When he had roamed in the forest as a boy, he had been alone. When he went away to school, the only Indian, he had been alone. But he had never minded. He was the stronger because of it.
Thinking about it, he knew he liked people. He enjoyed having them around, enjoyed their voices, their movements, their activities, but he had never had to be a part of it. He was rarely a participant. He was the interested bystander, but when he acted, it was he alone.
He liked being here, now, in this quiet place. He liked having Natalya near him, liked watching her, liked the way her eyelids lifted when she looked at him, liked to watch her fingers move. She was a lovely, graceful, beautiful woman, and here in this place there was no future at all, not for her.
“What are you thinking of?” she asked suddenly.
“You.”
“Of me? What of me?”
“Of how lovely you are, how wasted all that beauty is in this lonely place. You should be in America.”
“I believe I would like it. I have thought of it; long before you came, I thought of it. It has been a dream.”
“I could come back for you.”
“Here? To Soviet Russia? To Siberia? You are mad.”
“I shall come back, anyway.” He spoke quietly, and startled, she looked at him. “I have been attacked. I have been taken from my country, brought here a prisoner. I have been threatened, and he who threatened me, he who had me captured, has not faced me alone, man to man.”
“But that’s absurd! He never will, of course. Things are not done that way.”
“He may have no choice.”
She looked at him, amazed. Was he mad? “If you are lucky enough to escape, and the odds are a million to one that you will, you had better stay away.”
“I do not have your standards. I do not have even those of my country. I am a Sioux. At heart I am a savage.” He waved a hand around. “This forest? Do you think it strange to me? The forest is my home. I am a part of it, just as are the tiger, the bear, and the wolf. I belong there and have always known it. I was born out of my time. I should have ridden with Crazy Horse. I should have sat in council with Red Cloud or John Grass, but better still I should have been out there leading war parties against the Crow, the Shoshone, or whoever our enemy was.
“Always, I have known this.” He bared his chest. “See these scars? I underwent the trials of the Sun Dance. Rawhide strips were buried in my flesh, and I was hung by them until they tore loose. It was once a custom of my people; it is so no longer, but for me it was necessary.
“Once, long before the Battle of the Little Big Horn, where General Custer was defeated, a warrior named Rain-in-the-Face was arrested by Tom Custer, General Custer’s brother. Not only arrested, but physically overpowered by Tom Custer, who was an unusually strong man. Rain-in-the-Face never forgave him. It is said that during the massacre he cut out Tom Custer’s heart and ate it.”
“How awful!”
“Perhaps. But he never forgot, and I shall not.” He was silent for a few minutes, and then added, “Captain Tom Custer was a very brave man. Few have ever been awarded the Medal of Honor, our highest military decoration. Tom Custer won it twice.”
“To eat a man’s heart? It is awful!”
“To our thinking, yes. But to Rain-in-the-Face it was the highest tribute he could pay a brave man. By his thinking he had to count coup upon the body of Tom Custer. Whether Rain-in-the-Face actually killed him we do not know. Some deny the heart-eating episode, but to Rain-in-the-Face it was the greatest honor he could pay him because to eat the heart of a man or animal meant you wished to obtain some of his strength and his courage.”
He shrugged. “I do not even know whether I believe it or not. It does not matter. Given the kind of men they were, it could have happened. It was what Rain-in-the-Face would have done. In the heat of battle he would have sought out Tom Custer to kill him, and Tom Custer would have been expecting him. Be sure of that.
“Rain-in-the-Face may have hated Tom Custer, but he respected him, too. As for Custer, I doubt if he hated Rain-in-the-Face but he did know him as a fighting man.”
“And you call yourself such a savage?”
“Colonel Zamatev sat behind a desk and wrote an order that forced me down at sea and destroyed the plane I was flying, and he had me captured and brought to him. This was not only a blow against my country, but an insult to me, personally.”
He smiled, but without humor. “I just want to see if he can do it, man to man, alone in the forest somewhere, or even on a dark street where there are just two of us.”
“You are very foolish. If you should escape, stay away and be safe.”
“Foolish to you, foolish to me, also, in some ways. But it is the way I feel. The way I am. I have told you I was a primitive and content to be so.
“Oh, I should like to face him across a table at some diplomatic function. Nothing would suit me better. The possibilities of that are slight. So if I escape, I shall come back.”
She shook her head in wonderment. “My father will not believe this.”
“I think he will. He will not approve, but he will understand. I do not belong in this century, Natalya. I do not even belong in the last. I have always known this.
“I walk in the shoes of the men of today. I fly their planes, I eat their food, but my heart is in the wilderness with feathers in my hair.”
“You do not hate the white Americans?”
“Why should I? My people came west from the Minnesota-Wisconsin border, and we conquered or overrode all that got in our path. We moved into the Dakotas, into Montana and Wyoming and Nebraska. The Kiowa had come down from the north and occupied the Black Hills, driving out those who were there before them. Then we drove them out.
“We might have defeated the Army. We fought them and sometimes we won, sometimes we lost. Only at the end did we get together in large enough numbers, like at the Battle of the Rosebud and the Little Big Horn. We might have defeated the armies, but we could not defeat the men with plows. They were too many.
“But that was long ago. The United States is our country, too, and if we do not make the most of it, the fault is ours. Many of us have. Indians are in politics, in the arts, in business, everywhere. Many of them have Anglo names and so are not known to be Indians by those who simply hear of them without knowing them.
“Many Indians like the old life, only now they ride a pickup instead of a pony.”
“You are a strange man,” Natalya said. “I do not think I understand you at all.”
“I am an anachronism. I do not mind. From boyhood I dreamed of the old ways and wished to live the old life. My old grandfather understood, and he often said he would have liked to have lived in Scotland in the days when the clans had power and before the lairds went to living in London and turning their pastures to raising more sheep and fewer clansmen. He was a fierce old man, but a great one.”
He went to the shed where fuel was stored and returned with an armful. “Tomorrow I’d better cut wood for you.”
They talked quietly then and of many things, mostly inconsequential things. But at the end, Joe Mack added, “If I had a son I’d not raise him as I was raised. The world has changed and is continuing to change, and we must be prepared for it. I can dream of riding a pony over the Dakota prairies, but I fly a plane and have helped to create even more advanced types. One must deal with reality.
“Civilization is simply an organization that man has developed in order that he may live in peace with his neighbors. Laws are the framework of the structure, and if a man adopts a pattern of lawbreaking, he has no place in the organization at all.”
He brushed fragments of bark from his sleeves, left by the wood he had brought to the fire. “It will be a bitterly cold night, and I have far to go.”
“Father will be home soon.”
�
��It is good, this—sitting by the fire with you.”
She lifted her eyes. “Yes, it is.”
“I wish it could go on forever.”
“I would like that.”
“I cannot stay on. They will find I am here.” He paused. “I have had trouble with Peshkov,” he explained. “He is a bitter, vengeful man, I believe. I must leave.”
“It is a pity.”
He got to his feet again. “Could you travel a long way in good weather?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the Sikhote Alins?”
“I’ve heard them spoken of. They are mountains, are they not? Along the Sea of Japan?”
“There is a place there called Plastun Bay. You would like it there. It is warmer than here.”
“What are you saying?”
“Get your father to take you there. I’ll come for you.”
“But that’s impossible! That coast is guarded! There is radar! Any plane inside the buffer zone will be shot down.”
The outer door opened, letting in a blast of icy air. “Joe Mack! You must go at once!” Baronas was anxious. “Lermontov has just returned, and he came back as swiftly as he could make it. Somehow they believe you are here. They are coming!”
“Thank you.” He hesitated at the door. “Remember? It may take a year, even two, but I will come.”
She stood up, looking at him. He would remember her as she stood, slim, tall, and blond, standing in the firelight, handing the shirt to him.
“I will be there.”
TWENTY
HE WENT SWIFTLY into the night and swiftly through the forest. At his hideout he wasted no time. He took up his pack of meat and placed it at his feet. Then he donned his bearskin coat and shouldered his pack. Taking up his bow and arrows, he took a last look around. Aside from the ashes of his fires, no hint of his presence was left.
He went into the night and ran along the dark way he had learned and prepared. It was not a path, just a choice of openings between trees, but one where he could move swiftly with no fear of falling. It was bitterly cold. His breath crackled, freezing as it left his lips.
How cold? Fifty below, at least. Probably more. He must be careful, moving fast, not to work up a sweat. Sweat could freeze, leaving a layer of ice near the skin.
The earth was frozen hard, and there was ice underfoot. He slowed his pace to step with care, for now he was entering the area over which he had passed but once. He would go to the hideout prepared at the head of the Ningam River.
Moving with care, he was sure he was leaving no tracks. There was no snow. Contrary to what people believed, there was not much snow in many areas of Siberia. The climate is dry. He crossed a stream cautiously, tapping the ice ahead of him to test for weakness.
They need not follow him to find him. They could blanket an area with people to hunt him. They could fly over the country, searching for him. He must avoid abandoned buildings, avoid trails, avoid any place the eye would naturally seek out.
It was cold. He paused to listen and heard no sound, but when he moved on it was with extreme caution. From time to time he cupped a mitten over his nose, although it was partly shielded by the fur cap he wore.
Here and there he found a drifting of snow, scarcely more than frost. How far had he come? He hesitated again, making sure of his directions, and then moving on. What he must remember was that a great distance for him was only a short hop for a helicopter, and tracks were easily seen from the air.
He walked on steadily, avoiding the light snow wherever possible, keeping to the cover of trees when he could. When the first feeble rays of sunlight showed themselves, he was well on his way. He had been traveling for some seven hours, he believed, but doubted that at any time he had done as much as three miles in an hour, for the walking was precarious and he had tried to move on rocky, snow-free surfaces when possible. In another hour he should be close to his prepared hideout.
The mutter of the distant helicopter had been prodding at his unconscious for several minutes before it came to his attention. Quickly, he eased back into the trees, merging carefully with a tree trunk. He waited, listening. The cold was intense. He beat his hands together and tried rubbing his legs to keep the circulation alive. Meanwhile, the sound of the motor came closer and closer. At this distance and in the still cold it was audible for some time before he saw it.
When it came within view it was flying very low, and it just barely cleared the nearest ridge. Such a copter would probably carry three men.
It came in, flying no more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet off the ground, following the same stream he had followed. It came on, and when it passed he could see the faces of the men inside, although he could distinguish no features. It muttered on by, heading up for the ridge he must cross to get to his hidden camp.
He waited, stamping his feet against the cold. What if they landed? The growth was sparse, and they would find him quickly. His mind was clear. If they landed, he must try to kill the pilot. If there was not a clear shot, he must get the first man who showed in the door of the plane.
He would need three arrows for three fast shots, and then he must try to get away. His camp was at most five miles off and a good place to hide. Of course, if they threw in troops for an all-out search, he was finished.
He waited, his arrows ready, his mind clear.
The helicopter was coming back.
It swung low, a wide, slow circle around the area. Had they seen something? A track? A movement?
Suddenly it began to settle on a bench not forty yards away. There was no underbrush where he hid, only a few low-growing trees and some rocks.
The copter swung lower and settled, its blades beating the air. As it settled down the door opened. He bent his bow. A man with an AK-47 stepped down from the door, and as he started to turn, Joe Mack let go his arrow.
It was an easy shot and took him right through the spine. The man started to fall, and Joe Mack let go with his second arrow.
His target was but dimly seen: a man inside the copter, apparently the man at the controls. Light glinted on a gun barrel, and he hit the ground just as the man in the copter opened fire. Bullets sprayed the trees. Ducking, he came to his feet running, but not away.
The copter would have a radio! When he was almost aft of the copter he let fly another arrow through the wide-open door.
Someone inside the copter was shouting. The man lying on the ground had not stirred.
The propeller started beating faster, and the helicopter started to lift off. He waited, watching. Something was wrong. The pilot was injured or—
It lifted, cleared the ground, started forward, made a wide circle, and then seemed to veer sharply before it crashed head on into a ridge not quite a half mile off. It crashed with a tremendous sound of breaking trees and tearing metal; then there was a puff of flame and a sharp explosion, and the flame was snuffed out.
He ran forward to the dead man, for he was dead, an arrow in his spine. Joe Mack withdrew the arrow, then hurriedly went through the man’s pockets. Some matches, a belt knife. He tumbled the body into the draw and scattered brush over it. He did not take the AK-47, for the magazine was empty. He covered that, too, so it would not be quickly seen from the air, and then he started away.
He was running now, running hard.
His hideout at the head of the Ningam was not five miles off. By the time he reached it, night would not be far off. Had the pilot gotten off a call for help?
As he ran he was thinking. They would blanket the area if the pilot had gotten a message through, and he would have no chance. If not, they might think the crash pure accident. The shafts of his arrows would be burned, and unless their investigation was careful they might miss the arrowheads, which might have fallen into the earth when the copter burned.
After a careful look arou
nd and intent listening, he crossed the ridge and went down a dry watercourse on the far side. At once he was under cover of the trees, and trotting steadily he headed for his hideout. Night was almost upon him before he was under cover. So far, there had been no sounds of aircraft, although the mountain that now intervened might kill the sound.
He slowed to a walk and began picking his way. The forest was so dense he had a difficult time even finding the marks he had left to lead him back to his hideout.
His heart was pounding as he swung down through the trees and crept into his burrow.
He had been unable to see what happened inside the copter. He had shot his arrows into bodies, he knew. Evidently he had wounded one or both of them—in the crowded confines of the small copter it would not have been unlikely. There would have been small chance of escaping injury.
The pilot, at least, must have been severely injured and must have either died or passed out at the controls.
How much would those who came looking know? Had the pilot gotten off word that they were attacked? He had not seemed to be using a mike, but Joe could not really tell.
Now what to do? To remain where he was and hope he was not found? Or to try to escape and perhaps be seen out in the open?
At Chagda, almost due north, was an airport, a major flying field, he believed. The search would probably originate there, but his knowledge of the country was too slight. Baronas had mentioned Chagda.
There was a village or town named Algama no more than twenty miles from where he lay. That was to the east, as near as he could remember.
To stay still, to wait, that would be hardest of all; but he was an Indian, and patience had been a part of his training. There was no good hiding place anywhere around, and it would be best to simply sit tight and hope he was not found. Far better than to be traveling when the country was being criss-crossed by planes and helicopters following the crash.
Last of the Breed (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 16