Last of the Breed

Chapter 8

That evening, spreading out the reindeer hide, he drew a tracing of each foot. Allowing for the sides, he carefully cut out the selected sections. Bringing up the two sides, he used thin strips to stitch them together at the heel and then at the toe. After trying them on, he made holes for the laces of rawhide.

A hide such as he had before him would easily make nine pair of moccasins. He made only four pair, knowing they would quickly wear out but needing the remainder of the hide for rawhide strings.

For cold weather he would need much better footwear, but there would be time for that later. Moccasins such as these, made from poorly treated skins, would not last long, but for the present they must do. The hide he had used had not been well prepared because of the lack of time and the necessity for travel. Made from a properly treated hide, the moccasins would last much longer.

In the morning, the air was clear and cold. From where he sat his eyes could sweep a broad section of the country. It was forest land, broken by low, raw-backed mountains and wide stretches of marsh. Because of the marsh, travel would be channeled to some degree, so he must move with even greater care.

Joe Mack had discarded his spear, keeping the bow and his quiver of arrows, as well as his sling and a small pouch of stones of a proper size. The knife he had stolen was a good one.

Deliberately, he had kept to the high country, holding to the forest’s edge at timberline. Rarely did he find tracks of humans, yet as he moved he had grown increasingly aware that if he hoped to survive the winter he might have to work his way further south, as well as east. To the south lay the Amur region, where there would be more game but also a greater risk of discovery.

It was midday before he moved, but first he buried the worn-out soles of his boots and their heels. Their discovery might indicate his presence.

To the east was the Olekma, a wide river. Yakov had said crossing might be dangerous, but cross he must.

According to the map Yakov had drawn in the clay the river, flowing at this point from south to north, lay directly before him. Somewhere further south the Olekma took a decided bend toward the west, gaining in width.

Yakov puzzled him. Where was he going, armed as he was? Was there armed anti-Soviet resistance in Siberia? He doubted it. Or was he a thief, associated with a gang of thieves? There had been robberies in the Soviet Union, some of them quite dramatic, but beyond an occasional article printed in their papers and copied in American or European papers, or information gleaned from reports of trials, he knew nothing.

He kept to the cover of the trees. The earth was covered with needles from the pines, and was soft underfoot. When he came within sight of the Olekma, from a high point among the trees he studied what he could see of the stream.

Almost at once he heard the distant mutter of an engine, and then a steam launch came within sight. It was headed upstream, and it carried at least a dozen soldiers.

Searching for him? But how could they know where he was? Had he somehow failed to conceal his presence? Or was this a blanket search across a wide area? Even as he watched, the boat veered in toward the shore. He waited, then watched the soldiers disembark. At once they began making camp.

It was warm in the sunshine, and Joe Mack sat watching the movements in the growing camp. A dozen soldiers — he counted them again — and an officer, perhaps a noncommissioned officer. He could see the sun glint from their weapons. If they were not hunting him, they were certainly hunting somebody or something.

The steamboat, not over forty feet long, had tied up at the bank. It was too far away for him to make out details, but he had the impression that it was old, probably a boat long in use on the river. He should be moving on, but he hoped to get some idea of their direction. Yet once they were under cover of the forest, he would be unable to follow their progress.

Rising and keeping under the trees, he started north along the face of the mountain. Below him and not far from where the soldiers had camped, two streams entered the Olekma, one from either side. The wind was cold and he was glad when he dipped deeper into the forest and away from it. He weaved among the trees, careful to break no branches and leave no obvious sign. His soft moccasins made almost no impression on the needles underfoot.

What awaited him beyond the Olekma he did not know, yet slowly things forgotten were returning to mind — from books he had read long ago and Army orientation lectures.

How to cross the Olekma?

Finding a game trail, he followed it along the mountainside, pausing from time to time to listen. He heard nothing.

When he had walked for what he believed was over two miles he paused to rest and to listen. As he waited, he chewed on some of the dried mutton from the mountain sheep.

If that group of soldiers was hunting him there would be others. Somehow he had given away his presence here, or he had been seen.

The river would be watched. Crossing the Olekma would not be as easy as crossing the Kalar.

Would they try to take him alive? It did not matter. He would be better dead than a prisoner again. But what if he could cross the river in darkness? The nights were growing longer. Could he find some means, some way?

He turned down the slope among the stone pines, taking a diagonal route along the mountainside. Ahead of him was a small stream. He paused before approaching to listen again. Then he went down to the water and followed the stream down toward the main river, pausing often to listen.

He was one man alone in a hostile country, where no man was his friend. He must be prepared to kill or be killed.

Above all, he must remain alert. Although the land before him was virtually uninhabited, there was always the chance of coming up to a hunter or prospector. If he remembered correctly, the Russians were building a new railroad across the country before him. Their Trans-Siberian line ran along the Amur, too close to China for comfort.

Finding a rock under larch trees, closely screened from behind by thick brush, he seated himself. From the flat rock he could look down upon and across the Olekma to study its traffic. This high up, the stream was moving little. For a half hour he scanned the stream, as much as he could see of its shores, and the country around. Across the river there was a narrow belt of what seemed to be low-growing trees and brush, and beyond that the bare mountainside. He watched the shadows gather in the canyons opposite, and he thought he saw a way over the ridge that might offer concealment. Apparently there was a small river that headed up in the mountains opposite, flowing off to the northwest. If he could follow it up to its source near the rim he would be hidden until he had to cross the divide.

Going back into the trees he lay down to rest, staring up into the dark green latticework of evergreen boughs. Slowly, his muscles relaxed and he rested easier. Tonight he must cross the Olekma, strike through the low trees to reach the streambed, and then turn southeast following the stream toward the rim.

To think that only a few weeks ago he had driven in from Edwards Air Force Base to lunch with some friends in Beverly Hills, looking forward to his few days in Alaska. Now he was a fugitive, fleeing for his life in the interior of Siberia.

He was six feet two inches, and when he had left for Alaska he had weighed one ninety. He smiled wryly up into the branches overhead. He doubted if he would weigh more than one seventy-five now, and he would probably be leaner than that before this ordeal was over.

The nights were growing longer and colder. He would need warmer clothing, and he would need, most of all, a place to hole up and wait out the winter.

But where? How?

He slept then, and awakened to a faint stirring in the brush nearby. He sat up, reaching for his weapons.

The stirring stopped. Something was there, watching him. He got to his feet and took up his bow and notched an arrow, waiting. Nothing happened.

The day was gone. Now it would soon be dark. Ignoring whatever was in the brush, he started away, following the stream down toward the Olekma. An animal, he thought, perhaps a wolf prowling in search of prey. But not in search of him.

The river lay suddenly before him, its dark waters glistening in the dim light. There were many willows along the shore and some larger trees he could not make out in the semidarkness. He looked across. He was a good swimmer but not a great one. He had never spent much time in the water. The mountain streams of his Homeland had been narrow, rushing streams, rarely deep. He looked around for a drift log but found none. There was driftwood everywhere, but most of it too light to be of use, except for a few gigantic old floaters that had buried themselves in the mud, their roots splayed out like immense black spiders.

Then he found what he wanted. This time it was a plank, a three-by-twelve fully eight feet long washed down from some lumber mill or construction project. He pushed the plank into the water, sliding it over a log. When the end dropped off the log, it splashed.

Instantly the quiet of the night was ripped apart by the vicious barking of a big dog, and not far away.

A dwelling nearby? He had seen no signs of it. Yet suddenly, not fifty yards off, there was a rectangle of light as a door opened. A gruff voice demanded the dog be still.

The man stood listening; then he admonished the dog in a softer tone and went back inside.

Joe Mack waited until the dog walked back and lay down at the door. Carefully, then, he removed his vest and sweatshirt, wrapped his bow, arrows, and sling, and waded into the water, trying to make no sound.

The water was icy cold, and the night was still. Despite his efforts, the water splashed and the dog came to its feet growling. He pushed off, and the dog rushed down to the water, barking furiously. The door slammed open and the man shouted angrily; then, flashlight in hand, he walked down to the water’s edge.

He was downstream of Joe Mack, and when he flashed the light out upon the water it swept fifty feet away from him. One hand on the heavy plank, Joe Mack swam across the current, but inexorably he was moved down toward the spying, examining light.

Joe Mack, his heart pounding, turned the plank downstream and tried to swim more strongly, going with the current but across the stream. The light swept above him, hesitated, and swung back, as if the man had glimpsed something to arouse his suspicion. Joe Mack let himself sink under the water but kept the plank and its small burden between himself and the light.

The light’s rays reached them, but feebly. Slowly, Mack had been working his way across and downstream, carried by the current at a swifter pace than his swimming could have done. The flashlight touched his burden, but he knew he was by now so far out that the light would reveal nothing but some floating debris.

The light veered away and he heard the man calling to the dog, his light bobbing as he walked back to the house.

It seemed a long time before he reached the opposite bank, and when he at last scrambled ashore on a muddy bank and retrieved his small bundle, he was at least a mile further downstream than he wished to be.

Shivering, he tried to wipe himself dry with a handful of grass. Then he donned his clothes again. They were only partly dry, but brought almost immediate warmth.

Going back on the mudbank, he shoved the plank back into the stream. There was no time to erase the footprints he had made.

Walking swiftly, he pushed his way through the willows into a thick stand of birch. Weaving among the slim white trunks, he climbed steadily, getting away from the river. He entered a forest of mingled birch, mountain ash, bird cherry, and a kind of poplar. When he had a good mile between himself and the river, he slowed his pace. Soon he was going to have to stop, rest, and prepare food. Better still, he would make a hot drink of some sort.

He was tired but he struggled on, holding to the edge of the forest and working his way back north until he reached the stream he had glimpsed coming down from the ridge above him. The streambed was cut into the mountain, offering him cover for his climb up the bare rock.

Only a few shrubs appeared, but considerable moss. It was hard climbing now, all uphill, and morning had come. He would either have to remain hiding in the streambed or cross the ridge in daylight and hope he would not be seen.

If he were to remain in the streambed, there was no chance of being seen unless somebody flew along the ridge or some chance hunter or prospector came upon him. Nor did he know what awaited him on the other side of the ridge.

Finding a mossy bank sheltered from the wind he lay down to let the sun’s warmth take the chill from his flesh. Long ago he had learned to relax completely, to simply rest. He did so now.

The sky was an impossible blue, the soft wind was chill but fresh and pleasant. There, under the open sky, he rested and then slept for a few minutes, awakening refreshed.

He restrung his bow, hung his quiver in place behind his shoulder, and slowly began to work his way up the streambed toward where the stream began, flowing from under the sliderock near the top of the ridge. He mounted slowly, working his way through a vast tumble of broken granite slabs that offered some concealment.

He was behind the slabs when he heard a sudden rumble of heavy machinery, then a shout, and again a rumble, His heart pounding, he squatted behind a slab, waiting and listening. Again he heard it.

In the valley below him some kind of heavy work was under way. He heard the rumble of what had to be a Caterpillar tractor. Easing himself forward he found a place to peer around a boulder and look down into the valley.

Another river! He swore under his breath. But between where he crouched and the river, there was work going on. He could see for more than a mile in either direction, and at least three pieces of heavy equipment were working. A bulldozer, a backhoe, and a third piece that he could not make out. Fifty or sixty men and women with shovels were working down there preparing the roadbed for a railroad.

He swore again, looking at the mountains beyond. Somehow, he would have to cross to the mountains. He would have to get past the railroad bed they were preparing, cross the river, and get into the mountains beyond.

Somehow, but how?

From his pack he took another bit of the dried mutton. It was stiff, hard, and cold, but he bit off a piece and began to chew, studying the situation.

At night, they would surely stop at night. He had heard of this railroad, had known it would be somewhere ahead of him, but just where he had not known.

Something moved! He turned sharply, half rising. He was looking into the business end of a pistol. The man holding the pistol was thirty feet away, standing with his feet apart, staring at him. It was a narrow, scholarly sort of face, and the man had sandy red hair and cool, blue-gray eyes.

Joe Mack looked at the gun and considered the distance. His muscles tensed. He leaned slightly forward.