His plan was to follow down the Gonam River to when 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.”
“It is the same everywhere,” Baronas commented. “To survive one must adapt.”
Natalya returned to the room and knelt by the fire, adding some sticks. She poured tea for them and sat on the edge of the hearth.
Joe Mack listened to the night. If there were footsteps he would hear them. “They will look for me,” he warned, “and eventually they will find this place. I would not wish to bring trouble to you.”
“We have always known they would find us one day. They have not simply because they have not cared. We have done no harm, we do not wish to do harm.”
“What will they do if they find you?”
Baronas shrugged. “Perhaps to a labor camp. If they think we are trouble enough, to one of the extermination camps, working in uranium mines, cleaning the nozzles of atomic submarines. They always know what to do.”
“And you?” Natalya asked. “How did you come to be here?”
He glanced at her. “I was a major in the Air Force, but I was flying experimental aircraft. Testing them, if you will. They knew this, of course. They believed I might cooperate and tell what they wished to know. One of the planes I was to test was planned to operate under extreme Arctic conditions, so I was becoming acclimatized. Suddenly, out over the Bering Sea my radio would not work. I was forced down at sea and taken prisoner. Obviously it was neatly planned and carefully o
rchestrated. The details are not important.”
“And if you return to America?”
He shrugged. “I shall leave the Air Force. What I shall have to do they might understand but could not condone. It is better that I am a free agent.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. He talked easily enough, and he was friendly, but there was something different about him. Often he was quiet for long periods and he smiled rarely. She was drawn to him and yet a little frightened by him.
“I had friends who migrated to America,” Baronas said. “Some went for the greater freedom, some in hopes of becoming wealthy and returning with money. Only one of them ever came back and he only to visit.”
“My home was in the mountains,” Joe Mack said, “very remote. It was a very large house at the end of a meadow and with a magnificent view, but it was built into the mountain and built of rocks found close by. We had huge fireplaces and we burned down-wood, like in the forest around here. There were many Indian rugs.
“My grandfather, who was a Scotsman, built the house with the help of some men he hired. There was no road to the place, only narrow trails. Anything brought from the outside came on packhorses. Later, I flew home several times in a helicopter.
“It was a wild, lovely country and I loved it. I shall go back there again. From our wide porch we could look into the neighboring state of Washington, and off to the north was Canada.”
“It sounds wonderful!” Natalya said. “It would be good to live in a real house again, even one so remote.”
“It did not seem remote to us. It was our world, and only the seasons changed. Not far from our house there was a bunkhouse for those who worked for us. They were Indians.”
“Sioux?”
“No, that was not Sioux country. It had never been. We had anywhere from four to six Indians working for us, and they were usually Kutenai or Nez Perce. After a while my father hired a couple of Basque sheepherders, and they are still with us, as are the Indians.”
“Were there any towns close by? Where there were people?”
“We used to go down to Priest River, sometimes, but often we would ride through the mountains, staying always away from roads and towns until we could visit friends in central Idaho. We didn’t care much for towns,” he added, “only for shopping.”
He stood up. “It grows late, and you will wish to sleep.”
“Yours sounds like a wonderful country,” Natalya said wistfully. “I wish I could see it.”
“Will they let you leave?”
She shook her head. “It would be very hard, I think. Very hard, indeed.”
He went out into the night and stood for a moment, standing close to the wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the outer darkness.
The wind stirred the dry, unfallen leaves. A branch creaked in the cold. Something moved in the forest and he remained still; then he went along the wall, ducking below the lighted window, and hesitated where the trees began.
All the twigs and sticks had been picked up from the ground to be used in kindling fires, so he moved soundlessly under the trees; then he paused to listen. Something or somebody was out there.
Peshkov? Probably—
He moved on in the darkness under the trees and then went up the hillside under the trees. There he crouched, waiting.
Somebody was coming. Somebody was following him.
Why would anyone follow him at night? To capture or kill him. There could be no other reason.
Unless, perhaps, to enter his hideout and steal his furs and meat.
A footstep crunched on the frozen earth. A huge shadow moved, and he arose from where he crouched and stood behind the man.
“If you start to turn around,” he said, “I will kill you.”
NINETEEN
JOE MACK HELD his knife against Peshkov’s kidney. “You follow me,” he said in Russian. “I do not like it.”
“No, no! I go to my own place. I go to sleep!”
“Go, then. But if ever I find you following me or lurking around where I am, I shall hunt you down and kill you.”
Peshkov was recovering his nerve, which had been frightened out of him. “Or maybe I kill you!” he blustered.
Joe Mack stepped back, the knife still ready. “Good! Now we understand each other. Go, but do not turn around. The sight of your face might make me change my mind.”
He went, hurrying and stumbling. Once, when some distance off, he turned and shouted something, words lost in the wind.
Watching him go, Joe Mack knew it was soon to be time for him to leave. One enemy was all he needed, and an enemy who brought trouble to him would bring it to this small community, and they had befriended him.
Weeks had passed and he had lost count of the days. How long until spring? How long until it would be warm enough to travel? He had no desire to die in the snow, and men froze quickly, almost instantly if somehow they broke through the ice of a stream or became wet.
He went through the trees to his hideout, pausing to listen, to learn if he was followed. It was bitterly cold, and his face was covered to the eyes. He built a small fire when he was safe in his cave, for only a small fire was needed. He would not be warm, only safe from the cold.
Where was Zamatev now, and what was he doing? Cold weather might slow a search but would not stop it, and the Russian colonel was ruthless and relentless. Wherever he was he would be thinking, planning, conniving.
And Alekhin? Where was he?
There had been a woman in Aldan. Women in Russia worked as did men and might be found filling any role. This one must have been someone with rank, perhaps a second to Zamatev himself. Of her he must be especially careful, for women sometimes had flashes of intuition or at least an approach different from that of a man. Her mind, working in another channel, might come up with answers Zamatev and his male cohorts might not consider.
The worst of it was that there might be something he would not consider. As he lay curled in his bear robe he thought of that. Perhaps he should discuss it with Natalya. She might foresee something he was ignoring.
What he must do was simple enough. He must escape from Siberia and return to America.
Their problem was equally simple: to prevent his escape and recapture him. His logical route was toward China, but that way was barred, he was sure, by the careful border watch. Sooner or later they would guess he was going east, and the further he went, the narrower the country through which he must travel and the more confined their search for him.
Even now they would be sitting together, putting their thoughts together with one object only: to capture him.
He awakened rested, and his hunting led him to a fine young moose in good condition. He killed it with one arrow and skinned it rapidly, for fear it would freeze solid before he finished. Yet he managed to save the hide and the best cuts of meat, and he was not fifty yards away before wolves were tearing at the carcass. He took the meat to Baronas to distribute, keeping only enough for himself.
“Good!” Baronas was pleased. “This will quiet some of the talk.”
“Talk?”
“Some of them are growing nervous. Botev is back, and Lermontov has come in from Yakutsk. There are special details there, with helicopters, just waiting for the weather to break. Our people are frightened.”
He got up. “I will take the meat to them. They will be so busy eating, they cannot talk.”
When he was gone, Joe Mack looked over at Natalya. She was sewing on the shirt she was making, a very handsome shirt. “I will have to go,” he said.
She nodded. “I know.” She looked up at him, and their eyes met. “It has been good, having you here.”
“Yes, good for me, too.”
There was a long silence then, and he fed sticks to the hungry fire.
“When you get back to America, will you think of m
e?”
“How could I forget you?” he said, and was startled at the words. Now why had he said that?
“It is very far. Everyone will be against you.”
“How could it be otherwise? If our people and your people could sit down together and talk about their families, their farms, and their jobs, I think there would be no trouble.
“It is our governments that are continually fencing for position, each trying to gain some advantage.
“Russia does not trust its own people. They have built a wall to keep them in, and they are not permitted to travel.”
“Do your people travel wherever they wish?”
“Of course, and so does most of the world. Each year millions of Americans travel in their own country or go abroad, and many visitors from other countries come to America. They can go anywhere they wish except for a few military establishments that nobody wants to see, anyway. They photograph everything, and we do not mind. It is expected of them. Our people do the same thing when they go to England, France, Japan, wherever.
“The ironic part of it is that the Soviet Union spends millions trying to steal information they could have for the taking if they were friendly.”
The fire crackled and a stick fell, sending up a shower of sparks. “It may be,” he said, “that I shall have to leave suddenly, with no chance to say good-bye. Do not think me ungrateful.”
“Father warned me of that.” She held up the shirt to inspect her handiwork. “I cannot imagine how you will live or how you will escape them. They will be searching everywhere, and the closer you come to the sea, the more intense the search will be. And how will you escape? How can you cross the sea?”
He shrugged. “That is tomorrow’s problem. I think of that always, but meanwhile I deal with today.”
“There are few people where you go. If you are seen, they will know it is you.”
“I must cultivate the art of invisibility.”
“I do not want you to go.”
He met her glance and was silent. What was there to say? He must go. To stay was to die. And to stay was to be defeated, and he was a Sioux. He could fight them alone. He had always been alone. It was one of the reasons he had liked flying the aircraft he had flown. He was up there alone, dependent on nothing but himself.
Last of the Breed (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 15