“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.”
Chapter 20
*
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 around 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 crisscrossed by planes and helicopters following the crash.
It was bitterly cold, and he chanced a small fire in his well-hidden camp. He prepared some tea, given him by Baronas, and then he slept.
Hours later he was awakened by the drone of a plane flying over.
Huddled in his bearskin coat, he waited. For hours, he heard nothing; then came the drone of a circling plane, not a helicopter. Had they found the wreckage? The explosion and the brief fire could not have left much to see. As near as he could make out from the little he had seen, the wreckage had caught fire and the sudden explosion had put it out. Of course, he could see nothing in the woods where the copter had crashed.
All day long, at intervals, he heard searching planes. For three days, shivering in the bitter cold, he stayed under cover. Finally, when hours had passed with no further sounds of aircraft, he left his hideout, packing all the meat he had, and started toward the river.
The Ningam flowed into the Gonam, and some sixty to seventy miles further the Gonam entered the Uchur. There was a village there. All this he knew from his talks with Baronas and Botev.
He could use the river only as a guide. It would be frozen over now, the chances were, but trusting river ice was no part of his plan. During the night there had been snow, and the river ice would be covered with it. Ice beneath snow often melted, leaving places where one might easily break through.
Joe Mack, running lightly, followed along a dim path close to the river, taking advantage of the easier travel. Hour after hour passed and he saw no one, heard no one. Once, ahead of him and across the river, he heard dogs barking, but he was too far away for them to be barking at him.
The Uchur lay somewhere ahead of him. With luck he would reach it the following night. It was a large river, and crossing it would present a problem.
He slept the night in a small cave warmed by a handful of fire. He slept badly, for the cold kept awakening him. He had been careful to keep his ears and nose covered through the day, knowing they were most liable to frostbite. So far he had been unbelievably lucky.
He was brutally tired, and it began to seem that he had never been warm. There was a mountain ahead of him, and he stumbled along, numb with cold, thinking only of trying to keep to the east of it. Near the base of that mountain the Gonam flowed into the Uchur.
It was after midnight when he came at last to the river’s edge. Stumbling, half frozen, he stared at the ice. Was it frozen all the way across? He had no way of knowing. He worked his way along the bank, following a well-worn road. Out upon the ice he could see shelters built by fishermen who fished through holes made in the ice. Some of them showed light.
The road he was following dwindled into a path, and the path led down to the ice. Somebody, several somebodies, had walked out on the ice. Taking up a stick, he started, tapping the ice ahead of him. He followed the tracks, dimly visible in the light layer of snow. A long time later he scrambled up a steep bank, slipping twice and falling before he made the top. Exhausted and half frozen, he stared about, his eyes blinking slowly, trying to see something, anything that might provide shelter.
He started to walk and slipped and fell. It seemed he should just lie there, just give up—
“Get up out of that!” It was a woman’s voice, speaking Russian, but a harsh, bitter voice. “Get up I say, or you’ll die!”
He got to his knees and then, with an effort, stood up. “Come inside, you fool, before you freeze!”
She shoved him toward the door of a squat, ugly shack in the trees, and he almost fell inside, then straightened up. It was warm inside, almost hot. It was a snug shack with a stove, glowing and red, a table, two chairs, a bunk bed, and a wide bench. There were some shelves against the wall and some clothing hung on pegs.
He turned to face her, and they stared at each other. She was a big young woman with broad shoulders and amazingly blue eyes. “Yes, I’m a woman,” she said, “so you can stop staring. I’m a married woman, too, and not looking for a man if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not,” he said simply. “I am just cold and hungry.”
“I can see that. Sit down.” She came to help him with the pack. “What’s in this?”
“Meat,” he said.
“You can share some of that with me. It’s little enough I have here with my husband gone off and no money.”
“Help yourself,” he said.
“There’s tea on.” She delved into his pack. “I’ll fix some of this for us.”
“Take some for yourself,” he said. “I’ll be on my way at daybreak. Keep some. If you’ve no meat, it will help you.”
She thanked him and then ignored him, preparing the food. As he grew warmer, he looked carefully around. The place was neat, but everything was shabby. Poverty stared him in the face.
She handed him
a thick mug of tea. “Drink that,” she ordered. “You’re done in.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She turned to look at him. “What are you?” she said. “Who are you?”
“A traveler,” he said, “who wants nothing to do with the authorities. They will not even thank you for feeding me.”
“The devil with them!” she said bitterly. “They’ve taken my man away and left me little enough to do with.”
She stared at him. “What are you? You’re not Russian?”
“My mother was an Ostyak,” he lied.
“They are good folk. I once lived in Baltshara. There were many of them who lived in the forest there. They were all right as long as they were not cooped up.” She glanced at him. “You’re running from something.”
“Not running,” he objected mildly. “Just avoiding.”
She laughed without humor. Then she dished up the meat. “Eat this. Are you warming up a bit?”
“I am, thank you. You are a good woman.”
“Keep that in mind,” she said brusquely. “I am and shall be.”
They ate in silence. She refilled his cup. “Where do you go?”
He shrugged. “Away.”
She looked at the bow and the quiver of arrows. “I’ve seen nothing like that since I was a child.”
“Do you have visitors?”
“Me?” she snorted. “I do not.” She indicated the bench. “Sleep there, and when the day comes, be off with you.”
“All right,” he said. She had taken little of the meat. He took out more. He guessed it was about ten pounds. “Keep this. You’re a fine woman, and you have shared with me.”
He slept well and quietly, and when dawn came and his eyes opened, she was already at the fire.
“There’s tea. Drink it and be gone.” She stood up, looking at him. “I have had time to think and I know who you are, although you could pass for an Ostyak with some.”
He ate, drank the tea, put on his coat, and shouldered the pack.
“You’re a good woman,” he said. “I shall pray for you and yours.”
“Pray, is it? A long time since I’ve heard of that. Not since I was a small girl and we had churches where I lived, and priests. Well, pray if you will. I could do with a few prayers. Now be off with you, and if you say you have seen me, I shall say you lied.”
Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) Page 16