “What do you know about Shepilov?” Zamatev’s eyes were cold. “I did not know you knew him.”

  “I worked in his bureau.”

  “I knew that, but—”

  She smiled teasingly. “No, I didn’t, if that is what you’re wondering. Anyway, Shepilov does not encourage the girls. He is too afraid of his wife. She’s a terror. Or so I hear.”

  Zamatev knew all about Masha. People avoided her, and Shepilov had been passed over for promotion at least once because of her. Associate with a man and you associate with his wife, and she was not liked. It was a mistake Zamatev did not intend to make. He told himself that again.

  “Shepilov”—she brushed ash from her cigarette—“wants him. He wants to say you lost the prisoner and it took Shepilov to catch him.”

  “I will get him.”

  “I am sure you will. I hope you will. You are a good man, Arkady, good for Russia, but you have enemies. You stand in the way of too many people. Shepilov, for one. Until now there has been nothing they could say; now they are saying it, quietly and among themselves. Tomorrow, if Shepilov should catch him—”

  “I know,” he admitted.

  He put away his razor and picked up his shirt. She was getting out of bed and he averted his eyes. Somehow it always embarrassed him to see a woman dressing. It was stupid of him, after all that had passed between them, but still the feeling was there.

  “What is he like, this American?”

  Zamatev paused, buttoning his shirt. He stared at the mirror but remembered the American. “Tall,” he said, “strong-looking. Arrogant.” He paused, buttoned another button, and added, “He was not afraid. All of the others, all of them, were afraid, but not him.”

  “I heard he is an Indian?”

  “He is.”

  “But they were savages! Primitive!”

  He shrugged. “Once. Now I hear they are heads of oil companies. Suvarov tells me one of them was Vice President of the United States.”

  “But he is an Indian? Shepilov is wrong, then. He is looking in the cities. He is looking along the Amur.”

  “Where do you think we should look?”

  “In the taiga. If he is an Indian—”

  “That’s what Alekhin believes.”

  “Alekhin is looking for him?” She shuddered a little. “He frightens me, Alekhin does. There’s something about him, something ugly.”

  Zamatev knew what she meant, but he shrugged. “He is a Yakut.”

  “I’ve known many Yakuts. Two of my closest girlfriends are Yakuts. They are afraid of him, too.”

  Zamatev finished dressing and reached for his coat. Alekhin always got his man. The trouble was that by the time the GRU got to them they were dead. It happened too often, much too often. Often one killed from necessity but Alekhin seemed to like killing. Well, he must speak to him. This American he wanted alive, if possible. The American was no good to him dead.

  Strange, that in all this time he had not been seen or heard from. Alekhin believed he had a clue. The Yakut was sure he knew where he was but as yet had not caught him. Arkady Zamatev did not like leaving for the taiga himself. It gave his enemies too much of an opportunity. While he was around they were afraid of him, and he wanted them to remain so.

  She was buttoning her blouse. “Arkady? Do you want me to help?”

  Astonished, he glanced at her. “You? How could you help?”

  She smiled at him. “I can help. I worked in the bureau for three years.”

  “You believe that taught you enough?” he scoffed gently.

  “It taught me that most of them are time wasters. Most of them are stupid plodders. They have no insight, no intuition. If he has evaded you this long, something new is needed.”

  Zamatev could not have agreed more. Yet how could she help?

  “Perhaps a new viewpoint,” she suggested. “Let me work with you.”

  He shook his head. “No. This”—he gestured at the room and the bed—“is one thing. Work is another.”

  “I want no favors,” she replied coolly, “and would expect to be treated as the others.” Her eyes met his directly. “I, too, am ambitious. For you as well as for me. There will be times when you must be gone, and I can be there. Also, I know Comrade Shepilov.”

  Zamatev shook his head, but not as decisively. “Think about it,” she added, and went into the bathroom.

  He stood for a minute, undecided. It went against everything he believed, every resolution he had made, yet it was tempting to have an ally in the bureau. Or was she a plant from Shepilov himself? She had worked in his office.

  It was cold in the street. He stood for a moment looking along the avenue, noting the cars that were there. It was an old practice from his days as a military attaché in London and Paris, where one could almost expect to be followed. He seemed to be merely buttoning his heavy coat and turning up the collar against the wind, but his eyes were busy. The little car was there again today. He waved his driver aside and started walking briskly along the street.

  As he turned the first corner he stopped abruptly, tugging on his gloves. A moment later the little car swept by. He chuckled, and crossing the street, he went on to the office.

  On his desk the usual work awaited: papers to be read and initialed, others to be read and discarded. He went through the stack methodically until he came to the reports on the search for Major Makatozi. They were arranged in four neat stacks. Nothing…nothing…at Albazino near the Amur border, guards had shot and killed a Buriat attempting to escape into China…a Yakut tracker had followed tracks for some distance only to have the trail vanish under his eyes.

  The American’s boots had left a distinct impression when the tracks could be found at all. Now they were gone, as if the man had been whisked away by what the Americans called a flying saucer.

  Zamatev swore. Maybe he did need Kyra. Certainly, he needed somebody with
brains. By this time they should have captured any number of escapees. Always before it had been a matter of hours only, occasionally of days.

  Yet what could Kyra do that was not being done? What could he do? Carefully, he went over in detail what had been done.

  The quick, immediate search that caught eight out of ten who escaped from anywhere. Then the wider, more complete search, the issuing of orders to the Amur troops, search parties sent out from various centers, people everywhere alerted. Nobody had seen anything.

  Alekhin claimed to have a lead, flimsy at best. The possible theft of a knife, unproved; the possible theft of canned supplies, also unproved. The remains of a sheep Alekhin said had been butchered by a hunter before wild animals reached the carcass. That was at least questionable.

  The truth was they had nothing. They had seen nothing, and they knew nothing. The man might be dead. He might have drowned crossing a river, been killed by wild animals, or be dying of starvation.

  It was a vast, barren land out there, and few could survive. The man had no weapons, no means of obtaining food. He did not know the country. He would have no allies among the people. Any loyal Russian might turn him in. But, he paused in his thinking, this was not Russia. This was Siberia. There were people here who did not love the government no matter how much they might love Mother Russia.

  Zamatev dismissed the idea. The chances of his coming upon such a one was limited, indeed.

  No, if the man still lived he was out there now, cold, hungry, and in fear of capture.

  Zamatev got to his feet and walked to the window. The little car was down there. He chuckled. Shepilov was so obvious! Yet, he frowned, did they know about Kyra? If they did, and she was not already a plant, they would find the means to make her so. Or they would try.

  Colonel Zamatev drew a sheet of paper from the drawer in his desk and wrote down the name Makatozi. After it he listed Alternatives: north, south, east, west.