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

by Louis L'Amour

  Peter would be free now or would be trying by every means to attract attention. Within the hour, they would be searching for him.

  He was going through the thickest of forest now, careful to break no twigs and leave no other sign of his passing. There was almost no snow on the ground, yet the ground was frozen. He stepped lightly, avoiding twigs and leaves.

  Finding a large, lightning-struck tree with a hollow trunk, he went inside, built a small fire, and made tea. Then he curled up to sleep. Two hours later, his fire out, he was awakened by the cold, and he started out once more, walking swiftly.

  He ran the next twenty miles in almost marathon time, rested briefly, and started again at a much slower pace. By sundown of the following day he had found an overhang in the side of a rocky outcropping where he rested and ate. He had traveled almost seventy-five miles since leaving Peter Petrovich. Building a small, well-hidden fire of dry, smokeless wood, he slept for four solid hours.

  The small mountain on which he had camped was bounded by swamp on both the north and east. There was a river on the north also. He could barely make it out beyond the swamp, which extended for miles.

  He judged himself to be less than fifty miles east of Kurun-Uryakh and its airport.

  In the evening he would start once more, following this river at a safe distance until it flowed into the Maya, as it undoubtedly did.

  Three times during the day planes flew over, and once a helicopter working a search pattern went up and down across the country. Once, in the distance and beyond the river, he believed he saw a party of soldiers. Without a field glass he was unable to tell, but they appeared to spread out in a skirmish line, working up through the woods and across the country. From the map taken from Peter Petrovich, he was sure the river was the Nudymi. Shortly before sundown, he watched an elk cross the swamp and the stream and marked the route it took.

  Wearing his elk-soled moccasins, he went down and followed it, starting just after sundown when there seemed to be nobody about. His bow ready, he crossed the swamp and the river and then followed it downstream. By daylight he had reached the Maya. Keeping under cover he worked his way north, seeking a safe place to cross to the other side.

  Four days later he hid out in a hastily made shelter near the headwaters of the Del’ku River.

  For two days he had eaten nothing, and the cold was bitter. To remain alive he must have food. To starve in warm weather was one thing, in cold it was impossible. Without food to fuel his body, the heat would quickly disappear and he would freeze. From the side of the mountain he could look over a small, sparsely wooded valley. Downstream the forest became thicker. All day long he had seen no animal tracks, nor any sign of human habitation. At the same time, he knew he was not far from some mining camps.

  There was less snow now that he was moving away from the coastal mountains. Much of the earth was frozen hard and bare of snow, and where it existed it was often no more than a thin veil. From now on, snow caves would be rare.

  He could not remember a time when he had not been cold, and when morning came he stumbled out on numbed feet. Long ago he had taken to putting dry grass in his moccasins as a partial protection. Now he plodded on, hungry, very tired, his faculties dulled by cold.

  * * *

  —

  FORTY MILES BEHIND him, Alekhin and six men came down to a small river. One of the men who had scouted on ahead returned to report. “No tracks,” he said. “Nothing but elk around here.”

  Alekhin ignored him. He looked around thoughtfully, then walked toward an opening in the woods. He’s been running now for months, he told himself. He will become careless.

  He studied the tracks. “You are a fool,” he said to the soldier. “No elk passed here.”

  “But the tracks! Right there before you.”

  “They are the tracks of a man wearing elk hoofs. See the stride? And he has passed by plants where an elk would browse.”

  The soldier was unconvinced. “But how could he—?”

  Alekhin ignored him. He started on along the trail, but as they neared a patch of woods he motioned to the soldier. “You go first. You will learn about a trail.”

  Also, he told himself, if there is a trap you will be caught, not me. And sooner or later there will be a trap.

  Yet when it came, even he was surprised. The elk tracks had been replaced by those Alekhin recognized as those of the American. He was hurrying now, running, taking much longer strides, and the river was before them. The soldier began to hurry, led on by the tracks.

  The others followed, Alekhin last. Stopping, he turned to look back the way they had come. He was puzzled. The American had held a fairly true course, so why had he suddenly turned now? Glancing through the trees, Alekhin saw the river and a patch of snow-drifted ice. The soldier was headed right for it.

  The fool! Didn’t he realize it was a death trap? That the ice beneath the snow could never be trusted? Did he not know that snow would act like a quilt or blanket and warm the ice beneath and that the running water would eat away the ice?

  Alekhin shouted and then shouted again. The soldier, with his earflaps down, did not hear him. He could see the American’s tracks leading down to the riverbank, and he could even see a track in the snow before him. Alekhin shouted again and started to run. The others heard him, and he shouted, gesturing. They did not understand, and the lead soldier knew he was safe. He could see the tracks ahead of him and where—

  His boot went through the drifted snow, through the spongy ice, and into the water. He fell forward, screamed, and went into the water.

  “Stay back,” Alekhin said. “Do not go near him or you will go through.”

  “But we must save him!”

  A soldier started forward, but Alekhin grabbed his arm and jerked back. “You cannot save him. He is dead.”

  “But I can see! He is alive! I—!” He tried to jerk free.

  “It is more than sixty below zero,” Alekhin said. “In the water he will last a minute or two. He is soaked now. If you bring him out he will freeze instantly. There is nothing we can do.”

  The soldier was struggling to get out on the ice. He fought madly, then rolled out on the ice. The others started forward. “You will go through,” Alekhin warned.

  They stopped. Their comrade was no longer moving. “He is dead,” Alekhin said. “It was a trap.”

  They huddled closer around him. “A trap? But the American went that way. We saw his tracks.”

  “A track at the edge of the ice and a smeared place or two ahead of him that looked like tracks. Probably it was done with a long pole or branch to make it appear he had gone that way.”

  Alekhin turned away, his eyes searching for the real trail. “He knew what he was doing. He knew he could kill one or more of you.”

  They shivered in the bitter cold and looked at the stiffened body of their mate.

  “What about him?”

  “He is dead. You can do nothing for him. If you try to reach him, you may break through as well.”

  They walked away and he said, “If you just get a foot in the water, get it instantly into the snow. Dry snow is the perfect blotter. If you get soaked there is no chance.”

  It was cold…cold.

  A soldier turned and looked back. His mate lay, a stiffening gray thing upon the river ice.

  Numb and frightened, the soldier followed Alekhin.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  STEPHAN BARONAS STOOD beside his daughter and waited. Fear choked him, but he fought it back. The man who got out of the Volga was a large, strong-looking man, and he strode over to them. For a moment he just stared at them.

  “Can we go inside?” he asked them. His tone was mild.

  “Please do,” Baronas said. “Forgive me. We do not often have visitors.”

  Inside, the man took off his heavy coat and hat. He looked
around him. “Snug,” he said, “and warm.” He looked from one to the other. “You are comfortable here?”

  “Yes.” Baronas was surprised at the question. “Thank you.”

  When he was seated he stretched his hands to the fire. “I am Nicholai Bocharev,” he said.

  “Oh?” In sudden compassion Talya moved toward him. “It was your son—?”

  “Yes. My only son.”

  “We are sorry,” Baronas said. “He was a fine young man. He visited us here.”

  Bocharev glanced up. “I know. He wrote to me. You were very kind. He said he loved coming here. It was like another home.”

  He was silent for a moment, and then he added, “We had so little time together. He was just growing up, you know, coming to think of me as a friend rather than a dominating parent. We had long talks.”

  “Will you have tea?” Talya held out a cup, which he accepted. “He brought it to us.”

  “Thank you.” He sipped the tea. “My son said you opened your home to him. I am afraid he was very lonely, although he would not admit it.”

  He looked up. “You gave him the last happiness he had. You welcomed him, treated him as a son and brother.”

  “He deserved it. It is our loss, too, that he is gone.”

  “He loved running wild rivers, and he was very skillful,” Bocharev said. “Only there was a place where the current swept the boat under a rock. He did not see it in time. He was struck on the head.”

  “We are sorry. We shall miss him, too.”

  Bocharev sipped his tea and then looked around. “Is there anything I can do? I am grateful that my son was happy those last days. You have done this for him and for me.”

  “Nothing,” Baronas said. “Nothing at all.”

  Bocharev’s manner changed. He smiled. “Come, come, Baronas. I know you. I have looked at your dossier. You should not have been arrested. It was a precautionary measure at a time when some were fearful of internal trouble. It was a foolish fear.”

  He held out his cup. “May I?”

  When it was refilled and he had had a swallow, he asked again. “You have education, Baronas. There is much you can do here, but—”

  “I appreciate that, but there might be others less understanding.” Stephan Baronas paused. It was a risk he had to take. “To tell you the truth, sir, I would like to emigrate. I would like to go to Hong Kong. My daughter and I.”

  Bocharev nodded. “I thought as much. Well, there is nothing in your dossier that indicates that you are an enemy of our people.” He paused. “Where would you prefer to go?”

  “To Hong Kong. Even to Manchuria.”

  Bocharev stood up. “We shall see.” He put down his empty cup. “My son meant much to me. You see”—he paused—“he was all I had. I am alone now.”

  Talya put her hand on his sleeve. “Will you not come back to visit us? As long as we are here, you are as welcome as your son.”

  He shook his head. “I shall be very busy. There is much to do. I think sometimes we have paid too much attention to what is outside our country and not enough to improving conditions here. Internal strength is of greatest importance.”

  He turned to the door. “I shall see what can be done. In the meanwhile, if you will permit it, I shall send a few things my son would have wanted you to have. In fact, he spoke to me about it.”

  They stood in the open door, watching until the Volga was out of sight.

  “We must not hope too much,” Baronas said, “but this may help us.”

  Talya did not reply. It might help them. It would not help Joe Mack, who was out there, somewhere. Out there in the bitter cold, alone in the forest, perhaps dying.

  She said as much, and her father shook his head. “One thing at a time. If we escape, he will not have to risk his life to return for you. If we get the chance we must go. If they discover that we knew him, were even close to him, we would never be permitted to leave. We might be imprisoned.”

  “They do know,” Talya said.

  “No doubt, but one saving grace of officialdom is that one hand rarely knows what the other is doing. We can only hope.”

  * * *

  —

  KYRA LEBEDEV TURNED her head sidewise to escape the worst of the wind, gasping for breath. The wind blew her breath right back down her throat. The doorway was just ahead, and she ran the last few steps, ducking hastily inside.

  Had anyone followed her? She had not taken the time to look. It was improbable, yet Shepilov was somewhere in town, and he missed very little. Pulling the door shut behind her, she waited an instant to catch her breath. The air in the narrow hallway was stale and smelled of unwashed bodies and the heavy odor of old cooking. She started down the hall, and at the third door she stopped and knocked. After a moment a woman’s voice said, “What do you want?”

  “Katerina? Please! Open the door!”

  The door opened a crack, and then with a gasp the girl inside opened it wider. The girl had on a coat as if to go out. She was a slender girl with pale reddish hair and wide blue eyes. “Kyra! In Magadan? What has happened?”

  “Nothing, yet. I have just arrived. It is business.”

  “Oh? For a minute I thought you had been shipped here.”

  “Is Ostap here? I must speak with him.”

  “He’s asleep, just gone asleep in fact. He worked the whole night through and he’s done in.”

  “Ostap? I did not think he ever worked.”

  A young man with tousled hair came in from the other room, drawing his belt tight. “I work all right, although not willingly. I thought I recognized your voice, Ky. What are you doing here?”

  “Sit down! No nonsense now. I must talk. You know all that is happening in Magadan, and I need to know something.”

  Flattered, he straddled a chair. He needed a shave, and his eyes looked like he had been drinking too much. “All right, what is it? If it is for you, it is for free. If it is for the government, it will need money.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Much money.”

  “There is a man in town—Shepilov. I need to know where he is located and what he is doing here.”

  Ostap lit a cigarette. “Shepilov? Yes, he’s been here two days now. Bigwig, can’t miss him. He’s had old Kuzmich in, and Kuzmich means furs. You know the man. He buys from trappers, knows more about the fur-trapping business than anybody.”

  “What else? I mean, what else than trapping?”

  Ostap shrugged, expelling a cloud of smoke. “Trapping, trappers, I expect he knows them all, in this part of the country. He keeps in touch. His people trap all that country north and south of the Kolyma.”

  “How far west? To Oymyakon?”

  “Close, I’d say.” He drew on the cigarette and brushed ash onto the floor. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the American, the one who escaped.”

  “Oh? I thought they would have had him by now. Ah, I see it now! Your man Shepilov is trying to reach the trappers to hunt for him! It’s a good idea. They know their country and are much better than the KGB. I mean, they know that country. They could find anything out there, while the KGB or the army would be just running in circles.” He paused. “There’s a few here would like to know that old Shepilov’s in Magadan. I mean, he doesn’t have any friends here. Too many prison gangs in the gold camps here because of him.”

  “Well, as long as they are in prison—”

  “That’s just it. Some of them are out and about, only they cannot leave.”

  “Ostap, you can help me. I want to catch the American first.”

  “You do? Pretty as you are, I’d think you could get a man without that.”

  “Don’t be silly. It is my job.” She paused. “I work with Colonel Zamatev now.”

  Ostap whistled. “What do you know? He’s the one they call the Iro
n Man. If you’re in with him, you are really in. What can I do for you?”

  “You know those trappers, too. You sell them vodka. Oh, I know, so don’t try to deny it. They all come to you.”

  “So?”

  “If the trappers locate him, I’d like to know it first.”

  Ostap drew once more on his cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and rubbed it out with his toe. “As I said, there are a lot of people here who do not like Shepilov. I might be able to do something for you.” He glanced up, smiling slyly. “We all need something, you know? That includes me. I need a lot of things.”

  “The Colonel can be grateful. He understands favors.”

  “Let me get a couple of hours in bed, and I’ll get around. There’s nobody I could reach, anyway.” He paused. “Does Shepilov know you’re in town?”

  “Not yet, I am sure. He will know, however.”

  “Don’t come back here, then. Where will you be?”

  “At Vanya’s.”

  “It is a good place. All right, I will see what I can do.”

  He got up, hitched up his pants, and went back into the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Kyra? Please do not get him into trouble. He takes too many risks. Oh, he does not consider them risks! I know that, but he is always with those people, the black-market people, and all those who live on the edge.”

  She shrugged. “Katerina, that is Ostap. You know that. He is such a man. You knew that when you married him. He has always lived on the edge. He thrives on it.”

  “But Shepilov? He is vindictive, Kyra. You should be careful, yourself.”

  * * *

  —

  THE STREET WAS empty when she reached it, and she stood for a moment looking out. It was a gray, dismal day, and the shabby street made it look no better. It was a long walk to Vanya’s, but she knew it had to be done. She avoided Lenin Square and kept to side streets, hoping not to be noticed.

  Vanya lived on a back street in a small frame house. He lived simply, and there was no better location if she wished to remain free of observation. Vanya was a writer, working on a history of the opening up of Siberia. Previously, he had written accounts of the animal life of Soviet Russia. He was a cousin whom she had often visited at his dacha near the Black Sea, but he cared little for pomp and preferred the wild country and wild animals. He was now completing research on a book about bears, as well as the much longer work on Siberia.