It was bitterly cold, and he chanced a small fire in his well-hidden camp. He prepared some tea, given him by Baronas, and then he slept.
Hours later he was awakened by the drone of a plane flying over.
Huddled in his bearskin coat, he waited. For hours, he heard nothing; then came the drone of a circling plane, not a helicopter. Had they found the wreckage? The explosion and the brief fire could not have left much to see. As near as he could make out from the little he had seen, the wreckage had caught fire and the sudden explosion had put it out. Of course, he could see nothing in the woods where the copter had crashed.
All day long, at intervals, he heard searching planes. For three days, shivering in the bitter cold, he stayed under cover. Finally, when hours had passed with no further sounds of aircraft, he left his hideout, packing all the meat he had, and started toward the river.
The Ningam flowed into the Gonam, and some sixty to seventy miles further the Gonam entered the Uchur. There was a village there. All this he knew from his talks with Baronas and Botev.
He could use the river only as a guide. It would be frozen over now, the chances were, but trusting river ice was no part of his plan. During the night there had been snow, and the river ice would be covered with it. Ice beneath snow often melted, leaving places where one might easily break through.
Joe Mack, running lightly, followed along a dim path close to the river, taking advantage of the easier travel. Hour after hour passed and he saw no one, heard no one. Once, ahead of him and across the river, he heard dogs barking, but he was too far away for them to be barking at him.
The Uchur lay somewhere ahead of him. With luck he would reach it the following night. It was a large river, and crossing it would present a problem.
He slept the night in a small cave warmed by a handful of fire. He slept badly, for the cold kept awakening him. He had been careful to keep his ears and nose covered through the day, knowing they were most liable to frostbite. So far he had been unbelievably lucky.
He was brutally tired, and it began to seem that he had never been warm. There was a mountain ahead of him, and he stumbled along, numb with cold, thinking only of trying to keep to the east of it. Near the base of that mountain the Gonam flowed into the Uchur.
It was after midnight when he came at last to the river’s edge. Stumbling, half frozen, he stared at the ice. Was it frozen all the way across? He had no way of knowing. He worked his way along the bank, following a well-worn road. Out upon the ice he could see shelters built by fishermen who fished through holes made in the ice. Some of them showed light.
The road he was following dwindled into a path, and the path led down to the ice. Somebody, several somebodies, had walked out on the ice. Taking up a stick, he started, tapping the ice ahead of him. He followed the tracks, dimly visible in the light layer of snow. A long time later he scrambled up a steep bank, slipping twice and falling before he made the top. Exhausted and half frozen, he stared about, his eyes blinking slowly, trying to see something, anything that might provide shelter.
He started to walk and slipped and fell. It seemed he should just lie there, just give up—
“Get up out of that!” It was a woman’s voice, speaking Russian, but a harsh, bitter voice. “Get up I say, or you’ll die!”
He got to his knees and then, with an effort, stood up. “Come inside, you fool, before you freeze!”
She shoved him toward the door of a squat, ugly shack in the trees, and he almost fell inside, then straightened up. It was warm inside, almost hot. It was a snug shack with a stove, glowing and red, a table, two chairs, a bunk bed, and a wide bench. There were some shelves against the wall and some clothing hung on pegs.
He turned to face her, and they stared at each other. She was a big young woman with broad shoulders and amazingly blue eyes. “Yes, I’m a woman,” she said, “so you can stop staring. I’m a married woman, too, and not looking for a man if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not,” he said simply. “I am just cold and hungry.”
“I can see that. Sit down.” She came to help him with the pack. “What’s in this?”
“Meat,” he said.
“You can share some of that with me. It’s little enough I have here with my husband gone off and no money.”
“Help yourself,” he said.
“There’s tea on.” She delved into his pack. “I’ll fix some of this for us.”
“Take some for yourself,” he said. “I’ll be on my way at daybreak. Keep some. If you’ve no meat, it will help you.”
She thanked him and then ignored him, preparing the food. As he grew warmer, he looked carefully around. The place was neat, but everything was shabby. Poverty stared him in the face.
She handed him a thick mug of tea. “Drink that,” she ordered. “You’re done in.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She turned to look at him. “What are you?” she said. “Who are you?”
“A traveler,” he said, “who wants nothing to do with the authorities. They will not even thank you for feeding me.”
“The devil with them!” she said bitterly. “They’ve taken my man away and left me little enough to do with.”
She stared at him. “What are you? You’re not Russian?”
“My mother was an Ostyak,” he lied.
“They are good folk. I once lived in Baltshara. There were many of them who lived in the forest there. They were all right as long as they were not cooped up.” She glanced at him. “You’re running from something.”
“Not running,” he objected mildly. “Just avoiding.”
She laughed without humor. Then she dished up the meat. “Eat this. Are you warming up a bit?”
“I am, thank you. You are a good woman.”
“Keep that in mind,” she said brusquely. “I am and shall be.”
They ate in silence. She refilled his cup. “Where do you go?”
He shrugged. “Away.”
She looked at the bow and the quiver of arrows. “I’ve seen nothing like that since I was a child.”
“Do you have visitors?”
“Me?” she snorted. “I do not.” She indicated the bench. “Sleep there, and when the day comes, be off with you.”
“All right,” he said. She had taken little of the meat. He took out more. He guessed it was about ten pounds. “Keep this. You’re a fine woman, and you have shared with me.”
He slept well and quietly, and when dawn came and his eyes opened, she was already at the fire.
“There’s tea. Drink it and be gone.” She stood up, looking at him. “I have had time to think and I know who you are, although you could pass for an Ostyak with some.”
He ate, drank the tea, put on his coat, and shouldered the pack.
“You’re a good woman,” he said. “I shall pray for you and yours.”
“Pray, is it? A long time since I’ve heard of that. Not since I was a small girl and we had churches where I lived, and priests. Well, pray if you will. I could do with a few prayers. Now be off with you, and if you say you have seen me, I shall say you lied.”
“Of course.” He smiled suddenly. “But don’t forget there’s a man walking away who will hold a place for you in his memory.”
He went out and walked quickly, taking a forest path. When he looked back she was standing there, watching him go. He lifted a hand, but she turned and went back into her shack, her warm shack.
TWENTY-ONE
COLONEL ZAMATEV SPREAD out the map on his table. “Show me,” he suggested.
Kyra Lebedev put her finger on a spot. “In that vicinity. We have a report. He was seen there, in that place. With a woman.”
“A woman?”
“If we move quickly,” Kyra said, “we can take him. Our informant says he does not live with th
e others but has a place not far from there. Our informant is not sure but believes he is our man.”
“And the informant? Is he reliable?”
She shrugged. “When it serves his interest. He has reported to us before, but I think it is only when he has personal animosity toward the people reported.”
“There are many such. Nonetheless, if we move quickly, we—”
“You will waste time.” Alekhin spoke for the first time. Kyra thought herself important, and he did not like self-important women. In particular he did not like this Lebedev woman.
“What do you mean?” Zamatev demanded.
“If he was ever there, he is not there now. He is gone.”
“How can you be sure?” Zamatev demanded irritably.
Alekhin got to his feet and moved to the table. He put a thick finger on a mountainside near the head of the Ningam. “What happened there?”
“Nothing that I know of,” Zamatev said. “Oh, yes! One of our search helicopters was lost. It crashed into a mountain or something. I have the report.” He gestured toward a box on the table. “What about it?”
Alekhin looked up from under thick brows. “It was I who found it.”
“And the bodies of the airmen. So?”
“Of two airmen.”
“Two?” He glanced toward the report. “I have not studied it, but there were three men in that helicopter.”
“But only two bodies. Burned beyond recognition.”
“There were three men in the helicopter,” Zamatev replied patiently. “Three. They will find the other body when they have searched further.”
“I have found him.”
“Well, then?”
“I found him on the ground, three miles from the crash site. He had been covered with dirt and brush. He was dead. He had been killed.”
Zamatev sat down, staring at Alekhin. Kyra started to speak, but a gesture silenced her. “What are you saying?”
“The American did it. The Indian.” He put his finger on the map. “The flying machine landed here. One man got out. He was killed, shot in the back with an arrow.”
“An arrow?” Zamatev was suddenly impatient. “What are you talking of? Killed with an arrow?”
“He was shot in the spine. Very good shot. Then the airmen shot. The Indian ran, shooting another arrow into the open door, I think. The pilot was hurt by this arrow. He took off, and the flying machine ran into the mountain in the forest.”
Zamatev stood up, resting his knuckles on the map. “Now let me understand. You are saying this Indian shot one of our helicopters down with a bow and arrow?”
“Men came to the crash site after I found it. They looked around and gathered up burned bones and a few other things. Then they went away.
“I did not go. I stayed three days. I looked to understand. I sifted the burned earth and leaves. I found two arrowheads.”
“One of them was seen by those who checked the crash. It seemed of no importance, just an old arrowhead from ancient times.”
“It was not ancient. No arrowhead in Siberia was made like these. I found two, not one. I think the Indian shot two arrows into the open door.”
Colonel Zamatev sat down again. He was no fool, and if there was one thing Alekhin knew, it was the wilderness evidence left by men and animals. And the third body had been found, he said, some distance from the crash site. “You are sure about how the third man was killed?”
“I am. There were marks where the flying machine came down. Marks on the ground, in the dirt. There were tracks where the man got out of the machine.
“He stepped backward, with a gun. He had started to turn when the arrow hit him. It was a very good shot. The arrow went through his spine and sank very deep. He is a very strong man, I think.
“Somebody from the machine shot. I found bullet scars on trees, but the Indian was already gone. I tracked him. He ran swiftly to a place further back of the copter, and then he shot two times more. The machine went away, it took off very badly. One runner, or whatever you call it, dragged on the dirt.
“The Indian, he thought maybe the machine had called for help. He covered the body and hurried away.”
“And where is he now?”
Alekhin shrugged. “He went far and very fast, I think.” He got up. “I will find him.”
“Wait! How many men will you need?”
“No men. I will do it. Men walk around all the time, spoil the tracks.” He paused. “Maybe you could alert your soldiers between Oymyakon and Magadan.”
“Alekhin, do you realize what you are saying? That’s an enormous spread of country! It is impossible!”
Alekhin shrugged. “If you want him, you watch. He will go that way; if not now, later. I know him. I feel it here.” He touched his heart. “This man does not think of time. He does not think of distance. The forest is his home.”
“The man,” Zamatev said patiently, “is what the Americans call ‘an officer and a gentleman.’ He is a graduate, with honors, of a university. He is a highly skilled flyer with a considerable knowledge of mechanics and the science of aerial flight. He is—”
“He is an Indian. I see him clear. All you say is true, but here,” Alekhin touched his heart, “he is Indian.
“He has gone to the forest, and his natural home is the forest. Do not look for him in cities. Do not expect him to need what you need. What he must have the forest will give him.”
“Out there he will freeze to death,” Kyra said.
“He has been there. He lives.” Alekhin straightened up. “I will find him. I will kill him.”
“You will not kill him! That’s an order! I want him back here! I want him in prison. He has information we need, and I shall have it. Cripple him if you will. Blind him if you will, but he must be able to talk.”
When the door closed behind him, Zamatev glanced at Kyra. “Can you believe it? A helicopter lost, destroyed by that Indian.”
“The report on the crash has been turned in,” Kyra spoke carefully. “It has already gone on to the bureau.”
Zamatev pursed his lips, then turned to gaze out the window. What was the old saying? Let sleeping dogs lie. Well, why not? It was better than the endless reports, the questions, all that would happen if he amended the report with Alekhin’s information. No use to have the loss of a helicopter and three men chalked up against him. He had trouble enough as it was.
“Can you believe it? Oymyakon to Magadan? It is impossible!”
“Alekhin believes he is going north and east.”
“That’s absurd! It is impossible!” He paused, swearing under his breath. Who would believe that a man could escape from such a prison and vanish? Even now, did they really know?
He glanced at Kyra. “Are you ready for another trip? I want you to take Stegman and whomever you need and find that village. The place where the report says he was. I want you to find the woman, if there is one, and question her. I want to know all there is to know about Major Joseph Makatozi.”
“I would be gone for a while.”
He glanced at her. “Well, you do not have to leave tonight. Monday would be soon enough. After all,” he suggested, “it will take you some time to get ready.”
“Of course. I shall leave Monday, then.” She arose and took up her gloves and purse. “The little car? It followed me when I left before.”
“Those are Shepilov’s people. They watch me always. I do not mind. It keeps them out of mischief.”
When she had gone he walked to the window again and watched the little car move off, following Kyra. He chuckled. She could handle that. She was too good for them, too shrewd.
Walking back to the desk, he contemplated the map. Oymyakon to Magadan? It was impossible! He scowled, then put a finger on Nel’kan. Suvarov was there, on other business. Let him make himself us
eful then.
Nel’kan was closer. There were some good men there, and if they moved down from the north they could, they might, intercept the American.
Alekhin could be right. Perhaps they wasted time searching villages and towns, watching the borders. If the man had reverted to living like an Indian, he would certainly be in the forest. Cold it might be, but the aborigines had lived there for thousands of years. It still might be done.
So? What was the situation? Kyra would find the village where the informant had said there was a woman. Suvarov could move into action from Nel’kan. And Alekhin was on the Indian’s trail from the vicinity of the helicopter crash.
But think of it! Three men gone and a helicopter! Kyra was right, as usual; let the report stand. No use to muddy the waters.
Of course, there was Shepilov, but Shepilov be damned!
* * *
—
EVGENY ZHIKAREV STOOD alone in the night watching the truck disappear along the bumpy road.
Potanin had taken leave and gone to Yakutsk. A Lieutenant Baransky was now in charge, a stickler for the rules. Standing in the darkness on his crippled feet, he wondered what he should do.
He dared not return to his shop. He would be questioned, and he had been through all that. His escape was cut off for the time being, and to think of all that nice money awaiting him in Hong Kong!
He could not think of that now. To attempt to get past Baransky would be to ruin all he had planned. Baransky would either arrest him or report him if he suggested he had business over the line. He would be arrested, questioned—
No. That was out of the question. So what to do? After all, he was a trader in furs and a few other things as well, and there were others like him, and they knew each other. For the sake of business it was important they know each other. So what to do?
He needed time. Two weeks, perhaps a month, before Potanin was back on the border. He would come back broke, or he was like no soldier Zhikarev had ever known. Broke and ready to do business. So he had only to wait, but where?
Last of the Breed (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 17
