Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

“Do you have visitors?”

“Me?” she snorted. “I do not.” She indicated the bench. “Sleep there, and when the day comes, be off with you.”

“All right,” he said. She had taken little of the meat. He took out more. He guessed it was about ten pounds. “Keep this. You’re a fine woman, and you have shared with me.”

He slept well and quietly, and when dawn came and his eyes opened, she was already at the fire.

“There’s tea. Drink it and be gone.” She stood up, looking at him. “I have had time to think and I know who you are, although you could pass for an Ostyak with some.”

He ate, drank the tea, put on his coat, and shouldered the pack.

“You’re a good woman,” he said. “I shall pray for you and yours.”

“Pray, is it? A long time since I’ve heard of that. Not since I was a small girl and we had churches where I lived, and priests. Well, pray if you will. I could do with a few prayers. Now be off with you, and if you say you have seen me, I shall say you lied.”

“Of course.” He smiled suddenly. “But don’t forget there’s a man walking away who will hold a place for you in his memory.”

He went out and walked quickly, taking a forest path. When he looked back she was standing there, watching him go. He lifted a hand, but she turned and went back into her shack, her warm shack.

Colonel Zamatev spread out the map on his table. “Show me,” he suggested.

Kyra Lebedev put her finger on a spot. “In that vicinity. We have a report. He was seen there, in that place. With a woman.”

“A woman?”

“If we move quickly,” Kyra said, “we can take him. Our informant says he does not live with the others but has a place not far from there. Our informant is not sure but believes he is our man.”

“And the informant? Is he reliable?”

She shrugged. “When it serves his interest. He has reported to us before, but I think it is only when he has personal animosity toward the people reported.”

“There are many such. Nonetheless, if we move quickly, we—”

“You will waste time.” Alekhin spoke for the first time. Kyra thought herself important, and he did not like self-important women. In particular he did not like this Lebedev woman.

“What do you mean?” Zamatev demanded.

“If he was ever there, he is not there now. He is gone.”

“How can you be sure?” Zamatev demanded irritably.

Alekhin got to his feet and moved to the table. He put a thick finger on a mountainside near the head of the Ningam. “What happened there?”

“Nothing that I know of,” Zamatev said. “Oh, yes! One of our search helicopters was lost. It crashed into a mountain or something. I have the report.” He gestured toward a box on the table. “What about it?”

Alekhin looked up from under thick brows. “It was I who found it.”

“And the bodies of the airmen. So?”

“Of two airmen.”

“Two?” He glanced toward the report. “I have not studied it, but there were three men in that helicopter.”

“But only two bodies. Burned beyond recognition.”

“There were three men in the helicopter,” Zamatev replied patiently. “Three. They will find the other body when they have searched further.”

“I have found him.”

“Well, then?”

“I found him on the ground, three miles from the crash site. He had been covered with dirt and brush. He was dead. He had been killed.”

Zamatev sat down, staring at Alekhin. Kyra started to speak, but a gesture silenced her. “What are you saying?”

“The American did it. The Indian.” He put his finger on the map. “The flying machine landed here. One man got out. He was killed, shot in the back with an arrow.”

“An arrow?” Zamatev was suddenly impatient. “What are you talking of? Killed with an arrow?”

“He was shot in the spine. Very good shot. Then the airmen shot. The Indian ran, shooting another arrow into the open door, I think. The pilot was hurt by this arrow. He took off, and the flying machine ran into the mountain in the forest.”

Zamatev stood up, resting his knuckles on the map. “Now let me understand. You are saying this Indian shot one of our helicopters down with a bow and arrow?”

“Men came to the crash site after I found it. They looked around and gathered up burned bones and a few other things. Then they went away.

“I did not go. I stayed three days. I looked to understand. I sifted the burned earth and leaves. I found two arrowheads.”

“One of them was seen by those who checked the crash. It seemed of no importance, just an old arrowhead from ancient times.”

“It was not ancient. No arrowhead in Siberia was made like these. I found two, not one. I think the Indian shot two arrows into the open door.”

Colonel Zamatev sat down again. He was no fool, and if there was one thing Alekhin knew, it was the wilderness evidence left by men and animals. And the third body had been found, he said, some distance from the crash site.

“You are sure about how the third man was killed?”

“I am. There were marks where the flying machine came down. Marks on the ground, in the dirt. There were tracks where the man got out of the machine.

“He stepped backward, with a gun. He had started to turn when the arrow hit him. It was a very good shot. The arrow went through his spine and sank very deep. He is a very strong man, I think.

“Somebody from the machine shot. I found bullet scars on trees, but the Indian was already gone. I tracked him. He ran swiftly to a place further back of the copter, and then he shot two times more. The machine went away, it took off very badly. One runner, or whatever you call it, dragged on the dirt.

“The Indian, he thought maybe the machine had called for help. He covered the body and hurried away.”

“And where is he now?”

Alekhin shrugged. “He went far and very fast, I think.” He got up. “I will find him.”

“Wait! How many men will you need?”

“No men. I will do it. Men walk around all the time, spoil the tracks.” He paused. “Maybe you could alert your soldiers between Oymyakon and Magadan.”

“Alekhin, do you realize what you are saying? That’s an enormous spread of country! It is impossible!”

Alekhin shrugged. “If you want him, you watch. He will go that way; if not now, later. I know him. I feel it here.” He touched his heart. “This man does not think of time. He does not think of distance. The forest is his home.”

“The man,” Zamatev said patiently, “is what the Americans call ‘an officer and a gentleman.’ He is a graduate, with honors, of a university. He is a highly skilled flyer with a considerable knowledge of mechanics and the science of aerial flight. He is—”

“He is an Indian. I see him clear. All you say is true, but here,” Alekhin touched his heart, “he is Indian.

“He has gone to the forest, and his natural home is the forest. Do not look for him in cities. Do not expect him to need what you need. What he must have the forest will give him.”

“Out there he will freeze to death,” Kyra said.

“He has been there. He lives.” Alekhin straightened up. “I will find him. I will kill him.”

“You will not kill him! That’s an order! I want him back here! I want him in prison. He has information we need, and I shall have it. Cripple him if you will. Blind him if you will, but he must be able to talk.”

When the door closed behind him, Zamatev glanced at Kyra. “Can you believe it? A helicopter lost, destroyed by that Indian.”

“The report on the crash has been turned in,” Kyra spoke carefully. “It has already gone on to the bureau.”