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

by Louis L'Amour

  How could he ever escape? She remembered the woods and shivered. There had been brief moments when she had loved them, moments when her father was alive and they had walked out to see the flowers, to hear the birds, to watch for small animals, but the winters were so brutally cold, and it was a fierce struggle to gather fuel, even to keep alive. Often they had starved. There had been weeks on end when they had survived on less food than was needed for a child. Yet somehow they had survived, and then he had come.

  Did she truly love him? Or was it that he had brought some strange magic into their colorless, empty lives? He had given them meat, but more than that he had given them hope. If he, pursued by them all, could believe in escape, believe in a future somewhere after this, then it was possible for them to believe also.

  What was it that had drawn her to him? Undeniably, he was a striking figure of a man, but it had been something more. When with him, she felt warm, secure, safe. He was not blundering, wishing, complaining, or hopeless. He was going somewhere, and he knew where he was going and how to get there, and suddenly she did, too.

  It was he who had given hope to her father. She could see that clearly now. He had become resigned to suffering, resigned to working out a poor existence in the taiga. Or he was becoming resigned.

  Now she was here, and across the river was China. If only her father could have lived for this moment! Even if they did not escape, they would at least have tried, and they would have at least seen freedom.

  What awaited them in China she did not know, but she knew that somehow they would prevail.

  “I am afraid,” Evgeny said, coming up beside her. “I have staked everything on this. If I fail now, there will be no further chance for me. I cannot survive another interrogation.”

  “You will survive. We are going to succeed, Father.” She called him so because she could see it pleased him, and how much did he have now that could give him pleasure? “We are going to escape.”

  Suddenly he spoke. “I think we should leave here. I have a bad feeling about this place.”

  She had it, too. For several minutes now she had been finding the old building oppressive. “We can go over there,” she said, indicating the old wharf. “We can go over there where nobody goes.”

  “Now,” he said. “Let us go now.”

  She took up her small bundle and they waited, checking the narrow street each way and then giving a quick look around to see if anything had been left. Then they went out of the door and across the street. A cold wind was blowing, and they hurried to get into the lee of the battered old structure across the way. Even as they reached the wharf, they heard a car coming. The wharf was huge and empty, and the wall of the old building fronting it was blank and closed. Suddenly her eyes saw an old path running down beside the wharf.

  “Quickly!” she said and almost ran down. Then they ducked under the wharf. It was dark and shadowed there, with only occasional bits of light coming through cracks in the wharf. There was a steep bank of earth sloping down to the rim of ice that bordered the river, and two old boats were tied there, one of them half filled with water filmed with ice. The other boat was empty except for some old nets.

  “There!” Evgeny pointed. “Get into the boat and cover up with the nets.”

  Quickly, they scrambled into the boat and pulled the old nets over them. Then they lay very still.

  They could hear the roar of a motor, the screech of brakes, and then a pounding on a door. Natalya lay very still, scarcely breathing, straining her ears to hear.

  A door creaked, and there were voices. Then a door closed. The room would have been cold, and they had left no signs of their occupation. The place was as it had been when they had arrived.

  She heard the crunch of boots on gravel and then on the wharf overhead. Then the feet retreated. After a moment she heard boots coming down the little path and pausing, and she saw the shadow of a man, apparently peering under the dock. Then she heard retreating footsteps.

  After a while came the sound of cars starting and then driving away. She started to move, but Evgeny placed a hand on her shoulder. “Not yet,” he said.

  They lay still while the time ticked away, and after a long time, what must have been an hour, he sat up. Carefully, they got out of the boat and arranged the nets as they had found them. He sat down on the bank, choosing a piece of plank to keep off the frozen earth. She sat beside him.

  “We must wait,” he said. “The less movement the better, and it will not be long now.”

  It was growing dark when they emerged from under the wharf. There were scattered lights across the river. Her feet were almost frozen, and she stamped them on the wharf to get them warm again. Evgeny looked at his watch.

  “We will stay here a little longer,” he said.

  “Lieutenant Potanin said fifteen minutes to midnight,” she reminded.

  He nodded. “We have a way to go, and we cannot hurry. Along the quiet streets would be better.”

  “What about the Chinese? What if they will not accept us?”

  He shrugged. “We can only try, but they are usually friendly to anyone escaping from the Soviets. This is an old, old border, and there has been much trouble along it for centuries. Once, all this was considered part of China, and it is still shown as such on some of their maps.”

  Lights stabbed the darkness, reflecting from the open water and from the ice along the edges and the floes. “Now,” he said, “we will go.”

  Coming up from the river, they stopped a minute, looking across at the blank old building that had briefly been a refuge. It looked cold and gray and dismal. Together they started along the street. He used his cane, moving slowly. She thought that surely they would be recognized, for if they were looking for a crippled old man and a young woman—

  She said as much. “No,” he said, “they will not expect to find you with me. They will expect your father.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Her father? She had buried him herself. Unable to dig a grave in the frozen earth, she had covered him with spruce boughs and then managed to cave part of a bank over him. He had said to her once, long ago, “When I die, remember that what you knew of me is with you always. What is buried is only the shell of what was. Do not regret the shell, but remember the man. Remember the father.”

  There were lights on the bridge, lights over the guardhouse, a gate across the bridge for wheeled traffic, and a smaller gate for pedestrians. At the far end of the bridge, they could see another post. It was not until they were on the approach to the bridge that she saw the Volga. It was standing in the darkness just off the bridge and across from them. Its motor was running.

  “Evgeny…?” she whispered.

  “Keep walking,” he said. “Do not look around.”

  It was no more than thirty yards to the guardhouse, but it seemed the longest distance she had ever walked in her life. Why didn’t the watchers in the car stop them? The Volga merely sat there, engine running, dark and threatening. At any moment, she expected it to start up, to rush toward them.

  What should she do? Stop and wait? Run back toward the town? Or run across the bridge? She knew of people who had been shot trying to flee, but nonetheless, that was what she would do. She would run, run as she had never run. Maybe they would let her go, maybe she would be shot, but she would run.

  “Take your time,” Evgeny whispered. “We are almost there. Your lieutenant is standing up, watching us.”

  “Suppose he isn’t on duty?”

  “We will try anyway.”

  Now that they were so close, the old man was strong again. His fears seemed to have vanished. “I have money,” he said, “in Hong Kong. You will want for nothing. I shall see to it.”

  “I want to go to America,” she said.

  “We will see to it,” he replied confidently. “Now stay calm. Let me t
alk.”

  Lieutenant Potanin stepped from the guardhouse as they drew near. They could see two soldiers standing inside, warming their hands over a stove.

  He looked quickly from one to the other. “This may get me into trouble,” he said, “but I shall do it.” He turned toward the pedestrian gate.

  At that moment they heard the sound of a car. It was some distance away but coming fast. He fumbled with the lock, and the car wheeled onto the bridge.

  Kyra Lebedev stepped quickly from the car. Stegman got down on the other side. “Dr. Baronas! You are under arrest!”

  Evgeny turned so his face was in the light. “I am not Dr. Baronas,” he said. “I am Evgeny Zhikarev.”

  “Ah? So it is you!” She turned to Natalya. “But you are Natalya Baronas, are you not? Where is your father?”

  “He is dead. He died crossing the mountains.”

  “Ah? Too bad. Come now, both of you. You—”

  A boot scraped on gravel, and a low, strong voice said, “Let them alone!”

  Angrily, Kyra Lebedev turned. A big man in a heavy overcoat faced her. She stopped, suddenly dry mouthed and frightened.

  “I am Bocharev,” the big man said.

  “But we have an order,” Kyra protested, “an order for their arrest. The GRU—”

  “I know all about it. The order has been countermanded.” His eyes were cold. “You may go,” he said. “You are not needed here.”

  Still, Kyra Lebedev hesitated. “But what shall I tell Colonel Zamatev?”

  “He has already been informed, as you will hear.” He pointed. “Go now! You are not needed here!”

  She hesitated no longer. Stegman was already getting into the car.

  From an inside pocket, Bocharev took a sheaf of papers and handed them to Natalya. “Your passport, your visa.”

  He glanced at Evgeny. “This is not your father?”

  She explained, and he nodded. “Do not worry. I shall see his body is found and buried properly.” He glanced at Evgeny again. “How about you, comrade?”

  “I have papers, comrade.” Evgeny’s voice was trembling. “I—”

  “You have assisted this young lady,” Bocharev replied. He turned to Natalya. “Sometime, in a moment, remember my son.”

  “I shall never forget him,” she replied. “Nor you.”

  “Go now, quickly.” Bocharev turned to Lieutenant Potanin. “Pass them, Lieutenant. Their papers are in order.”

  “Yes, comrade!”

  Bocharev stood alone, watching them go, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Then, at last, he walked back to the Volga.

  At the end of the bridge a Chinese officer was awaiting them. Natalya turned and looked back, lifting a hand in farewell. She saw the lights of the car go on and saw it turn away.

  “There are good men everywhere,” she said, recalling another.

  “Yes,” Zhikarev agreed. “I only wish they had louder voices.”

  Then they crossed a border into an uncertain future. Natalya vowed silently to reach America, where, she dared hope, Joe Mack would somehow be waiting for her, to share the dream he had inspired.

  FORTY-FOUR

  WITHIN HOURS AFTER his arrival at Chersky, Colonel Zamatev had motorized patrols driving slowly along the road, if such it could be called, that led from Chersky to Talovka and along that from Talovka to Ust’chaun on the north coast. The two roads cut across the country east of the Omolon River.

  Several patrols would work each road continuously until further notice. There were also patrols along the river, and the guards on the few bridges had been alerted.

  A very subdued Kyra Lebedev had arrived the following morning, reporting to Zamatev. He listened impatiently, his mind on other things. He waved a hand of dismissal when she completed her report.

  “It is well. They will not be needed. Whatever passed between them does not matter. The Baronas woman is unimportant to us. Our man,” he touched the map, “is somewhere in this area.

  “Patrols will be driving these roads, passing constantly. If he is seen, they will follow and apprehend him.

  “I have sent Lieutenant Suvarov to visit personally all the fishing ports and villages along the Bering Sea and the Strait, and somewhere out there is Alekhin. There are few places in which to hide out there, and we shall have him.”

  He paused. “A man was seen in the Kolyma Mountains north of Magadan. I have sent helicopters to find and bring him in.”

  “Do you believe him to be the American?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? What would anybody else be doing in that country?”

  He walked to the window and stood there, hands clasped behind his back. “We must be alert, Kyra.” His voice softened. “This means too much to us both. That prisoner must be apprehended. My career depends upon it.” He turned toward her. “As you have surmised, yours does also. You have become too deeply involved in all this, although it was your wish.”

  Her lips tightened, but she said nothing. It was true. She had insisted on being involved, and now she wished she had never opened her mouth.

  “He cannot escape,” she said. “If we fail, he cannot get past the Buffer Zone and the radar.”

  “Do not be too sure. The man is like a ghost. A dozen times we have thought we would take him, and each time he has simply vanished. I am no longer sure of anything where he is concerned. He is not a man but a phantom!”

  Kyra waited, apprehensive but determined. “Arkady?” she spoke gently. “I must talk to you. Something terrible has happened.”

  He turned, surprised by her tone. “What now?”

  “My sister has been arrested by Comrade Shepilov. It was in connection with the American’s escape.” Carefully, she explained. That Zamatev was irritated, she could see. Obviously he wanted no more to do with Shepilov, and to reach him now, to ask a favor, was almost out of the question.

  “What does she know?”

  “Nothing, except—”

  “Except what?”

  “Her husband, Ostap. He was always meeting people who were on the fringe of things, black-market people and such. I went to them for you. Ostap always knows so much, so much that is talked about by such people. Much of it is probably nonsense, of course, but he always knows when something is happening. I believed he might help us to find the American. Also, to tell us what Shepilov was doing. He knew all about that.”

  “He did?” Zamatev was skeptical.

  “You must understand, Arkady, that people like that always know what is happening. Very little is secret from them. There is always somebody who talks, you know.

  “It was he who told me about Shepilov using the trappers and also that they were not anxious to help. They could, of course, if they wished. They do not like Comrade Shepilov, however.”

  “Where is this Ostap now?”

  “He fled to the forest when Katerina was arrested. I have not heard from him or from her.”

  He shrugged. “I can do nothing for your Katerina now. Shepilov would simply say he knew nothing about her, and I could do nothing. It is better that we show no interest. He will discover there is nothing there, and he may release her. If she is sent to prison, well, maybe I can do something then.”

  Suddenly he swore. When she looked at him, surprised, he said, “It is probably this Ostap who is causing us trouble. We are looking now for a man who was seen in the forests near Magadan whom some believed might be the American.”

  “He could help us. He knows the trappers. He knows what is happening among the dissidents, among the Jews—”

  “Do not speak to me of Jews. They are trouble. I want nothing to do with them.”

  “This man you are looking for? If it is Ostap, I could talk with him? He might know something, and he would tell me whatever he knows.”

  He shrugged. “Very
well. If we catch him.”

  * * *

  —

  JOE MACK TOOK his time. Every mile behind him was a victory now, but every mile before him a danger. He overlooked a vast plain now in which there were many small lakes, an area he must avoid. Up here, he could see the lakes easily and the spaces between them. Once down on their level, he would no longer have that advantage and could easily be trapped against one of their shores. The ice, if any, would be treacherous.

  His map showed him he was somewhere north of a village or town named Gizhiga. Although there were few roads in the area before him, those few would be patrolled. The area of the search had narrowed, and the search would have grown more intense.

  He stood now in a small cluster of larch, carefully examining the country before him, choosing a route to be followed and an alternative if something happened to force him to change.

  The air was unbelievably clear, with not a cloud in the sky and no mist in any of the hollows. Far off he occasionally caught a glint of something that might be sunlight on a windscreen. If that was the case, there was an unusual amount of traffic on that road, if such it was.

  Nothing moved down below, except near the closest lake, where there were several moose. They seemed to be feeding along the lakeshore.

  What he did not know was that Alekhin had landed, only hours before, in Gizhiga. Another thing he did not know was that not two hundred yards away, hidden in the brush, a man was watching him.

  Ostap was no woodsman. He had fled Magadan when Shepilov arrested his wife, barely escaping. He had gone to the woods, to a place where trappers sometimes met. None were there when he arrived, but there was food, fuel, and warmer clothing.

  He was in serious trouble, and so was Katerina. She knew nothing, but that would not help her and might even work against her. It was always better, Ostap had discovered, to have something to tell.

  On this morning he had walked out into the forest and climbed a small knoll. There, in a place sheltered from the wind, he had sat down to study the country. Almost at once he had seen the American, and from the first glimpse he had no doubt who it was on whom he looked.