Progress along the mountainside would be slow, but he could keep under cover, and he doubted he would encounter anyone up in the forest.
Animal tracks were everywhere, mostly those of deer or elk, but wolf tracks were common as well, and twice he came upon the tracks of large bear.
His improvised snares yielded nothing in the time he could allow, so he retrieved his shoelaces and went on along the mountain. From time to time he found partridge berries, picking a few as he went along. They did little to appease his hunger but were pleasant to taste and gave him the illusion of eating something worthwhile.
From an aspen he cut a strip of bark, scraping off the soft tissues between the bark and the wood. He ate the moist, pulpy flesh, as he had often done as a boy, and continued on.
He had no illusions. Zamatev would never give up the search, and he had behind him all the power of the Soviet Union, and all they could muster in men, planes, cars, and helicopters, all linked by radio. The Armed Services would be alerted and civilian agencies mustered, and his description would be broadcast. And winter with its terrible cold would be coming.
His one advantage was that they did not know where he was and hence could not concentrate their search. Once they did know, his chances would be cut in half at the very least.
The air was clear and cool. The sun was bright. Siberia had very little rain and less snow, and in this area at least, clouds were rare. Yet in a mountain range somewhere before him the coldest temperatures outside Antarctica had been recorded.
So far he had traveled slowly, hiding out when he sensed any movement, avoiding all signs left by men. He slept in snatches when the sun was warm, but the weather grew colder. He had to stop soon, as he must trap some animals for their skins. He would need clothing.
The valley of the Kalar narrowed into a canyon, and Joe Mack, staggering and ready to drop from exhaustion, leaned against the trunk of a dead tree and stared down at the river, several miles away. He could occasionally catch a gleam of water, no more.
He should not be tired, but lack of food was sapping even his great strength. He had traveled, he estimated, at least one hundred and fifty miles since breaking out. Most of that time he had been cold and hungry, barely subsisting on the food he could find. He had to stop. He had to recoup his strength. He had to prepare for the winter.
In the past several days he had survived on berries, scrapings from aspen bark, several ptarmigan he had killed, a number of squirrels, a marmot, and fish he had speared.
For a long time he stared wearily down toward the river; then slowly he turned his head to scan his immediate surroundings.
The face of the cliff behind him was obscured by a thick, almost impenetrable thicket of stone pine. Below him, stands of birch and aspen covered the slope, and a trickle of water ran down through the rocks toward the river, far below. He was turning his head away when something caught his attention. Under the stone pine the shadows seemed unusually black. He looked again, then went closer and dropped to his knees. Behind the thicket of stone pine there appeared to be a cave.
Crawling under the lowest branches he found himself in an overhang perhaps ten feet deep and as many wide. Here, for a little while, he would rest.
Outside, several times in the past few hours, he had seen the droppings of either mountain sheep or deer. They looked much the same.
If he could kill a mountain sheep he would have both meat and the hide.
The spear he had fashioned was adequate, but no more. What he needed was a bow and some arrows. Even if he had a rifle it would do him more harm than good to fire it, as the sound would be sure to attract attention. He also could make a sling. Many Indians had used the sling, and he had been expert in its use since childhood.
His grandfather had been both a harsh and a kindly man. “Learn to live off the land,” he had said. “Your ancestors did it, and you can. Learn the roots, the leaves, the nuts, and the seeds. Now you do not have to live so, but who knows what the future may hold?”
The great men of his boyhood days had not been George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, not Jim Thorpe or Babe Ruth, but Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Gall, and a dozen others. From his grandmother he heard the stories of Indian war parties, of raids against the Arikara, the Kiowa, the Crow, and the Shoshone. Throughout his boyhood he had been enchanted by tales of the great warriors of the Sioux nation, of scalps taken, of coups, of men who would die rather than yield.
Each summer when school was over he went into the woods with several companions, where they lived as Indians once had, where they hunted, trapped, and lived off the country as they had been taught.
He slept, shivering and cold, beside a small fire in his cave, and when dawn broke he knew he must remain here until he had killed animals to provide him with food and clothing. He must make a bow and arrows. In the meanwhile, he made a sling and gathered stones with which to arm it.
He teased his fire to life with bits of bark and then added larger sticks. Then, armed with spear and sling, he went out on the mountainside.
First he listened long and carefully for any sounds other than those of the taiga, as the forest was called in Siberia. He went to a vantage point and watched the river, but saw nothing. He sat very still, every sense alert. He needed meat and he needed clothing. He also needed sinews to make a bowstring. In the old days these had been made from sinews taken from a buffalo’s shoulder or just below it. Now he must make do. There were wild reindeer in the valleys and along the slopes. So far he had seen two, but had been without a weapon to kill them. The spear would do if he could get close enough, or even the sling if the distance were right and if he could throw with sufficient accuracy.
Slowly the minutes passed, and he waited, watching. A glutton passed, but he had no wish to attack so formidable and useless a creature. Yet the fur might be used, and on another occasion—
A huge bear lumbered along the mountain, keeping under cover of the aspen well below where he sat. Again he had no adequate weapon with which to face such a beast. Yet it was fat he needed, and the bear was rolling with it.
Joe Mack shivered in the chill morning air. It was now August, The Moon of the Ripe Plums, but most of the month had already gone, and the time of Yellow Leaves was approaching.
Shortly before the sun was high he killed a blue fox, skinned it, and roasted the meat over his fire. He stretched the skin and scraped it. Then he left it stretched in the cave and returned to watch the trail again.
The next day he went down to the river and speared three fish. Carrying them back, he came into a small hollow where the air was warmer, and there was even a slight change in the vegetation. Tiny microclimates like these occurred in the mountains from time to time, places that through some chance were warmer or colder than elsewhere. Hunting through the woods, he came upon several plants more typical of Manchuria or Japan than Siberia. Suddenly alerted, he searched carefully and found a half dozen ash trees. From the hidden side of one of them he cut a limb he believed might make a good bow, then worked his way by a devious route to his cave.
All the next day he worked on his bow, shaving it with edges of stone and trimming it with care. At times he tried bending it. He made two notches in the bottom, one in the top.
Yet he was worried. He was staying too long in one place, and he could not avoid leaving some sign of his presence.
On his fifth day he killed a mountain sheep, skinned it, dined well, and went to work curing the hide. At noon, tired of his work, he went out into the air and sat on his rock, watching the river.
He heard the sound before he realized its meaning. He listened, watching the river, and at last a motorcraft of some sort came within sight. Although he was too far off to make out its cargo, it seemed to be loaded with men. Then as the boat passed he caught the gleam of sunlight on rifle barrels.
Soldiers! At least a squad of them!
Worried, he returned to his cave. Had they, then, discovered where he was? Had he somehow given himself away? Was
this a search party or just some natural movement of troops?
The latter he could not believe. There was no border here to be protected, no fortress, no camp. Such a small group would not be on a maneuver, so where were they bound?
Cutting the meat from the mountain sheep into thin strips, he smoked and dried it, meanwhile cleaning some of the sinews and rolling three strands together to make a bowstring. Then he took his bow, his bowstring not ready for use, and his small packet of meat wrapped in the skin, and he went up the mountain.
Leaving the bank of the Kalar he went off to the north following a ridge above a smaller stream, traveling northeast. He did not pause to hunt or to rest, but continued to move, keeping under cover of the forest and among the rocky crags. By nightfall he was sure he had covered twenty miles, and he camped that night beside a huge fallen tree, in the open and without a fire. In the morning he carefully removed all sign of his presence, and lifting handfuls of leaves he let the soft wind scatter them where he had slept.
Crossing a saddle between the highest peak and a long ridge, he started cautiously to descend toward the valley.
Finding a shelter in a thick stand of stone pine, he went to work on the sheep’s hide to make it into a vest, using rawhide for a lacing. It was slow, painstaking work, but from where he sat he had a good view of the mountainside, and he could work and keep a good lookout, too.
He did not want heavy clothing but several layers of light clothing that would conserve his body heat and still allow free movement of all his limbs.
Before darkness came he moved off along the slope of the mountain, working his way down into the aspen, where he found a thicket where many leaves had fallen. There he bedded down, a dry camp with no fire.
When he awakened he saw not far below him several towers of a relay station or something of the kind, and a small village. He was close enough to distinguish people moving about but not to judge who or what they were. He turned back to the thicker forest, working along a steep ridge where he camped again. There, hidden among rocks and trees, he continued his work on the sheepskin vest and on his bow. Now he began to look for the proper sort of wood for arrows. He did not like the bowstring he had, but it would do until he found better.
Watching the scene below he glimpsed people moving along what seemed to be a road, and far in the distance to the south he saw a thin trail of smoke from what might be a village. Where there was a village there would be dogs. From where he sat he could see that the Kalar took a bend toward the south and then back to the north again. Without doubt he must cross the river again, and he did not look forward to it. Crossing a river meant exposing himself to possible observation, aside from the discomfort of getting wet in what was increasingly chilly weather.
Rising, he worked his way along the mountain under the shadow of the ridge and walked east, trying to keep under cover. Here, however, the trees were scattered and much of the mountainside was exposed.
The nights were growing longer now. He walked on, stumbling occasionally and very tired.
At last he sat down, unable to go further without resting.
He sat leaning against a rock, half concealed by a bush and tree that grew nearby. The sun was rising and even that slight warmth felt good. He leaned back against the rock. His eyes closed.
Had he gone fifty feet further he would have found a path, a very dim path, but nonetheless a path.
About two miles from where he sat, the Kalar River flowed down from the north, the river he dreaded to cross. And some miles beyond was another river, still larger and much more dangerous.
Days of constant moving with too little food and little rest had drugged him with weariness. Slowly, his muscles relaxed, once his eyes almost half opened, and then he slept.
A cold wind moaned in the stone pines; a dried leaf skittered along the path and came to rest. A rock thrush poised on a twig and then flew off a few yards.
On the path there was a faint scuffling, and a man came into sight. He was a short, stocky man, as wide as he was deep, a man in a ragged fur cap, a motheaten fur coat, and thick pants stuffed into clumsy-looking boots. He had started around a small bend in the path when he saw a foot.
He stopped, looking carefully around. Nobody else. Nobody near, at least. He listened again and heard a faint snore. From under his coat he took an AK-47, and the gun gleamed brightly. His clothing was ragged, but there was nothing wrong about the gun.
Stepping around the tree, he saw a man asleep against a rock, a man emaciated and worn. He saw the pack of smoked meat, the spear, the sling, and the bow without a string and without arrows.
Yakov moved quietly to a seat on a rock facing the sleeping man. Then he picked up a pebble and tossed it against the man’s face.
Joe Mack awakened with a start, but with every sense alert. His opening eyes looked into the muzzle of the AK-47.
Chapter 7
*
THE MAN’S CHEEKS were chubby and he looked fat, but Joe Mack was not deceived. He had seen such men before and knew that what looked like fat was the natural muscle of an extremely powerful man, one naturally strong, born to the strength he had.
For a moment each measured the other, and then the man spoke in what Joe Mack knew was Russian, although he knew no more than a few words of the language.
“I do not speak your language,” he replied.
To his surprise the man’s face lit up with humor. “Engless!” he said, astonished. “Spik Engless!”
The AK-47 did not waver. “Who you are?”
“I am an American”—he spoke slowly—“traveling in your country.”
The man’s eyes made a point of looking him over. “This clothes? It is tourist fashion?”
Joe Mack grinned suddenly, and the man’s face lit up again. “Tourist the hard way,” he said.
For a moment the man puzzled over that, and then he smiled again. “Why you here? This is far-off place.”
Joe Mack was puzzled. The man was no soldier, yet he carried an AK-47 and gave every evidence of being ready to use it. His clothes were nondescript, his manner as guarded as his own. Was this man also a fugitive?
“It is better I travel in far-off places,” he spoke slowly again. “I eat what the land provides.”
The man’s eyes searched his. “I am Yakov,” he said.
“I am Joe Mack,” he replied.
“Where you live?”
“In America. Until I return there I live as I can, where I can. Soon winter comes. I have no home for winter.”
“Ah?”
Yakov was ten feet away, and the AK-47 did not waver. There was no way he was going to cover that ten feet and lay a hand on that gun without catching four or five slugs, and the man was no fool.
“Why you not go down there?” Yakov waved toward the distant village.
Joe Mack took a chance. After all, what was Yakov doing up in the mountains with an AK-47? “They would put me in a house with bars.”
“Ah! An American? A prisoner? In Siberia? Russia is not at war with America!”
“No?” Joe Mack lifted an eyebrow. “Tell that to Colonel Zamatev.”
Instantly, the man’s manner changed. “Zamatev? You spik Zamatev?”
For the first time the muzzle of the gun lowered. “Where you spik Zamatev?”
“West of here, many miles. I was his prisoner.”
“You escape? He look for you?”
“He looks.”
Yakov was silent, obviously thinking. He pointed to the crude sheepskin vest. “You make?”
“I did.”
Yakov indicated the bow staff. “What that?”
“A bow. I am making a bow. Then I shall make arrows. I need to hunt.” Joe Mack lifted the sling, and the AK-47 covered him again. “The bow will be better than this.”
“How you kill sheep?”
Joe Mack indicated the sling. He took from his pack a piece of the smoked and dried mutton. He extended it to Yakov. “You like? It is sheep.”
“You no look American.”
“I am an Indian, a Red Indian.”
“Ah! I see Indian in film. Cinema.”
“I’m no cinema Indian,” Joe Mack replied irritably.
Yakov looked around at him. “Soon cold, very cold.” He hesitated. “I am escape also. I escape three years past.”
“Three years?” Joe Mack studied him with quickened interest. “How do you live?”
“I live.”
He hesitated, as if thinking. “My father,” he said, “was Lithuanian. He is exile to Siberia. My mother is Tungus woman.” Yakov looked at him. “Tungus are reindeer people.”
He got up. “I think better we go.”
Joe Mack got up. “I travel alone.”
Yakov spoke over his shoulder. “Cold come, you die. It needs much food to last the cold. Better you come with me.”
Reluctantly, warily, Joe Mack followed. Yakov led off at a fast pace, turning back along the path he had come. After a moment he broke into a trot, glancing back once to see if Joe Mack followed.
For an hour they ran, and then Yakov slowed and began to walk. “The Kalar,” he pointed.
The river crossed in front of them, about a quarter of a mile away. Now Yakov moved with a caution that equaled his own as they worked their way through the trees to the riverbank. There, artfully concealed, Yakov had a canoe.
In a small cove, hidden among reeds, they waited, listening. At a word, Yakov dipped his paddle deep and Joe Mack followed suit. In less than twenty minutes they were across and hiding the canoe at a place known to Yakov; then he led off through the brush.
At a clearing, he stopped. “East is Olekma. Big river. Very dangerous for cross. Too many peoples, boats. Sometimes nobody, so better you wait.”
He drew a diagram in the clay, a diagram of a route and landmarks still further east. “Here”—he put a finger on the map—“is people like me, like you. If they like you, you stay the cold. If they do not like, you go.”
Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) Page 5