Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

Kyra Lebedev was excited, but she masked her feelings. This was a fresh lead and a good one. She must move carefully. If she could bring this off, if she could recapture the American—

“The Sinyaya, you say?”

“It is tributary to the Lena. It joins it well this side of Yakutsk.”

“I know it.” Her tone was sharp. “I know the area very well.” Her eyes were cold. “We will look. If we find nothing, we will be back.”

“I suggest” — her eyes were hard — “you shake up your memory, comrade. I would suggest you begin to remember everything you know about this man Borowsky and these furs.

“Who else has come in here with him? Exactly how often does he bring furs? Why did you suspect the Sinyaya? I had believed it was trapped out.”

She smiled, but attractive as she was, the smile was not nice. “You see, I had an uncle with whom I lived as a child. He was a furrier and a trader in furs.”

She started for the door. “Come, Stegman. It will take only a few hours to visit the Sinyaya and return.” She smiled again. “I hope we are not wasting our time!”

They left, and Stegman closed the door carefully behind them. For a moment after they had gone, Zhikarev did not move. Had he said anything wrong? Quickly, he reviewed the few minutes of conversation. He had hoped to steer them away, and now he was hoping there actually was some trapping on the Sinyaya and its branches. Formerly, it had been good, and during the interval it could have recovered.

He did not know where Borowsky came from. He had made it a policy not to ask questions. He did not wish to know more than was essential to conduct business, and he knew there were escapees and others who did not wish to be found. Wulff knew it, too.

Those people out there in the taiga, they had to live. They were harmless. They had been there for years, some of them, and had done no harm to anyone. All they wanted was to live quietly in the woods.

Wulff had slowly been getting rich from the furs they brought to him and would not want them disturbed. But what was Wulff to Colonel Zamatev? A word or two from Zamatev, and Wulff would find himself a mere clerk in some remote outpost. Zhikarev had seen it happen.

So what to do? Wait and see. But meanwhile to prepare. There was little to do. He had had this in mind for so long, determined never again to go through questioning by the KGB or anyone else. He was one of the few in a position to prepare an escape, a procedure carefully developed over the years through his fur trading.

At a remote post along the Amur he had quietly arranged to buy furs from Manchuria. The officer at the guard post allowed the furs to cross and received small favors in return. After more than a year of this, the officer had permitted Zhikarev to cross to pick up the furs. This had become an established procedure, so all Zhikarev now had to do was to cross and not return.

Would his place be watched?

He knew nothing of this stranger, this man who sent furs along with those of Borowsky and others. He might be the American. Evgeny Zhikarev felt an affinity with the stranger because of his handling of the skins. He treated furs with respect. He was not careless. He did not treat them in a slapdash let’s-get-it-over-with manner. The stranger was known to Borowsky, and Borowsky was a good man.

Now Borowsky might be in serious trouble. Could he warn him?

Zhikarev might be planning to leave Russia, but he would not betray Russia. He loved his country, even though he did not love some of those who governed it. The local officials, anyway. He knew nothing of those in Moscow. At least, nothing more than anyone knew.

A moment’s thought told him he could do nothing for Borowsky. He did not know how to reach him and dared not leave town in any event. Not unless he decided to leave for good.

Then he thought. If he was not watched—

If they found nothing on the Sinyaya they would know he had lied. They would be back.

He must escape now, tonight.

Joe Mack left the dim trail he had been following and went down a steep hill through the aspens. They grew so close together he had to weave his way, often turning sidewise to get through. Here, on the damp leaves and fallen trees he left almost no mark of his passing. He hesitated several times to look carefully around and to listen.

His hiding place was as secure as any such place could be. He had worked his way around on all sides, and a hunter might walk right over the rock above it and never suspect the presence of the overhang. Yet each time he approached it he tried a different route and each time with increasing care. Confidence could breed carelessness.

He wanted to go to the village. Baronas should be back with Borowsky and Botev. They would have news, and they might have money.

He stopped abruptly. A shadow had moved in the forest. He waited, listening. The sound had been ever so slight, and then there had been a movement. This was not a wild animal. It was a man.

Joe Mack drew an arrow from his quiver and waited, bow in hand.

Again there was movement, a sly, cautious movement. Joe Mack was high among the aspen on the side of the hill. He peered through the forest, waiting. There was no way he could get a clear shot at anything, the trees stood so thick. There were few low branches, and those few were dead, black, and bare. He waited. He was an Indian and he understood patience; he understood wild game, and hunting men.

A movement again, something black, something moving with extreme caution, something stalking.

The shadow moved again, briefly glimpsed among the trees. It was a man. It was Peshkov.

He was searching for Joe Mack’s hideout.

They were not within a half mile of it yet, but Peshkov could not know that. He was either looking for the hideout or he was stalking somebody. Not an animal, for in this thick stand of trees there was little chance of finding an animal at this time of day.

Peshkov moved again, crossing in front of Joe Mack but at least a hundred yards away. He was visible only in brief glimpses, as the trees at that distance formed almost a wall, merging one with the other.

Now the man had come into a small clearing. Watching him, Joe Mack decided Peshkov was simply casting about, looking for some indication. He would find nothing where he was, yet had Joe Mack been only a few minutes further along they might have come face to face.

Now he was moving away, and Joe Mack watched him go. At least he knew he was being hunted, and after this he must be doubly careful in going from the village to his hideaway. He remained where he was for several minutes longer, then went down the mountainside, handing himself down from tree to tree.

Returning to the hideaway, he left his furs, then went to the village. Stephan Baronas awaited him with a handful of rubles. “We did well,” he said, “but I am afraid there is trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“We waited outside of town until dark, and we saw a helicopter land. Two people got out, a man and a woman.”

Baronas took up his pipe and methodically stoked it with tobacco. “We do not see helicopters very often. They are used on the big jobs, like building the BAM. Sometimes they drop prospectors off, but as the season grows late we see few of them.”

“Did you know the people?”

“No, but the man, and he seemed subordinate, carried himself with a certain air. You know how it is? I would swear he was KGB or something of the sort. Borowsky had the same feeling.

“We had sold our furs earlier, but Borowsky wished to go back. Often there are things we need that we cannot buy ourselves. Zhikarev has often arranged to get them for us. We were going back to see him.”

“And—?”