Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (7 page)

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.”

Yakov accepted it, and Joe Mack went to the pack for another piece. They chewed in silence.

“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.”

He got to his feet. “I go back now. It is far to go. You spik my name.” He shrugged. “I do not know. It is a woman who spik yes or no.” He waved a hand. “You go.”

Joe Mack stood and watched him go, but Yakov did not look back. Again he looked at the crude map drawn in the clay; then he rubbed it out.

Yakov, a strange one. He had ferried Joe Mack across the river, set him on his path and then returned to doing whatever had been on his mind. Whatever it was required an AK-47.

A woman who says yes or no? What manner of woman? He had read of beautiful Russian women, but that was in Tsarist days. The only Soviet women he had encountered had been Russian athletes whose femininity was doubtful, to say the least. He had seen others in photographs, but with the clothes they wore it was hard to say if they were attractive.

In any event, that was a bridge he did not propose to cross. Somewhere to the eastward he would find shelter and somehow endure the winter.

Yakov had taken him across the river, and for that he was grateful. Now he must survive, and that night by the campfire he worked at his bow, tapering it slightly, testing it from time to time by bending it over his knee. And that night it was cold, so very, very cold. Merely a taste of what was to come.

In the morning he made arrows, choosing the light wood with care, straightening and smoothing them. After two days he started on, his arrow shafts carried in a crude quiver until such a time as he could make better.

Ahead somewhere was the Olekma River, and he knew the name. Often he had sat with flyers who knew or had studied Siberia.

He knew that four of the greatest rivers in the world poured out of Siberia—the Ob, the Yenisei, the Lena, and the Amur. He knew that the United States was more than 3,000,000 square miles, but that Siberia was more than 5,000,000, and there were vast areas still almost unknown except to native peoples.

From obsidian, found the second night after leaving Yakov, he chipped out arrowheads that were masterpieces of the art. As he worked he studied the country. No matter where he stopped he must ever be alert, watching the country, noting every subtle change of air or wind.

Yet now, for the first time since leaving home as a small child to attend school, he was lonely. Not for people, but for something else, he felt some indescribable yearning, some reaching out from within him, some strange wanting.

He looked now across the vastness that lay before him, from the bare and icy mountains that arose around him, across the forest to the bare knife ridges that hacked the sky, and he felt that longing again.

If tonight he should die, who would remember? Who would inter his body? Burn his flesh? He would be left to the wolves and the gluttons, to the vultures and the ants. He would have come and gone and left nothing behind by which he could be remembered. He had no wife, no son, no daughter.

He was what a Sioux had been bred to be, a warrior. Of the four virtues expected of a warrior, he had two, bravery and fortitude. Did he have generosity? And wisdom?

When he was a boy and killed meat, there were no others with whom to share it. Yet when he had left for school he had given his favorite horse to a friend. At the university, except for those with whom he played football or went out for track, he walked alone. He was, because of his extensive reading and his grandfather’s guidance, an apt and ready pupil. He learned quickly and was diligent as well. He knew women were attracted to him, and he danced well, but he was not drawn to any particular girl. He kept much to himself, and with each vacation he vanished into the mountains. He felt no enmity toward the white man. They had superior weapons and better strategy, and he recognized that fact. The white man occupied the land, but the Sioux had taken the Black Hills from the Kiowa, and they in turn had taken it from others.

He was fiercely proud and walked tall, proud of being an Indian and proud of his place in the white man’s world. He had known from childhood that he would be a soldier; the flying came later. He found he had an immediate grasp of the necessities of flying and an instinctive appreciation for a finely tuned machine. He liked flying and he liked testing. He liked taking a machine to its utmost and just a little beyond, and his skills and his ear enabled him to detect the slightest weakness or tendency toward weakness.

He had known at once why the Russians had seized him, and he was determined to give them nothing. Escape had been the first thing in his mind, and he had been alert for any chance. His eye had measured the wire, the distance to the forest, the time needed. He had noted the slender pipe and remembered using it as a young boy. It lacked the resilience of contemporary poles but was not unlike those used in earlier competition.

He had known at once what he must do and how to do it. The Englishman’s aid had been an unexpected plus that had made all the difference. To escape was one thing, to remain alive another. If he died or was killed before returning to America, his victory would be only half won. If he escaped Russia and survived he would count it a complete victory and a real coup.

A little mutton was left, but he needed another kill. Now, however, he had a bow and arrows.

When morning came again, he arose and walked upon the mountain, and the ghosts of Red Cloud and Gall walked beside him. Perhaps the ghosts of even older Indians were there also, those who first followed this same trail to America, following the game out of Asia and into what we foolishly call the New World.

New it was to the first Europeans, but an old, old world to others who had come before, and the trails they had followed were ancient trails, worn deep in the forest, deep in the tundra.

Joe Mack, an officer and a gentleman, was once more the savage his ancestors had been, including that noble Scotsman whose ancestors had bloodied their claymores in the flesh of enemy clansmen.

When the evening came he descended to a small stream and slew a reindeer that had come to drink. In the chill of evening he skinned out the beast, chose the cuts of meat, and roasted them over a fire. Other meat he cut into strips as his family had done and dried them over a small fire, while far into the cold night he scraped the staked-out hide and cut the sinews from the reindeer’s shoulders to make yet another, and better, bowstring.

Over his small fire, sheltered by rocks and trees so that no glimmer escaped, he muttered the songs of his people, red and white, pausing only from time to listen.

The wind was rising, the wind was cold. The stars were very bright, and in the north there was a hint of the northern lights high in the sky. The wind moaned in the stone pine thickets, rustling the leaves of the aspen just below. Old ghosts walked the night, peering as he did into the small dancing flame. The fire was scarcely enough to warm him, yet the flickering flames spoke to him in the poetry of his people.

Somewhere out in the darkness something moved, something other than the wind, something huge and ominous. “Old Bear,” Joe Mack spoke aloud, “go back from where you came. I want your meat, your hide, and your fat, but not tonight.

“Go back, Old Bear, and tell your cubs that tonight you saw a Sioux warrior and he let you live because he had killed enough for the day.”

He awakened to a cold gray morning and stirred his dull ashes to life, rubbing his muscles to restore circulation. The wind that had moaned the long night through moaned still, and southward ran the streams, hurrying their waters away to a warmer land.

“Be warm, my body,” Joe Mack said, “you will suffer worse than this!”

He folded his reindeer hide and gathered his bow and arrows.

The shoes on his feet were worn and torn by the rocks of the trail. “Tonight,” he told himself, “I will make moccasins.”

Chapter 8

T
HAT 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.