Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

He swore bitterly. Why must this happen just when all was proceeding so well? Now his future was on the line. All he had done, his years of work, his careful cultivation of the right people, all could be wasted because of this one man, this American!

He returned to the map. Alekhin would find him. He had never failed, and now for the first time he was officially involved. He had been looking around, asking questions here and there; this Zamatev knew. Now he was involved, and he would discover the American.

Yet he was full of doubt. So many weeks and never even a sighting of the man!

Miles away to the south and east a heavy truck rolled through the night. The road was bad, filled with potholes and unexpected swells or breaks in the surfacing. Permafrost made the building of roads difficult, their maintenance even harder.

It was dark in the cab, only the faint light from the instrument panel picking up highlights on their faces and throwing cheeks and eyes into black shadows.

“I can only take you to Zavitinsk this time,” the driver was saying, “and I can pick you up in six days’ time when I am on my way back.”

“That will be all right,” Zhikarev said. “I will pay as usual. Half when you let me off in Zavitinsk and half when you get me back to Aldan.”

“Fine! I got the same from Potanin when I took him to Yakutsk.”

Zhikarev thought he would faint. His heart seemed to miss a beat, and it was a moment before he caught his breath. “Potanin? You took Lieutenant Potanin to Yakutsk?”

“First leave he’s had in two years. He needed rest. That border watch is hard, hard! No telling what those Chinese will do.” The driver looked around at him. “Hey! Are you all right?”

“I’m all right.” Zhikarev drew a slow, hopeless breath. “Who took his place?”

“Lieutenant Baransky. No nonsense about him! He’s a cold fish! Goes by the book!” The driver glanced at Zhikarev. “If you have any idea of dealing across the river, forget it.”

Zhikarev leaned back against the seat. His heart beat slowly, heavily. He had come all this way! And back in Aldan—

Huddled over his fire, Joe Mack took out the map he had stolen in the railroad camp. It was far too general for day-to-day use, but enabled him to get the large picture of what he was attempting.

His problem was one that must be faced each morning, and as his grandfather used to say, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Each day must be approached as a unit; each day must be lived with care; and if this was done, the procession of days would turn out all right.

Tomorrow must be a shadow at the back of his thinking, something of which he must think while living out today.

He must try to get other, more detailed maps. He must try to think out his route while being ready to adapt to any change of plan. He must smoke and dry meat so he could move rapidly once on the way.

Before he left here, he must have a series of goals in mind, each one to be mentally checked off when he reached it. Above all, he must be prepared to move on the instant, from here or from anywhere he stopped. He could not afford to become emotionally involved… now why did he think of that?

He shook his head to clear the thought. He was not involved, and it was not likely he would be. Not here, not in Siberia.

He knew they were searching for him, and he knew they were thorough. He knew that at first the search had been quick but haphazard, for in the beginning there had been no doubt he would be recaptured at once. Those first few days had seen them sweeping the area where he should have been. He had not been there because he had traveled too fast and had then taken to the river. Above all, he had stayed in wild country. Now the search would be slow, painstaking and would use every possible angle.

He believed he was now in an area where he would not be expected to be. He did not believe they had any idea where he was and hoped they did not. Yet there was doubt. Suppose they did know? That he must consider.

Each day he hunted; each night he dried meat. He delivered meat to the village and kept them living better than ever before. Constantly, he was told that, and because of that most of them wanted him to stay, at least until spring.

Again and again he went to the house of Stephan Baronas, and each night he learned a little Russian. He could ask simple questions now and was beginning to form sentences. His knowledge was increasing, and it was possible even now that he could get along, for there were many ethnic groups in Siberia, many of whom had little if any Russian, Each had its own tongue, and they spoke Russian, if at all, only as a foreign language.

He now had more than fifty pounds of meat, dried and smoked, and in the intense cold there was no question but that it would keep.

His plan was to follow down the Gonam River to where it met the Uchur, cross that river and head across country to the Maya and then to the Udoma, and follow it upstream and then cross the mountains to the Kolyma. It was but a general plan, and the chances of keeping to it were slight, yet it was that route or something akin to it that he must follow.

The distance he must cover was incredible, but if he was lucky, part of it could be done floating on rivers. That was an outside chance and a risk. There was something else he must consider, yet he shied from it. He might have to spend another winter before he could escape.

No use to worry about that. He must face immediate problems. He needed clothing.

He needed Russian clothing of the kind worn in Siberia. His present condition would immediately attract attention, something he did not want. Sooner or later a time was sure to come when he would have to mingle with people, and he must look as they did. His dark skin was not unusual here. The Yakuts, the Tungus, the Golds, and the Buriats were all as dark as he and some darker.

Meanwhile he prepared a way incase of flight. Hiking through the dense forest he found a way that was relatively free of obstacles, one he could run over if need be. In his mind he charted every move, every turn, every step he might take. The chance that he might have to escape over this route was slight. No one could guess where he might be when flight became necessary, but if it happened close to the village or at night from his hideout, he would have the route clearly in mind.

Many miles away, near the head of the Ningam River, he prepared an emergency hideout. The region was isolated, and there was much game which he did not hunt. He might need it at a later time. He found a place where several blown-down trees had lodged in the branches of their neighbors. One, a great spruce, had heavy branches that swept the ground. Under it grew a smaller spruce with a skirt of branches that touched the ground also. Other trees had fallen in such a way that any approach was difficult and it looked like just what it was, a tangle of brush and fallen trees.

Under it he prepared a hideout that was perfectly concealed. Here, too, he planned a way in and another way out, if need be. Heavy growth overhead and the recently fallen spruce provided perfect cover. He gathered fuel and stacked it around in sheltered places, but in such a way that it could have fallen where it lay.

If he had to escape suddenly with nothing but what he wore, he could find shelter here. When time came for him to leave on his escape, he could stop the first night in this place.

That night in the Baronas cabin he said, “I must have some clothing. Is there anyone here who can make it?”

“All of us, after a fashion,” Baronas said, “but not the things you need. They will have to be purchased.”

“You have connections?”

“Of course, but you are larger than any of us but Peshkov, and he is broader in the body than you.” He paused, sipping tea. “You must realize that those who are willing to supply us secretly would be immediately alert if they suspected you had come among us. We are considered Russian even if fugitives. You would be an enemy.”