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

by Louis L'Amour

  Open country now, so he began to trot. Swinging along easily, smoothly. His endurance had grown with survival. The meat had brought back his old strength, but he took no chances, placing his feet carefully, wary of ice on the rocks and of black ice, present but not so visible. For an hour he ran, weaving among rocks, following dim animal paths beside small streams, and finally moving into the forest again.

  Here he slowed to a walk and unlimbered his bow. Again, he needed meat. He always needed meat. He still had some of the tea taken from the young engineer or whatever he had been. That night, huddled over a small fire, he forced his cold brain to think.

  What would they do now? They had an idea of where he was going, and they knew how he moved, something of what he was prepared to do. They would try to be ready for him in the north. He could expect a more careful search. They would be watching along the Kolyma. Beyond lay the Chersky Mountains.

  Baronas had talked much of those mountains, which he had never seen but of which he knew a good deal. They were named for a Lithuanian who had been exiled to Siberia after the Polish uprising of 1863. Chersky had made a study of the region and had later been sent back by the Academy of Sciences to continue his studies. Baronas had read his books and had talked to some younger men who had worked with him. Chersky had died in 1892 somewhere in the Kolyma River region.

  One of the things Baronas had told him was of the great canyons in the Chersky region through which the Indigirka and Kolyma rivers flowed, canyons said to be more than six thousand feet deep.

  Suppose he fled to those canyons? Lost himself in one of them until the chase was over? Until they had given him up for dead? Or would they ever give up?

  Not Zamatev, not Alekhin.

  They would come for him there or anywhere; somehow they would find him.

  He knew in his heart they would find him one day, and then it would be just them. They would have to face him somewhere out there in the wilderness, man to man.

  He was dreaming. They had armies. They did not depend just upon themselves. They could cover miles with their choppers, studying each mile, looking for tracks. Sooner or later they would catch him in the open. They would hunt him down like a dog.

  So far he had survived, at first because they did not believe he could and because he was one man alone in all the vastness that was Siberia.

  Now he must make a choice. To go ahead was to go into a trap. By this time they had a general idea of where he was and what he intended, so he must confuse them, do something to throw them off the trail.

  The canyons might be it, for they were west as well as north. It would be a change of direction.

  Or Magadan…

  Magadan, a town on the sea, and not too far away. He shook his head. That would be foolish. He would be exposed there. That is, he would know none of the small things residents know, the simple things of everyday living. He would make mistakes and reveal himself.

  To even approach Magadan would put him in more populated areas where he must pass in review before more people, and a people inclined to suspicion who knew he was around. Even with his new shirt and the suit he had folded away he would be in danger.

  Crouched on a mountainside, his cheeks stiff with cold, he studied the ragged pines along the farther ridge, and the hollow valley that lay between. Death was there and all about him, death from men, yes, and death from cold. If he slipped and broke a leg, he would freeze within minutes.

  The icy cold was waiting for the slightest misstep to kill. They were seeking him out, trying to find him, and he must use the land, turn it against them.

  He was in the land of the Tungus, the Reindeer People. Yet he had seen none of them as yet. He could come upon them at any time.

  He moved along under the pines, looking again across the valley toward the bleak ridges, the massed battalions of the other pines where darkness and shelter might wait or enemies to kill or maim him. Snow crunched under his moccasins, and he came out from under the pines and went down the hill into the icy chill of the hollow. A cold wind stirred, and he felt its added chill.

  Each step he chose with care, trusting to nothing. To his left, the end of the cuplike hollow rose up; to his right, it spilled out into another, longer valley. Nothing moved within his sight, and he walked across the hollow and started to climb the ridge and suddenly stopped, brought up short by a crevasse, a deep fracture of the rocky floor that dropped away into some unimaginable depth. A misstep here…

  One long step would take a man across. There was crusted snow on the far side, crusted snow over rocks. He took the step and then turned around and, with his knife, loosened a rock or two under the snow crust. When he went on he had left a death trap for whoever followed his trail.

  A tall man might try to step over, a shorter man might take a small leap. Well, they were hunting him; let them pay the cost.

  Lean as a mountain wolf, his face haggard with cold and exhaustion, he climbed the icy slope to the lure of the sheltering pines. He hunted a place to shelter himself, and the sky overhead danced with the weird green and yellow of the northern lights. He crunched through the snow, eyes seeking a place, finding nothing. The trunks of the pines were black against the whiteness of the snow. Wind moaned through the trees, and they bent their tops before the wind. He crouched against the bole of a tree, searching the land before him. His eyes took in everything: the silent avenues among the pines, the blowdown resting, half fallen, suspended by only one slim branch. Soon it would fall and drop across the trail.

  It was a moment before he realized what he was seeing. Beyond the edge of the pines lay a long valley and a slope, and coming down that slope in a staggered skirmish line were soldiers.

  Not ten, not twenty, but at least a hundred of them, scattered widely out and coming toward him, twenty to thirty yards apart, each carrying a rifle ready for action.

  For a moment he did not move, but lay still, watching their advance. It was slow, cautious, but covered a wide front. Behind them, separated by at least one hundred yards from each other, were two officers.

  It was that queer half light that often existed at such latitudes. Fascinated, he watched them come; then, rising, he faded into the forest behind him, careful to step where the snow had been blown from the frozen earth. Now he needed a hiding place or somehow to evade them. He glanced back again. Farther up the valley another skirmish line was emerging from the trees. They were making a careful sweep of the country, and he was directly in its path.

  Slowly, he retreated into the forest, looking carefully about him.

  Nothing. No place to hide, just the slim dark trunks of trees, with every once in a while a big, older tree. Climb one? The branches were too far apart, too sparse. Bury himself in the snow? In most places the snow cover was too thin to allow it.

  He watched the advancing soldiers, still some distance off. Some seemed to be looking carefully about, others simply marched ahead, eyes on what lay before them.

  He turned and ran, swiftly and silently, leaping the crevasse when he reached it. Suddenly he was remembering something seen, a slim hope!

  Darting into the woods, he looked left and right. The cluster of big old trees! He ran among them, avoiding snow patches. The one he remembered was there, a huge old lightning-struck tree, its top long since fallen. He crawled into the hollow and then stepped on a fallen slab and reached up, grasping for a handhold. It was pitch dark, and somewhere above him was a small circle of lighted sky. He found a hold, tested it, and tugged himself up; then he put his back against one side and his foot and a knee against the other and began inching his way higher. Many times, in mountain climbing, he had climbed rock chimneys by the same means. Now edging higher and higher he came to a place where he could go no further. He felt around for a handhold, found one, and held himself still.

  How long could he remain there? His position was relatively secure for the moment. He was, he guessed, some thirty feet above the ground, but it might be further.

  No sound. Wer
e they coming? Suddenly he heard a wild cry of fear and a rushing, falling sound, some distance off. Then in the still, cold air a series of commands, angry shouts, and warnings.

  Somebody had fallen into his trap.

  He waited, finding a better resting place for his foot.

  Please, he whispered, let them come soon! Surprisingly, it was warmer here, away from the wind.

  Now he heard them. They were, some of them at least, coming through the forest. He heard a sharp command, then a crunch of feet. Somebody was looking into the hollow tree!

  Somebody was right below him. He held his breath and prayed no rotting wood would fall into the hollow below him.

  He heard a grunt and then a denial, as of someone saying there was nothing there.

  Now they would move on. He could get down from his precarious position and escape.

  Suddenly came a sharp command and then a sound of breaking wood. Another such sound. They were building a fire! They were going into camp!

  For a moment he was choked by sheer horror. He could not remain where he was. He could not remain cramped in that position much longer. He must get down; he must move, or he would freeze.

  He could hear them talking among themselves; there were more sounds of breaking wood and then the crackle of a fire.

  Slowly, carefully, he began to ease himself back down the inside of the tree.

  Chapter 30

  *

  WHEN HIS FEET were on the ground, he began tensing all his muscles, stretching, working them to get the blood moving again. Group by group he worked on them, listening meanwhile to the movements about the camp. From the sounds, they were all about him.

  He could hear them gathering wood for their fires, hear muttering curses and somebody bemoaning the loss of a comrade. Somebody else spoke in threatening tones of the American. “Wait,” he was saying, “until we get him! I’ll break every bone!”

  He dared not stomp his feet to keep warm. He dared make no movement that might be heard. He must remain absolutely still until they bedded down for sleep; then he might dare to escape.

  He leaned against the inside of the tree. It was all of four feet wide where he stood, and the hole through which he had ducked was close to the ground, not over three feet high at the opening. A bad place to get out without rubbing the side and being heard.

  He was trapped.

  He was tired, so very tired. His eyes closed, then opened again. Some warmth from a fire was wafted his way, so very little of it, yet in the piercing cold he could feel it. He heard somebody throw wood on the fire.

  One was wishing he was in Khab; another was remembering a girl in Irkutsk.

  Joe Mack worked his toes inside the moccasins. He must find more grass to put inside them. He tensed his muscles again and again.

  He was cold, cold!

  The talk was dying down. They were eating, and some already were getting into sleeping bags for the night.

  How many guards would they leave? Certainly one or more. And where would they be stationed? Could he crawl out of the hollow tree without brushing the sides? In the dead silence of night, such a sound could be easily heard and would be recognized instantly as an unnatural sound in the forest.

  He heard the voice of the officer again, obviously designating sentries, and then retreating footsteps, wood thrown on the fire, an increased crackle of flames. Through the opening he could see the flickering light.

  How long now? How long before the guard became dull with cold and sleep? How long before he himself did?

  Again and again he tensed his muscles. He was tired, so very tired! He wanted sleep himself, any kind of rest.

  No matter what happened, he was hours from sleep. He felt for his knife, felt for the pistol, to be used only in a dire emergency.

  He knelt and peered out. All he could see was firelight flickering on the trunk of the tree opposite.

  He waited. Now there was no sound but the fire. If it began to die down the sentry would put on more fuel.

  Did he have a stack of it nearby?

  Joe Mack waited. He stretched again to get life into his muscles, and then again he dropped to a knee, and this time he thrust his head out far enough to see.

  They were bedded down not far from him, with two fires going that he could see and a sentry sitting almost facing him. That was better. He worried more about peripheral vision. His head was in deep shadow and he could watch the sentry. The man was sleepy, and from time to time his eyes closed briefly.

  He was a tough-looking, strong young man. His eyes closed again, this time a moment longer than before. Realizing he was growing sleepy the sentry got up and moved around, replenishing the fire. He stood, his back to Joe Mack, staring into the flames.

  Dare he try it now? He waited, doubting if he could move fast enough or move without being heard. Finally the sentry sat down again.

  The man rubbed his eyes, chuckled at some vagrant thought, and then leaned against the bole of a tree, smiling into the flames.

  I hope it’s a good thought, damn you, Joe Mack told himself. Now go to sleep, for God’s sake!

  It seemed a long time before the sentry’s eyes closed again. He was a good man, this one, Joe Mack thought. He might doze a little, but not for more than a minute or two.

  The sentry’s head nodded, and with scarcely a whisper of sound Joe Mack eased himself from the hollow tree and stood up. Quickly he stepped around the tree, putting it between himself and the sentry.

  He faced more bodies in sleeping bags, and another fire, that one some distance off. There was a sentry there, too. The man was standing up, staring into the fire.

  That was a mistake many made. To stare into a fire destroys one’s night vision for that important moment when one has to adjust to darkness, looking quickly from the fire toward an enemy out there. A good sentry should sit with his back to a fire, never looking into the flames. Yet it was a temptation and a very natural reaction. One that could cost a man his life.

  Joe Mack had been taught that by an old Sioux who was his uncle. The old man had taught him many things, still a warrior at heart, as unreconstructed as Joe Makatozi himself.

  He moved suddenly, swiftly, to another tree, melding his shadow into that of the tree.

  The sentry went into the darkness to gather fuel, and Joe moved again, further away. The man came back, adding sticks to the fire, his concentration on that, and Joe Mack slipped into the trees and was gone.

  Like a ghost, he merged with the forest, moving out, down a slope through the trees, free once more, but for how long?

  He had been lucky, so very, very lucky. Such luck could not hold. He must find a way to escape this search, a place to hide.

  Some of the soldiers had been raw recruits, young men from cities and towns in Russia. That would not last. He would soon encounter some from the forest, from Siberia or the Urals or from somewhere in the wilderness. He moved off into the darkness, headed west, running steadily along the ghost of a trail.

  Westward and north he fled, keeping to the cover of trees whenever possible, using paths only for brief periods and with care. Hunted like a wild animal, he had become as elusive as one. He must, he told himself, be like the mountain lion. In all his years in the mountains, the only lions he had seen had been treed by dogs. They were there; he had seen their droppings and their tracks, occasionally a kill. Of the big cats themselves one rarely caught a glimpse. If they could do it, he could also.

  The detachment of troops he had narrowly eluded could not be the only one. At any moment he could encounter more. From each ridge and hilltop he studied the terrain before him, always lying down or crouching in cover, letting his body merge with his surroundings. Only when he was sure nothing awaited him did he advance.

  The use of traps had made him wary of them, for Alekhin was somewhere about, and he would understand such things. Scowling, crouched at the base of a tree, he considered that.

  Where was Alekhin? Certainly, he would not be idle. His reputat
ion as a manhunter was at stake.

  Glimpsing the smoke of a campfire ahead, he turned deeper into the timber, swinging wide around it. On a sparsely forested ridge he looked down and back into the valley of the smoke and saw a cluster of men around two fires.

  Soldiers!

  He faded into thicker woods and worked his way further west and south before swinging back to the north. He would find the Chersky Mountains somewhere ahead and lose himself in one of the canyons of which he had heard.

  *

  LIEUTENANT SUVAROV SAT by the fire, studying a map spread out on his knees. As the voice of Colonel Zamatev, he was dealing with officers superior to him in rank, attempting to guide them in a search as Zamatev would want it conducted. He was a tactful young man, and so far had succeeded, although there was at least one officer with whom he dealt who was displeased by Zamatev’s assumption of authority.

  Colonel Nicolai Rukovsky was an officer of unquestioned ability. He was also well connected and ambitious. His command was one of the best trained in the Soviet Army, and he was constantly striving to improve it in every respect. As a result he welcomed the chance to take his men into the field on something more than a maneuver.

  “You can tell Colonel Zamatev that if he is in the area you suggest we will have him.”

  Leaving the Kolyma River well guarded, he started a line of one thousand men, at thirty-yard intervals, to make a sweep of the forest, meadows, and hollows south of the river.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Suvarov suggested, “I believe the interval is too great. This man is like a ghost, sir. He might slip through.”

  “Nonsense! Not through my men. They will take him.”

  “He’s very elusive, sir.”

  Studying the map, Suvarov considered the problem. They had been out for three days now and had advanced more than thirty miles and had seen nothing.

  Because of the terrain, the line was considerably further south at its eastern end, and here and there, despite the best efforts of the officers, the thirty-yard interval had proved impossible to maintain. Despite that, Suvarov had to admit the sweep had been thorough. Yet there had been no sign of the man they sought.