He owned two pairs of blue jeans from America, a few rock and roll records, and even some American books translated into Russian.
He had read everything he could find written by Jack London, and because of that he had strong sympathy for that lone American out there in the taiga. If he had seen him, he would have reported it promptly, but nonetheless, he sympathized with him. Someone had said the man was a Sioux Indian, and Peter Petrovich had read an account of the Battle of the Little Big Horn.
They said the Indian had been a flyer, and he could not imagine that. It seemed impossible. Yet there were Yakut flyers, and one of his favorite writers was a Yakut. He himself was from Kiev. He had volunteered to come to Siberia because the pay was so much greater and the chances for advancement were better.
He drove back to his building and put the car in the garage. He was thinking of a mug of tea with maybe a touch of vodka to take away the chill.
He opened his door and stepped in, closing the door carefully behind him. Now, to relax! To have his tea, the drop of vodka, and to read!
He turned away from the door and looked into the muzzle of a pistol.
The man holding the gun was the American. He was the Indian. And the gun was very steady; the gray, icy eyes held no mercy.
“First,” the American said, “we will eat.”
Chapter 27
*
PETER PETROVICH WAS surprised, not only by the American’s presence but by his reaction to it. He was not afraid. He was not even nervous.
“I am hungry, too,” he spoke in English. “You can put down that gun.”
“Thank you, but we have an affinity for one another, this gun and I. Be careful, because I do not want to kill you.”
“You had less compassion for the man in the car.”
“He tried to shoot at me, leaving me small choice. One of us had to die, and I was reluctant, as you can imagine.”
“You can’t get away, you know. They are following you. Alekhin himself is here.”
“Here?”
“He was here. He’s flown north now, as he judged you would be going that way. He flew to Kurun-Uryakh, on the Maya.”
Peter was heating up some stew. It smelled very good. “Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Either is all right. I’ve been drinking tea here in your country. I prefer coffee.”
“So do I.” Peter glanced at him. “They tell me you are an Indian?”
“A Sioux. The term Indian is too indefinite. It is like saying European.”
“But you have gray eyes?”
“One grandfather was a Scot. But it is not unusual. Crazy Horse had gray eyes and sandy hair.”
It was warm in the room. The smells of stew and coffee and the warmth were lulling him into comfort. Deliberately, he stood up. “Are you likely to have visitors?”
“No. They know that I read much at night. Unless someone comes looking for you.”
“If they do, please stay out of it. I would not want to kill a good cook.”
Peter smiled. “I am not a hero. When you are gone I shall report it at once. You understand that?”
“Of course.” He tucked the pistol behind his belt. “They were all ready for me up north, so I circled around. I doubted they would expect me to come back here.”
They talked quietly, and Joe Mack tried to keep talking. The warmth and the comfort were making him sleepy. To go to sleep would be fatal. He doubted if this young man would attack him, but he would certainly try to capture him. To gain possession of his gun, at least.
When the stew was ready they sat down on opposite sides of the table, with Joe Mack facing the door. The window was thick with frost, and he doubted anyone could see in.
“Don’t be ambitious,” Joe Mack said, “because I have the gun in my belt. I am very quick.”
“I have heard about your cowboys and the fast draw. Is it true, then? Were there really gunfights like in the films?”
“Much more so. Of course, you had them here, too, only you called them duels. Your poet Pushkin was killed in one.”
“You know Pushkin?” Peter was surprised.
“Of course. I’ve read many of your Russian writers.”
The stew was good, and for a time they ate in silence. Joe Mack was listening, waiting for a noise from outside and hoping it would not come.
His eyes searched the room. This man read a great deal. There were maps, also. He would have a look at those. He finished the stew and poured coffee for both.
“You do not appear like a savage.”
Joe Mack smiled. “Most Indians are not. They are civilized, industrious people.” His eyes met those of Peter Petrovich. “I am not like them. I am a savage.”
“But—”
He gestured. “All this—the forest, the wilderness—it is my home. With each day I find myself regressing. In here”—he put a hand over his heart—“I am an unreconstructed Indian. I am supposed to be escaping, and to win my own battle, I must escape. Nevertheless, in many ways I’d rather stay here.”
“Become a Russian? But I am sure that can be arranged.”
“They have already made offers. But you misunderstand. I am tempted not to try to escape but to remain here, in the forest, and wage my own private war against the Soviet Union.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“Is it? Perhaps. But your people declared war on me. They forced my plane down at sea, captured me, and intended to question me. When that was over they would have killed me, I believe.” He emptied his cup. “It was demeaning and to me, an insult.”
Peter Petrovich refilled both their cups. “You Americans are preparing for war. We have to know how you are preparing.”
“Americans do not want war. No sensible person does. Why should we? We have all we need. What we do not have, we can make or buy. We can travel to any place in the world. We have no Berlin Wall to prevent it.”
“Many of us travel, too,” Peter declared.
“Of course. There are thousands of you in Afghanistan, and many are dying there. Perhaps travel is bad for Russians.” He smiled. “But we need get in no discussion; I am sure we’d not agree. But if we talk about books?”
“I am curious about you.”
“So was Colonel Zamatev. But to him I was nothing, something to be used and cast aside. This is an offense against my country, but it is also an offense against me, and for this he shall pay.”
Peter Petrovich smiled, incredulously. “Pay? How can you make him pay? You cannot even see him. You cannot get to where he is; you cannot reach him in any way. You are simply one prisoner among many.”
“I am different. I am the prisoner who escaped.”
Peter shrugged. “It will not matter. Here, why don’t you surrender to me? I shall see if I cannot arrange some special treatment.”
Joe Mack got to his feet again. He hated the thought of going out again into the cold, of finding a place to sleep in a snowbank, but there was no choice. If he slept here, he would sleep too soundly. Even if he tied Peter Petrovich tightly, he still would not be safe. The man might work himself free.
“Put together a package of food. Move carefully now, and make no mistakes.” He pointed at the items he wanted and watched the pack being made up. His eyes strayed, taking in everything. “You have a pistol?”
Peter hesitated. “In the forest it is necessary to be armed. There are wild animals as well as brigands.”
“Brigands, in the Soviet Union?”
“They have always been here. It is their life. They rob and they steal, and often they kill.”
“All the more reason I should have another weapon or more ammunition for this one.”
He gestured with the pistol barrel. “Be quick. I have no more time.”
“You will freeze. It is more than forty below out there.”
“It has been much colder.” He gathered the package and backed to the door. Then he said, “Put your hands behind you.”
“Now see here—!
”
“Would you rather have me bend my pistol barrel over your skull?”
When he had Peter nicely tied, he picked him up and dropped him on the bed. Then he put fuel on the fire. “Just so you won’t freeze. By the time that burns down it will be morning, and someone will come.”
He rummaged through the drawers and found what he wanted, a double handful of cartridges for his own pistol, a common enough type. He turned the light down and then gathered his gear and went into the night. Quickly he rounded the house and headed east, picking up his crudely made snowshoes as he went. He walked rapidly and steadily eastward toward the sea.
Hours later he turned north, changed direction several times, and then veered back to the north again. Removing the snowshoes, he slung them on his back over his pack and hit a forest trail in a long, easy run. By daylight, he believed, he was more than twenty miles from the village.
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 snowdrifted 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.
Chapter 28
*
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.”
Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) Page 22