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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Alekhin has his trail. He will get him now.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You do not believe it?”

  “Who knows? This one is different.” She looked across the table at him. “You fly back tomorrow?”

  “I must.”

  “I shall fly to Magadan. Something might be done from there.”

  He nodded. “Grigory is there. He’s a good one.”

  “I was thinking of him.” She paused as if uncertain of what to say next. “Shepilov is there, also.”

  Zamatev’s glass came down hard on the table. “Shepilov is in Magadan? Why?”

  She shrugged. “That is why I am going. He knows something or believes he does. You know how it is with him. He does not move if he does not have to. Something important would be needed to take him to Magadan. He does not like the place.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I worked for him. Don’t you remember? It was gossip in the bureau. He did not like Magadan, but he had been posted there once, long ago.”

  “So he will have friends there?” Zamatev was thoughtful. “Perhaps he has some word from them? Is that what you believe?”

  “Grigory will know.”

  “Yes. Do you think he is loyal to me?”

  “Oh, yes. He has told me so, and I know he hates Shepilov, as much as he can hate anyone. It isn’t in him, you know.”

  “Hate clouds the mind. It is better to have no emotion when it is work. Do what needs to be done, and do it coolly.”

  After she was gone he took out the map again. The net was drawing tighter now. They knew where he was. Not exactly—that would come later—but they knew where he had been, and Alekhin was following his trail. Kyra would be in Magadan, and Grigory would know what to do. Suvarov was in Nel’kan, even closer.

  But what had taken Shepilov to Magadan? Shepilov would not move from his comforts unless he was sure of something. But Makatozi could not be that far along, not unless he had stolen a plane or caught a ride on one.

  Of course, Shepilov would dearly love to capture the American. Zamatev could just see the smug satisfaction on his face.

  Again Zamatev stared at the map. What a fool he had been not to keep the man in irons. Now all he had done, all he lived for, all he hoped to be, depended on capturing the American.

  He stared at the map, stared at the area where he must be. Stared as if his very gaze would make Makatozi emerge from the map in a living presence.

  He had to have him. There was no other way. He had to take the American.

  There was no time.

  Why had Shepilov gone to Magadan?

  Why?

  TWENTY-THREE

  ALEKHIN WAS IN no hurry. Siberia was a wide land, and the American was walking. To pursue a man effectively, it is best to begin with his thinking.

  How did he travel? Where did he sleep? Was he skilled on a trail? What places did he choose when he wished to hide?

  What did he eat? If he hunted, how did he hunt? How expert a woodsman was he? How did he cross streams? What did he do to avoid encounters with people? What did he know of the country across which he traveled? What was his eventual destination? Was he liable to alter that destination? What did he plan to do when he arrived there?

  These were questions Alekhin asked himself, among many others. Bit by bit, picking up pieces of the trail here and there, he was learning to know Major Joseph Makatozi, and he was enjoying the acquaintance.

  In the first place the man was good. Alekhin had never trailed an Indian before, although he had tracked down a few of his own people or other Siberians. The trouble was they were becoming too civilized. The Yakuts, Ostyaks, and others were losing their wilderness skills. They were working in factories, becoming soldiers, living in towns where they could see films and go to places where they could dance the new dances. Only a few of the old ones understood the forest anymore.

  Alekhin was not given to introspection. He did not examine his own motives. He was given a job to do and he did it. What became of the man after he was caught he had no idea and did not care. He was a member of the Party, but he did not think about it. He knew little of the philosophy of Communism and cared less. Marx and Engels were but names to him. Lenin was one with whom he could identify, Stalin even more so.

  These men and their ideas and accomplishments were far from him. He cared about the forest, but only as a place to live. He did not object to the killing of game or the cutting down of trees. He had no knowledge or thought of the future. The possibility of there being a time when there was no more forest was something he could not imagine. It had always been here; it would always be here. The idea that man could not exist on a planet without forests was completely foreign to him. That trees remove carbon dioxide from air and return oxygen to it would have only made him blink or shrug. The idea was something he could not comprehend and with which he was unconcerned. He gathered wood for his fires, he killed animals to eat, and beyond that he gave them no thought.

  For all city dwellers he had only contempt. He had no sense of inferiority concerning anybody or anything. There were spirits in the wilderness, in the trees and mountains, he knew that. Occasionally he appeased them in some minor way. He respected them without thinking of them.

  He was as elemental as a beast. He had the strength of a gorilla and the movements of a cat. He thought no more of exercise or training than does a grizzly bear or a tiger. His strength had been born into him, and he used it constantly.

  When Zamatev said he wanted the American alive, Alekhin was only half listening. Alive or dead did not matter, although it was often less trouble simply to kill them and save himself the trouble of getting them back to a highway or a railroad.

  As for taking the American alive, Alekhin had his doubts. The American was revealing himself in his trail. He had also revealed something of himself in the helicopter incident. The only puzzling question to Alekhin was why the American had not killed Peshkov. He’d had him cold.

  Alekhin had read the tracks easily enough. The American had had him and let him go, and Peshkov had immediately informed on him. So the American was a bit of a fool.

  Not entirely a fool. That would be dangerous thinking, but he had hesitated to kill.

  Alekhin wasted no time thinking of motivations. One did what was necessary, and it had been necessary for the American to kill Peshkov.

  The American would not be easily taken. Cornered, he would fight, and Alekhin would have to kill him.

  He would have no choice.

  Those soldiers were as much to protect the prisoner when captured as they were to assist him. So if necessary he might have to kill them, too.

  On the third day after Joe Mack’s passing, Alekhin and his soldiers came to the shack of the big young woman with the blue eyes. She knew nothing, had seen nothing.

  Her manner was brusque, and one of the soldiers did not like it. “I shall come back,” he said, “and question you further.”

  “Bah!” she said contemptuously.

  He started back, and Alekhin stopped him with a sharp order. “Do not be a fool! She would take your rifle from you and spank you with it. She cares nothing for you or your uniform.”

  The soldier grumbled, and Alekhin said, “Look around you. This is where she lives. Could you live here? You would starve. You would die in the cold. Women like that you leave alone, or speak to politely, very politely.”

  The soldier continued to mutter, and Alekhin said, “If we had the time I’d let you go back, just to see the fun. And if you continue to grumble, I’ll send you back.”

  Alekhin found a camp on the slope of Mount Konus. A bed of spruce boughs, the remains of a small fire, a corner of a birchbark dish that had not quite burned, although left in the fire. On the side of the part of the dish that remained, he saw a tea leaf.

 
So he had tea? Where had he gotten that? Or had he brought it from that so-called village?

  The trail away led down into a grim and awful gorge, cluttered with fallen trees, broken boulders, scree, and great slabs of rock, much of it overgrown with thick green moss that was treacherous underfoot. Much of it was easy walking but deceptive, as under some of the moss there was ice formed from moisture that had seeped through to the rock slab beneath and frozen. A misstep and a man’s feet shot from under him. A bad fall at any time and death if it happened on the brink of a cliff.

  It was slow going, hand work as much as with the feet, and the soldiers were frightened. They were Russians, peasant boys from the flat country, with the exception of one who was from a city.

  The American had gone this way and left no sign. Almost none. Alekhin found a place where he had rested his hand in getting past a tight corner of cliff. He found a partial print of an unty, a moccasin.

  The trail was descending steeply down from the mountain. Every step must be taken with care. A half mile further down, Alekhin found a place where the American had slipped; moss had skidded under his foot, leaving a telltale bare spot where the ice had frozen again.

  How far ahead? Alekhin studied the spot and then shrugged. Maybe two days. They were gaining on him.

  He was positive now that the American was going north and east. He was planning on trying to cross the Bering Strait.

  He would have no chance there. The area was patrolled and covered by radar. Simply no chance at all. Yet the American was no fool, and he was going that way.

  Desperate? No other way out? He was a flyer, and yet he had made no move toward an airport where he might steal a plane. The word was that he could fly anything.

  Alekhin was irritated by the soldiers. They moved too slowly. Not being woodsmen, they took special care, and it was well they did, for they were clumsy in the forest.

  Suvarov was in Nel’kan, which he supposed was less than two hundred miles away to the north and east. He had never been to Nel’kan, but Suvarov was nothing if not thorough. He would have the crossings of the Maya River watched closely.

  Now they descended into a burned-over forest. Lightning, no doubt, had started a fire that had burned over several thousand acres. The charred trunks of limbless trees pointed their black fingers at the sky. It was a haunted place, an eerie, lonely place. The soldiers closed in, following Alekhin as if for protection. From time to time their eyes strayed left and right. Once in a while each turned his head to look back to see if they were being followed. The earth was frozen. Snow had fallen in a light film scattered thinly over the charred earth and fallen trees.

  There were no animals here nor any birds, only a stark emptiness. It was a place of death. And here the tracks were plain enough. It was as if the Indian had wanted them to see his tracks or had not cared. Did he not know he was followed? The tracks wove a way among the charred logs and blackened trees. Perhaps it was simply that he realized the futility of attempting to hide a trail in such a place.

  Oddly, the trail veered west, then east, then north again, and then back to the east. Alekhin stopped, looking angrily around. What was the American trying to do?

  Suddenly, he realized and was amused. There were places where the wind or the fire or both had felled great rows of trees, and they were deliberately being led where such trees must be stepped over, climbed over, or crawled under. It was slow, exasperating, and very tiring, and the soldiers were beginning to straggle more and more.

  They plodded on. Fearing some ruse, Alekhin stayed to the trail. One of the soldiers, seeing an easier way, instead of climbing over the fallen tree went around the broken-off trunk. Alekhin, glancing back, saw it happen.

  The soldier was the last in line, and taking what seemed the easier way, he had just stepped past the base of the broken-off tree when he tripped and fell.

  As he fell he gave off a great, choking cry, and the other soldiers started to run toward him.

  “No!” Alekhin shouted. “No! No!”

  Unheeding, they rushed to their fallen comrade, and suddenly another tripped and fell. He cried out, then scrambled up, bleeding. His comrades had stopped, staring at him.

  There was a great, bloody gash in the side of his neck, and he was gripping it with his hands to stop the blood.

  “Be careful!” Alekhin warned. “There are traps!”

  Stepping with caution, they approached the injured man and began to apply crude first aid.

  Alekhin went around him to the soldier who had fallen first. He had tripped over a root tied across the path, and when he fell a sharpened wooden stake had been waiting for him. Hurrying around the trunk of the broken tree, he had tripped, and the stake had gone right through him. The man was gasping his last when Alekhin stopped beside him.

  In anticipation that his fall would attract others, another ankle-high root had been tied carefully. The second man had been stabbed in the side of the neck by the sharpened stake. An inch or two further to the side and it would have pierced his throat.

  Alekhin was disgusted. Four men had been sent with him. Now one of them was dead and another injured beyond any use, and he must be cared for by a third. Somehow, he must get help. He did not know the full range of the radio he carried, but he attempted a call.

  Such a trap was a gamble, of course, yet the American knew he was being followed. Perhaps there had been other traps, further back, which they had avoided simply by accident. Alekhin was angry with himself. He should have been more careful. He knew the sort of man he was pursuing.

  Or did he?

  His calls were getting no response. “Make a litter,” he said. “Get two strong poles and get the coat from the dead man. Your comrade must be carried.”

  The two soldiers looked at him, staring. “How far?” one asked.

  “As far as need be,” Alekhin replied. “As far as you would wish to be carried if it were you.”

  After a minute he said, “There is a village. It is about twenty miles.”

  “Twenty miles!”

  “Perhaps further. We’ve wasted enough time. Move!”

  Alekhin consulted his map. The village was Mar-Kyuyel, and it was on a road. He looked at the wounded man. He looked bad. He had lost much blood before the bleeding had been eased by cloth pads. Next time he would have a man along who understood first aid.

  Next time? His face was somber. He did not care for these soldiers, but he hated to be defeated, to be hampered. He had a feeling they would lose more men before the American was found and captured.

  The worst of it was that it would be Suvarov who got him, and he, Alekhin, wanted to capture this one.

  They loaded the man on the crude stretcher and started to walk. Alekhin waited, thinking. Should he go with them or continue the search alone?

  They would want a report. They always wanted a report. Everything came second to the paperwork these days. Bureaucratic minds could not comprehend unless it was written out for them or drawn in pictures. Besides, who knew what these soldiers would do if someone did not watch them?

  * * *

  —

  COLONEL ZAMATEV WAS at his desk when word reached him. Another man dead and one seriously injured.

  At least Major Makatozi was not in Magadan. It was a relief to know that somehow Shepilov was not ahead of him.

  Yet he still might be. Makatozi might be headed for Magadan and Shepilov might know why. It was on the sea. Suppose the CIA planned to steal him away from there?

  Unlikely, but possible. Yet how could it be done? Suppose the American had managed to communicate with his own people?

  Just suppose it could have been done? Suppose something had been set up and Shepilov knew of it? If so, Shepilov might capture them all, circumvent him completely, and walk off with all the prizes. Why else would he go to Magadan?

  Nobody want
ed to go to Magadan. Nobody went there unless they must. Yet Shepilov had gone of his own free will. Surely, he knew something and wanted to be right where he could claim all the credit, personally.

  Kyra was there, and Kyra would find out.

  Could he trust Kyra?

  He sat back in his chair and tried to order his thinking. He liked everything lined up, everything neat and clear.

  Fact one: Shepilov never moved unless he had to. He preferred comfort. And Shepilov had gone to Magadan.

  Fact two: Makatozi was somewhere north of the Uchur, moving in the general direction of Magadan.

  Fact three: headed in that direction, Makatozi would have to escape by sea, and Magadan was a seaport.

  Fact four: the Soviet buffer zone was supposed to be impenetrable, but suppose the Americans used one of their new stealth planes? It would be a test, and if they brought it off, what a coup!

  Fact five: if such a thing happened, heads would roll, and his would be one of the first. If Shepilov were in Magadan and the CIA succeeded in getting Makatozi out of the country, Shepilov’s head would roll.

  But Shepilov never left himself in a vulnerable position. If he was in Magadan, he was there for a reason and he was sure he would succeed.

  Kyra would call in, but Kyra’s line would certainly be bugged. Shepilov would certainly know she was in the city. In fact, he had probably been informed when she had left town to fly there.

  Suvarov. He must be in touch with Suvarov. If they could get the American before he reached Magadan, then they had no further worries.

  He got up from his desk and paced the floor. There was no way he could have planes flying back and forth over so many miles of country looking for one man. But what if that man were confined to a much smaller area, like that between where Alekhin’s men had been attacked and where Suvarov was?

  He opened the door. “Emma. Emma Yavorsky. Get a message to Lieutenant Suvarov. I want some planes out flying.” He checked the coordinates and handed them to her. “The planes must fly across that area. A careful search.”