Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Of course.” He smiled suddenly. “But don’t forget there’s a man walking away who will hold a place for you in his memory.”

  He went out and walked quickly, taking a forest path. When he looked back she was standing there, watching him go. He lifted a hand, but she turned and went back into her shack, her warm shack.

  Chapter 21

  *

  COLONEL ZAMATEV SPREAD out the map on his table. “Show me,” he suggested.

  Kyra Lebedev put her finger on a spot. “In that vicinity. We have a report. He was seen there, in that place. With a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “If we move quickly,” Kyra said, “we can take him. Our informant says he does not live with the others but has a place not far from there. Our informant is not sure but believes he is our man.”

  “And the informant? Is he reliable?”

  She shrugged. “When it serves his interest. He has reported to us before, but I think it is only when he has personal animosity toward the people reported.”

  “There are many such. Nonetheless, if we move quickly, we—”

  “You will waste time.” Alekhin spoke for the first time. Kyra thought herself important, and he did not like self-important women. In particular he did not like this Lebedev woman.

  “What do you mean?” Zamatev demanded.

  “If he was ever there, he is not there now. He is gone.”

  “How can you be sure?” Zamatev demanded irritably.

  Alekhin got to his feet and moved to the table. He put a thick finger on a mountainside near the head of the Ningam. “What happened there?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” Zamatev said. “Oh, yes! One of our search helicopters was lost. It crashed into a mountain or something. I have the report.” He gestured toward a box on the table. “What about it?”

  Alekhin looked up from under thick brows. “It was I who found it.”

  “And the bodies of the airmen. So?”

  “Of two airmen.”

  “Two?” He glanced toward the report. “I have not studied it, but there were three men in that helicopter.”

  “But only two bodies. Burned beyond recognition.”

  “There were three men in the helicopter,” Zamatev replied patiently. “Three. They will find the other body when they have searched further.”

  “I have found him.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I found him on the ground, three miles from the crash site. He had been covered with dirt and brush. He was dead. He had been killed.”

  Zamatev sat down, staring at Alekhin. Kyra started to speak, but a gesture silenced her. “What are you saying?”

  “The American did it. The Indian.” He put his finger on the map. “The flying machine landed here. One man got out. He was killed, shot in the back with an arrow.”

  “An arrow?” Zamatev was suddenly impatient. “What are you talking of? Killed with an arrow?”

  “He was shot in the spine. Very good shot. Then the airmen shot. The Indian ran, shooting another arrow into the open door, I think. The pilot was hurt by this arrow. He took off, and the flying machine ran into the mountain in the forest.”

  Zamatev stood up, resting his knuckles on the map. “Now let me understand. You are saying this Indian shot one of our helicopters down with a bow and arrow?”

  “Men came to the crash site after I found it. They looked around and gathered up burned bones and a few other things. Then they went away.

  “I did not go. I stayed three days. I looked to understand. I sifted the burned earth and leaves. I found two arrowheads.”

  “One of them was seen by those who checked the crash. It seemed of no importance, just an old arrowhead from ancient times.”

  “It was not ancient. No arrowhead in Siberia was made like these. I found two, not one. I think the Indian shot two arrows into the open door.”

  Colonel Zamatev sat down again. He was no fool, and if there was one thing Alekhin knew, it was the wilderness evidence left by men and animals. And the third body had been found, he said, some distance from the crash site.

  “You are sure about how the third man was killed?”

  “I am. There were marks where the flying machine came down. Marks on the ground, in the dirt. There were tracks where the man got out of the machine.

  “He stepped backward, with a gun. He had started to turn when the arrow hit him. It was a very good shot. The arrow went through his spine and sank very deep. He is a very strong man, I think.

  “Somebody from the machine shot. I found bullet scars on trees, but the Indian was already gone. I tracked him. He ran swiftly to a place further back of the copter, and then he shot two times more. The machine went away, it took off very badly. One runner, or whatever you call it, dragged on the dirt.

  “The Indian, he thought maybe the machine had called for help. He covered the body and hurried away.”

  “And where is he now?”

  Alekhin shrugged. “He went far and very fast, I think.” He got up. “I will find him.”

  “Wait! How many men will you need?”

  “No men. I will do it. Men walk around all the time, spoil the tracks.” He paused. “Maybe you could alert your soldiers between Oymyakon and Magadan.”

  “Alekhin, do you realize what you are saying? That’s an enormous spread of country! It is impossible!”

  Alekhin shrugged. “If you want him, you watch. He will go that way; if not now, later. I know him. I feel it here.” He touched his heart. “This man does not think of time. He does not think of distance. The forest is his home.”

  “The man,” Zamatev said patiently, “is what the Americans call ‘an officer and a gentleman.’ He is a graduate, with honors, of a university. He is a highly skilled flyer with a considerable knowledge of mechanics and the science of aerial flight. He is—”

  “He is an Indian. I see him clear. All you say is true, but here,” Alekhin touched his heart, “he is Indian.

  “He has gone to the forest, and his natural home is the forest. Do not look for him in cities. Do not expect him to need what you need. What he must have the forest will give him.”

  “Out there he will freeze to death,” Kyra said.

  “He has been there. He lives.” Alekhin straightened up. “I will find him. I will kill him.”

  “You will not kill him! That’s an order! I want him back here! I want him in prison. He has information we need, and I shall have it. Cripple him if you will. Blind him if you will, but he must be able to talk.”

  When the door closed behind him, Zamatev glanced at Kyra. “Can you believe it? A helicopter lost, destroyed by that Indian.”

  “The report on the crash has been turned in,” Kyra spoke carefully. “It has already gone on to the bureau.”

  Zamatev pursed his lips, then turned to gaze out the window. What was the old saying? Let sleeping dogs lie. Well, why not? It was better than the endless reports, the questions, all that would happen if he amended the report with Alekhin’s information. No use to have the loss of a helicopter and three men chalked up against him. He had trouble enough as it was.

  “Can you believe it? Oymyakon to Magadan? It is impossible!”

  “Alekhin believes he is going north and east.”

  “That’s absurd! It is impossible!” He paused, swearing under his breath. Who would believe that a man could escape from such a prison and vanish? Even now, did they really know?

  He glanced at Kyra. “Are you ready for another trip? I want you to take Stegman and whomever you need and find that village. The place where the report says he was. I want you to find the woman, if there is one, and question her. I want to know all there is to know about Major Joseph Makatozi.”

  “I would be gone for a while.”

  He glanced at her. “Well, you do not have to leave tonight. Monday would be soon enough. After all,” he suggested, “it will take you some time to get ready.”

  “Of course. I shall leave Monday
, then.” She arose and took up her gloves and purse. “The little car? It followed me when I left before.”

  “Those are Shepilov’s people. They watch me always. I do not mind. It keeps them out of mischief.”

  When she had gone he walked to the window again and watched the little car move off, following Kyra. He chuckled. She could handle that. She was too good for them, too shrewd.

  Walking back to the desk, he contemplated the map. Oymyakon to Magadan? It was impossible! He scowled, then put a finger on Nel’kan. Suvarov was there, on other business. Let him make himself useful then.

  Nel’kan was closer. There were some good men there, and if they moved down from the north they could, they might, intercept the American.

  Alekhin could be right. Perhaps they wasted time searching villages and towns, watching the borders. If the man had reverted to living like an Indian, he would certainly be in the forest. Cold it might be, but the aborigines had lived there for thousands of years. It still might be done.

  So? What was the situation? Kyra would find the village where the informant had said there was a woman. Suvarov could move into action from Nel’kan. And Alekhin was on the Indian’s trail from the vicinity of the helicopter crash.

  But think of it! Three men gone and a helicopter! Kyra was right, as usual; let the report stand. No use to muddy the waters.

  Of course, there was Shepilov, but Shepilov be damned!

  *

  EVGENY ZHIKAREV STOOD alone in the night watching the truck disappear along the bumpy road.

  Potanin had taken leave and gone to Yakutsk. A Lieutenant Baransky was now in charge, a stickler for the rules. Standing in the darkness on his crippled feet, he wondered what he should do.

  He dared not return to his shop. He would be questioned, and he had been through all that. His escape was cut off for the time being, and to think of all that nice money awaiting him in Hong Kong!

  He could not think of that now. To attempt to get past Baransky would be to ruin all he had planned. Baransky would either arrest him or report him if he suggested he had business over the line. He would be arrested, questioned—

  No. That was out of the question. So what to do? After all, he was a trader in furs and a few other things as well, and there were others like him, and they knew each other. For the sake of business it was important they know each other. So what to do?

  He needed time. Two weeks, perhaps a month, before Potanin was back on the border. He would come back broke, or he was like no soldier Zhikarev had ever known. Broke and ready to do business. So he had only to wait, but where?

  Khabarovsk? His cousin was there, doing a little business in furs but holding some government job as well. On the coast, though, was another cousin at a little place on Olga Bay. That might be safer, but was further away, almost twice as far.

  Hobbling on his crippled feet and using a cane to good effect, he started down the street to a place he knew. The street was empty. What would he say if a patrol came by?

  He heard a confused sound of voices behind him, and he hurriedly drew back into an opening between two buildings.

  A gang of hooligans, and if they found him they would certainly rob and beat him. They might even kill him. Such gangs had become common in Russia. Not long ago, one such gang had beaten an engineer to death to rob him of his blue jeans. Fortunately, these had not seen him. They went back in a straggling group, shouting obscenities at each other.

  When he reached the place he sought, several trucks were preparing to leave. Known to several of the drivers, he soon found a ride to Khabarovsk.

  The driver was talkative. Zhikarev would have preferred to sleep, but he knew there was no better source of information than these drivers, who were continually on the move. What they had not seen themselves they heard from other drivers.

  “How are things along the coast?”

  “Quiet. Fishing’s good, they say.” He jerked his head toward the rear. “Back there is trouble. A prisoner has escaped, and he must be a big one. They are asking all sorts of questions. I tell them nothing. Let them find out, if they can.

  “Khabarovsk is busy. Filled with soldiers. Builders, too. Always a lot of construction in Khab.”

  He droned on, talking of this and that, and Zhikarev listened, but with only half his attention. He simply wanted to rest.

  “Going on this time. Only stopping in Khab for fuel. Going on to the coast.”

  Zhikarev’s eyes opened. “To the seacoast? I have a cousin at Olga Bay. I have been thinking—”

  “Stay with me. I can take you right there.”

  “I would like that. I would like it very much.”

  “Cost you,” the driver glanced at him, wondering how much the little man was good for. Not much, probably. Might be better just to get him off into the mountains and—

  No, no. He had connections. If he did not turn up where he was going, the word would get out. Maybe to the KGB, but more likely to his own people. This one was into furs, and those fur dealers and trappers all worked together.

  Try something on one of them and you ended up with your truck in a ditch and your head bashed in. Not for him; he had too many dark and lonely roads to drive.

  “Last time I drove to the coast,” he said, “I saw a tiger. Big one, too. Right in the middle of the road. Looked as big as a cow. Jumped out of the way.

  “Beautiful over there, beyond the Sikhote Alins. Like to live there when I settle down. If I ever do.” He swung the heavy truck around a wide curve. There was no traffic on the road. “My girl says no. She likes cities. Wants to live in Khab. Excitement, she says.

  “Excitement, huh! She should drive this truck for a while! She’d see excitement!

  “Take last night. KGB all over the place. Getting ready to raid some place in the forest. Must have been fifty of them; soldiers, too!”

  Zhikarev listened, only half awake. It began to seem that he had decided to move just at the right time. There were furs in his shop, but he had left papers consigning them to Wulff. He chuckled. Let Wulff explain that.

  “Where d’you want to go, exactly?” the driver was asking.

  “Olga,” he said. “My cousin’s there.”

  “Oh, sure! Used to be a tiny place. When I was a youngster I was there once, only a customs house and a barracks there then. Now it’s become quite a place.

  “Seafood! Best anywhere around. Fresh caught, right from the bay or the Sea of Japan! Tetyukhe Bay is right along the coast there. Know it well. Plastun Bay, too. Everybody eats well around there! Fish, all kinds, ducks, geese, venison, whatever you want. That girl of mine, she likes the bright lights and the dancing! Me, I like to eat well! I like to fish, myself. Well, I’ll just have to talk her into it.”

  Zhikarev slept, uneasily, bouncing around on the rough road, listening to the drone of the driver’s voice. It was warm in the truck’s cab and the driver had covered the seat with sheepskin.

  Suddenly, a long time later, the truck pulled over into the shadows under some trees. A hand touched Zhikarev’s shoulder.

  “Go over there under the trees. It will be cold, but you wait there.”

  Zhikarev gathered himself and buttoned his heavy coat. He took up his cane and got clumsily down from the cab.

  “Pick you up on my way out from Khab.” The driver hesitated and then said, “I would stay hidden was I you. The word’s out to pick up a man with crippled feet. Might be using a cane.”

  The truck rolled away, pushing an avenue of light before it. How long had he ridden? For days and nights, it seemed.

  So they were looking for him? Well, he had expected it. This driver seemed a decent sort. If he could only get to the coast. Nobody knew about his cousin, or he did not believe they did. He could stay there until things quieted down, and then back to the border and after that, Hong Kong.

  It was cold, bitterly cold! Using his cane, he hobbled across the road and into the trees.

  Chapter 22

  *

&n
bsp; PESHKOV MET THEM in Aldan. Colonel Zamatev took an instant dislike to the man, but that was the trouble with this business. You encountered many such, and you had to handle them with gloves for they might know something. Yet they were liars as well as traitors, and one had to be careful. Always, there was the chance of an ambush such as had occurred a few months ago, when several KGB officers were led into a trap and murdered. There was so much crime these days. It was never in the newspapers unless there was a trial and the judgment reported.

  Peshkov would lead them to the village. Stegman glared at him from cold blue eyes. “If anything goes wrong,” he said, “if there is trouble, I will kill you first.”

  Peshkov swallowed. “There will be no trouble. These people will not fight. Most of them are old people or children.”

  *

  HOURS LATER THEY descended on the village. They struck swiftly and from all sides. And they found nothing.

  At one shack, there was an old man sitting in the sun, with several grandchildren playing nearby. Inside the crude hut was an old woman with a samovar, making tea.

  Every other house was empty.

  “I tell you,” Peshkov said desperately, “they were here! The man Stephan Baronas lived there, with his daughter! Day after day I have seen them here!”

  Alekhin looked around the cabin. He touched the ashes of the fire with his fingers. “Cold,” he said. He knew he could find something, and later he would look. He did not like Peshkov and enjoyed seeing the man sweat.

  “They are gone,” Peshkov said. “I cannot understand it.” He was bewildered. “Where would they go? How would they go?”

  “You have led us up a blind alley,” Zamatev said coldly. He walked across to the old man sitting in the sun. “Grandfather”—he pointed—“where are the people who lived in that house?”

  The old man’s eyes were vague. His voice trembled with age. “Salischev? He has gone. I do not…I do not remember when. Long ago, I think. Sometimes campers come.” He looked up, suddenly angry. “Men come and stay; they kill game; they take food from us. They stay in that place or”—he waved a hand—“in one of these. They steal. Evil men—”