Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

Alekhin went outside and stood looking around. He could hear the mutter of voices from what they were calling the village. The American would have wanted a way out, a way to leave here quickly if necessary.

Alekhin took his time. He was learning something about this man he was following. Men and animals form habits. They have certain ways of doing things, and once you have visited a camp or two you always know how that man will camp again. You will know what he looks for, how he builds his fires. And this one was cautious.

Alekhin was pleased with the American. The man used his head. Now what would the next step be? He would have wanted an escape route. He would have wanted a second camp and perhaps a third. If the American had been here long, he would have prepared for escape.

When he came upon the opening in the trees, the hair prickled on the back of his neck. Ah? So! He found a faint smudge here, a piece of a track there, and he turned to look back.

Shrewd! The American had chosen a way of escape he knew. It was not straight away; it curved back on itself, but always gave a smooth way to go. He had used this way at night; that was why there were any tracks at all.

Slowly Alekhin was building a store of knowledge about the American. If he had planned such an escape route once, he would do so again. It would be something to remember.

Alekhin turned and walked back to the village. The soldiers were assembling.

Zamatev was irritable. He looked up angrily. “Where have you been?”

“I look about. He was here. I must know what he did here.”

“That old fool knows nothing! Peshkov has lied, I think, hoping for a reward.”

“He did not lie. He is a fool and a traitor, but he did not lie.”

“The American was here?”

“He was.” He jerked his head. “I found his place. It is a good place.” As Zamatev started, Alekhin said, “There is nothing there.”

Zamatev stopped. “You looked around?”

“He wears moccasins now. His boots wore out, so he wears moccasins.”

“Moccasins? Where could he get them? We must find—”

“He made them,” Alekhin interrupted. “He is an Indian. Indians can make soft shoes. He can make clothes to wear. He can live off the country.”

“Can you track him?”

“Of course. No need to track from here. I will go to where the helicopter fell. Track him from there.”

Together they walked back, passing the soldiers, who fell in behind them. One, a noncommissioned officer, saluted. “Shall we burn the places, sir?”

“Let them be,” Zamatev said. “They will come back. Then we will get them.”

When they parted, Alekhin took a helicopter and four men to the site of the crash. “Stay behind me,” he told them, “and stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Maybe we see him.”

“You don’t think he’s still around?”

Alekhin stared at the soldier from his heavy-lidded eyes until the soldier began to sweat and back up. “We do not know what he is doing. We do not guess. This man is dangerous.” He stared at them. “One man died here, and two died up there. He is but one man, but three are dead and a helicopter smashed and burned.”

He looked at them with contempt. “Keep your eyes open or you will be dead, too.”

He cast about for tracks. The Indian was a tall man with a fairly long stride. If you found one track, you looked the approximate length of that stride for another track. This American did not always choose the easy way. He often stepped on stones. He did not have to try to be careful. He was always careful in the woods. It was his nature.

By nightfall he had learned more about the American’s methods of travel.

He did not stop to hunt, so he had a store of food. He had smoked and dried meat back there. Alekhin had not found the rack, but he had found holes where it had been set into the earth. He was carrying a pack. Alekhin could tell that from the increased depth of the tracks since leaving the cave. It was very slight, but it was there.

At the sight of the attack where Joe Mack had killed the soldier, Alekhin had correctly deduced the reason. There was no cover for a man on the ground. When the soldier turned around, he would have been seen.

That night around their fire, Alekhin went over every move in his mind. To follow a trail one had to decide what it was the pursued wanted to do.

To escape? Of course, but to what? To where? It was unlikely the American had friends, so his one object would be to get away, to get out of Siberia, to return to his home. Alekhin had never believed in the border of China. This man was an Indian. He would follow the old migration route, the way the ancient hunters had gone when they followed game into America.

Of course, they had not known they were going to America or even from one continent to another. They had simply gone hunting and followed the game to where they could kill them. And they had continued to follow the game.

The shortest way across the water was at the Bering Strait. He would choose that way. Zamatev had never believed that, but then Zamatev was a city man, a man of the streets and towns.

The American was an Indian. He would go where the game was because that was how he must live. He dared not go to the towns because he did not know the language.

Zamatev could do it his way. Alekhin had no interest in towns.

Zamatev drew the cork from the bottle and filled two glasses. “I came as quickly as possible,” he said.

“I am sorry. When I sent word, I thought they would be there. When we located the village, I did not believe it would be empty.”

“Somebody talked,” Zamatev surmised.

She lifted her glass. “Perhaps. More likely they just got in a panic and fled. I think the American had already gone.”

“Alekhin has his trail. He will get him now.”

“Maybe.”

“You do not believe it?”

“Who knows? This one is different.” She looked across the table at him. “You fly back tomorrow?”

“I must.”

“I shall fly to Magadan. Something might be done from there.”

He nodded. “Grigory is there. He’s a good one.”

“I was thinking of him.” She paused as if uncertain of what to say next. “Shepilov is there, also.”

Zamatev’s glass came down hard on the table. “Shepilov is in Magadan? Why?”

She shrugged. “That is why I am going. He knows something or believes he does. You know how it is with him. He does not move if he does not have to. Something important would be needed to take him to Magadan. He does not like the place.”

“How do you know that?”

“I worked for him. Don’t you remember? It was gossip in the bureau. He did not like Magadan, but he had been posted there once, long ago.”

“So he will have friends there?” Zamatev was thoughtful. “Perhaps he has some word from them? Is that what you believe?”

“Grigory will know.”

“Yes. Do you think he is loyal to me?”

“Oh, yes. He has told me so, and I know he hates Shepilov, as much as he can hate anyone. It isn’t in him, you know.”

“Hate clouds the mind. It is better to have no emotion when it is work. Do what needs to be done, and do it coolly.”

After she was gone he took out the map again. The net was drawing tighter now. They knew where he was. Not exactly — that would come later — but they knew where he had been, and Alekhin was following his trail. Kyra would be in Magadan, and Grigory would know what to do. Suvarov was in Nel’kan, even closer.

But what had taken Shepilov to Magadan? Shepilov would not move from his comforts unless he was sure of something. But Makatozi could not be that far along, not unless he had stolen a plane or caught a ride on one.

Of course, Shepilov would dearly love to capture the American. Zamatev could just see the smug satisfaction on his face.