Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Gone?”

  “Not at home.”

  “You went inside?”

  “We did. Everything looked much the same, except that the bale of furs had been unpacked and placed with other furs of their kind. There were no signs of hurried packing. It looked like he had just stepped out.”

  “But you do not believe it?”

  “I do not. I think Stegman frightened him. I think he is gone. I may be wrong, but I do not believe he will come back. Or, let us say, I do not think he planned to come back.”

  “But he may?”

  “As a precaution I suggested to their commanding officer that the border guards be replaced for a few days. That the guards be given some leave and others put in their places.” She smiled. “Just in the event that Zhikarev had made some friends along the border.”

  “Good! Very, very good! A friend of Zhikarev might also befriend a friend of his. You ordered the arrest of Zhikarev?”

  “I did.”

  Zamatev walked to the window and looked out. The little car was farther down the street tonight. He gave it a glance only. This was a lead, although a slim one, scarcely more than that found by Alekhin.

  If the American was an Indian he must also be a trapper. Were they not all hunters and trappers? If so, he might be catching fur to raise money he would need and to pay his way now. In any event, he could not afford to ignore any lead.

  “You are tired.”

  “Not too tired.”

  He smiled. “Go home and get some rest. It will be busy around here tonight.”

  “We know nothing,” she warned. “It is only the furs.”

  “And the man Zhikarev, who disappeared. It is only the guilty who flee.”

  “It is sometimes as dangerous to be merely suspect,” she said. “Zhikarev had been questioned before, by Stegman.”

  “And others.”

  He paused, thinking about it. “We must find him, but Wulff may know something. He is one who always knows more than he says and uses it for his own benefit. This time he will use it for mine.”

  “Be careful of him. He has friends.”

  He got out his maps after she had gone and studied them. Kyra and Stegman had gone to the Sinyaya and found nothing, and so they might be anywhere. They had sold their furs in Aldan.

  Because it was nearby? Or because they knew a buyer who would ask no questions? Of course, for the profit that could be made, there might be many such. But supposing they were near Aldan? He drew a mental circle around the area and began studying the streams. It was wild country once one got away from the city itself. The Sinyaya was far from Aldan. It was not even close. It was closer to Yakutsk.

  He considered that. A possible buyer in Yakutsk? Of course, in such a large place there was certain to be one or more than one. Stegman would know. He had worked out of Yakutsk at one time and knew them all.

  It was three o’clock in the morning before Alekhin arrived. He came quietly, sat down, and listened.

  He had only just come from the taiga, and when Zamatev told him of the furs his face revealed nothing, but he was smiling inwardly. Of course! The man was an Indian. He could hunt and trap. If he had found a good place to hide and a way to sell the furs he trapped, he should have made some money before warm weather. With money in his pocket and a change of clothes he would be harder to find. He might even leave the forest.

  Zamatev shook his head. Not Makatozi. He would stay in the forest. Besides he did not know the language. How long to learn to speak Russian? Even a little bit?

  “You do not believe in the furs?” Zamatev demanded.

  “I believe. This man is a good trapper, I think. I think you waste time. Alekhin can catch him. Only Alekhin.”

  “I want him alive.”

  Alekhin shrugged. “Always somebody died. Some like to fight me, so I kill. Why not?”

  A man named Borowsky came with the furs. He was not alone. They came to Aldan.”

  Alekhin considered that. There would be tracks. Borowsky was not the American, who knew so well how to hide a trail. Borowsky would have left something, but finding where he had come into the town would be difficult.

  “I will look.” Alekhin looked over at Zamatev. “He will fight, this one. If he fights, I kill him.”

  “I do not want him killed! Do you understand? I want him alive!” He paused. “You are a shrewd man, Alekhin. You have trapped animals, why not a man? Trap him, and bring him to me. When he has told me what I want, you can have him.”

  Alekhin considered that. To trap him? That would be amusing. He would like to see the American in a trap, helpless.

  “I will look.” Alekhin got up and, turning, walked out without a backward glance. Zamatev was irritated, but he needed the Yakut. There was no one quite like him, and nobody had escaped once he had started on the trail. The American would not escape, either.

  He asked for and received the dossier on Evgeny Zhikarev. Quickly, he leafed through it. There was no harm in the man except it was suspected that he dealt in illicit furs. That was not unusual. Most furs were sold through the proper channels, but some dealers were known to hold back the best furs and sell or trade them on the black market.

  Had the man actually fled? He glanced at the dossier again. He had been questioned by Stegman, and Stegman liked to work on the feet. It was unlikely that Zhikarev would be going very far if he had to walk. So they would find him, and they would find where the furs came from.

  Kyra—she was like an extension of himself. A shrewd, intelligent woman, but she had been in Shepilov’s department. He must not trust her too much, not yet. Not ever.

  It was always best to keep one’s plans to oneself. Tell no one at all and you were safer.

  He walked to the window again, thinking of that vast country out there. Obviously, Alekhin must be right. The man was hunting, somehow. If he had sold furs he had a little money. But how had he sold them? He must have established a connection with somebody who could handle the furs or who had put him in touch with Zhikarev. Find that connection. Kyra had made a start. She had found Zhikarev. Of course, they were surmising too much. The furs might not have been trapped by the American. They were grasping at straws. How had the man disappeared so suddenly, so thoroughly?

  Yet he must be wary. Not only within the borders of Yakutia, but all over this part of the country, there had been trouble. There had actually been a move to set up an independent nation, and the army had had to be called in.

  Silly fools! How could they hope to exist, situated in the midst of Russian-held territory? Yet there were dissidents still around, and one never knew, in Yakutia, where sympathies lay. The brief revolt, if such it could be called, had been put down quickly and harshly, but the feeling still lurked, hidden in the inmost hearts of many here. A mistake might stir up that feeling again, and they might slow production if nothing else. No doubt there were people in Yakutia who had never surfaced during that aborted nationalistic move who might be willing to help someone escape. Some of their own people were in prison.

  He swore bitterly. Why must this happen just when all was proceeding so well? Now his future was on the line. All he had done, his years of work, his careful cultivation of the right people, all could be wasted because of this one man, this American!

  He returned to the map. Alekhin would find him. He had never failed, and now for the first time he was officially involved. He had been looking around, asking questions here and there; this Zamatev knew. Now he was involved, and he would discover the American.

  Yet he was full of doubt. So many weeks and never even a sighting of the man!

  *

  MILES AWAY TO the south and east a heavy truck rolled through the night. The road was bad, filled with potholes and unexpected swells or breaks in the surfacing. Permafrost made the building of roads difficult, their maintenance even harder.

  It was dark in the cab, only the faint light from the instrument panel picking up highlights on their faces and throwing cheeks and
eyes into black shadows.

  “I can only take you to Zavitinsk this time,” the driver was saying, “and I can pick you up in six days’ time when I am on my way back.”

  “That will be all right,” Zhikarev said. “I will pay as usual. Half when you let me off in Zavitinsk and half when you get me back to Aldan.”

  “Fine! I got the same from Potanin when I took him to Yakutsk.”

  Zhikarev thought he would faint. His heart seemed to miss a beat, and it was a moment before he caught his breath. “Potanin? You took Lieutenant Potanin to Yakutsk?”

  “First leave he’s had in two years. He needed rest. That border watch is hard, hard! No telling what those Chinese will do.” The driver looked around at him. “Hey! Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right.” Zhikarev drew a slow, hopeless breath. “Who took his place?”

  “Lieutenant Baransky. No nonsense about him! He’s a cold fish! Goes by the book!” The driver glanced at Zhikarev. “If you have any idea of dealing across the river, forget it.”

  Zhikarev leaned back against the seat. His heart beat slowly, heavily. He had come all this way! And back in Aldan—

  Chapter 18

  *

  HUDDLED OVER HIS fire, Joe Mack took out the map he had stolen in the railroad camp. It was far too general for day-to-day use, but enabled him to get the large picture of what he was attempting.

  His problem was one that must be faced each morning, and as his grandfather used to say, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Each day must be approached as a unit; each day must be lived with care; and if this was done, the procession of days would turn out all right.

  Tomorrow must be a shadow at the back of his thinking, something of which he must think while living out today.

  He must try to get other, more detailed maps. He must try to think out his route while being ready to adapt to any change of plan. He must smoke and dry meat so he could move rapidly once on the way.

  Before he left here, he must have a series of goals in mind, each one to be mentally checked off when he reached it. Above all, he must be prepared to move on the instant, from here or from anywhere he stopped. He could not afford to become emotionally involved…now why did he think of that?

  He shook his head to clear the thought. He was not involved, and it was not likely he would be. Not here, not in Siberia.

  He knew they were searching for him, and he knew they were thorough. He knew that at first the search had been quick but haphazard, for in the beginning there had been no doubt he would be recaptured at once. Those first few days had seen them sweeping the area where he should have been. He had not been there because he had traveled too fast and had then taken to the river. Above all, he had stayed in wild country. Now the search would be slow, painstaking and would use every possible angle.

  He believed he was now in an area where he would not be expected to be. He did not believe they had any idea where he was and hoped they did not. Yet there was doubt. Suppose they did know? That he must consider.

  Each day he hunted; each night he dried meat. He delivered meat to the village and kept them living better than ever before. Constantly, he was told that, and because of that most of them wanted him to stay, at least until spring.

  Again and again he went to the house of Stephan Baronas, and each night he learned a little Russian. He could ask simple questions now and was beginning to form sentences. His knowledge was increasing, and it was possible even now that he could get along, for there were many ethnic groups in Siberia, many of whom had little if any Russian. Each had its own tongue, and they spoke Russian, if at all, only as a foreign language.

  He now had more than fifty pounds of meat, dried and smoked, and in the intense cold there was no question but that it would keep.

  His plan was to follow down the Gonam River to where it met the Uchur, cross that river and head across country to the Maya and then to the Udoma, and follow it upstream and then cross the mountains to the Kolyma. It was but a general plan, and the chances of keeping to it were slight, yet it was that route or something akin to it that he must follow.

  The distance he must cover was incredible, but if he was lucky, part of it could be done floating on rivers. That was an outside chance and a risk. There was something else he must consider, yet he shied from it. He might have to spend another winter before he could escape.

  No use to worry about that. He must face immediate problems. He needed clothing.

  He needed Russian clothing of the kind worn in Siberia. His present condition would immediately attract attention, something he did not want. Sooner or later a time was sure to come when he would have to mingle with people, and he must look as they did. His dark skin was not unusual here. The Yakuts, the Tungus, the Golds, and the Buriats were all as dark as he and some darker.

  Meanwhile he prepared a way in case of flight. Hiking through the dense forest he found a way that was relatively free of obstacles, one he could run over if need be. In his mind he charted every move, every turn, every step he might take. The chance that he might have to escape over this route was slight. No one could guess where he might be when flight became necessary, but if it happened close to the village or at night from his hideout, he would have the route clearly in mind.

  Many miles away, near the head of the Ningam River, he prepared an emergency hideout. The region was isolated, and there was much game which he did not hunt. He might need it at a later time. He found a place where several blown-down trees had lodged in the branches of their neighbors. One, a great spruce, had heavy branches that swept the ground. Under it grew a smaller spruce with a skirt of branches that touched the ground also. Other trees had fallen in such a way that any approach was difficult and it looked like just what it was, a tangle of brush and fallen trees.

  Under it he prepared a hideout that was perfectly concealed. Here, too, he planned a way in and another way out, if need be. Heavy growth overhead and the recently fallen spruce provided perfect cover. He gathered fuel and stacked it around in sheltered places, but in such a way that it could have fallen where it lay.

  If he had to escape suddenly with nothing but what he wore, he could find shelter here. When time came for him to leave on his escape, he could stop the first night in this place.

  That night in the Baronas cabin he said, “I must have some clothing. Is there anyone here who can make it?”

  “All of us, after a fashion,” Baronas said, “but not the things you need. They will have to be purchased.”

  “You have connections?”

  “Of course, but you are larger than any of us but Peshkov, and he is broader in the body than you.” He paused, sipping tea. “You must realize that those who are willing to supply us secretly would be immediately alert if they suspected you had come among us. We are considered Russian even if fugitives. You would be an enemy.”

  “Clothing is not easily obtained. It means standing in line, waiting,” Natalya said. “That would be impossible. It is hard enough for any citizens to buy the clothes they need. There is never enough.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “I could make you a shirt.”

  “It would help,” Joe Mack said. “Clothing I can make, but not to pass in a town or city. The clothing I make is for the forest. In a city it would be noticed at once.”

  “Not so much as you might think,” Baronas said. “In Siberia, people wear whatever they have. You dress like some of the Ostyaks. The Ostyaks,” he added, “are hunters, too. And along the rivers they are fishermen.”

  “I will make you a shirt,” Natalya repeated. “I have some cloth.” She left the room.

  Baronas looked up at him, smiling faintly. “Do you realize what that means, my friend? Such material is difficult to obtain.”

  “She must not do it,” Joe Mack said. “I can get along.”

  “Perhaps. You do not realize how fortunate you have been. You have not been seen. If you were seen, you would be recognized at once for what
you are, a stranger and a fugitive. There are spies everywhere, but in your case everyone is a spy.

  “To report you or to capture you would put one in a position to ask favors. Your friend Colonel Zamatev, for example, could arrange many benefits for someone who led them to your capture, so it would not only be a duty to turn you in, it could be profitable.

  “The shirt,” he added, “would help. It would make you look more Russian.”

  “I must find a way to get clothing,” Joe Mack said. “Before spring comes I must have a coat and pants.”

  Baronas shook his head. “Impossible! And,” he added, “even those who look to you for meat would be fiercely jealous if you obtained clothing they cannot get.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “I know.” Baronas shrugged. “We would help you all we can. But we all need clothing. Natalya needs clothing, as do I. It is hard for anyone, but for us who live in the forest it is almost impossible. Is it so easy, then, to have clothing in America?”

  “You have only to buy it. There are many shops and tailors as well. If one has the money it is no problem.”

  “And the money?”

  “Most of us work at something. We have our poor, of course. Our world is changing, as is yours, and new skills are demanded, more training, more education. Trades that once ensured a man of a good living for his family are good no longer.

  “When my father was a boy he had a friend who wanted to become a steam engineer. Most of the threshing machines were steam in those days and running them paid well. A few years later, threshing machines were run by gasoline tractors. Now much of that has changed, too.

  “Men used to follow the harvest of grain from Texas to Canada, shucking wheat, threshing it. Now combines do it all, and there is no need for all that labor. Once it was not only a way to make a living, but it was an adventure for a young man. All that is gone.”

  “Are there many who live by trapping, as you do?”

  “Trapping? Very few. Some men who live close to wild country, of course, but mostly it is done by boys earning money for school. Trapping is no longer important in America. Once there were many beaver, and beaver hats were in vogue. The style changed to silk hats, and the price for beaver pelts fell drastically. Trappers had to find another way to make a living.”