Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

He made it. His elbow rested on the edge, and he pulled himself up further and swung a leg to the ledge.

In one awful instant he felt the rock under his elbow crumble, and then he fell.

He seemed to fall for a long time, and then he struck with a moment of stabbing agony and then brutal, unendurable pain. He lay on the rocks, half in the icy water, and stared up at the feeble light far above and knew his back was broken.

Evgeny Zhikarev had waited and planned too long to accept defeat. Carefully, through his friends among the traders and dealers in furs, he put out feelers. From here and there he received news. An order had gone out for the arrest of Stephan and Natalya Baronas. Zamatev was rounding up all who had had meetings or contact with the American, who was still at large. The village had been deserted, Botev and Borowsky had disappeared, and so had Baronas and his daughter. Evgeny Zhikarev knew his own time was short. Undoubtedly, an order for his arrest was already out.

He was not a man to panic. He did not plan to be taken again. He had gone that route, with crippled feet to show for it, as well as some other scars.

His cousin was growing restless, and he knew that his cousin wished he would go away. It had been a warm, wonderful visit, but as the visit lengthened the cousin’s patience grew shorter. No matter, he was going.

He would go suddenly, without warning, for who knew about relatives these days? Which could you trust, if any? The Soviet system was founded upon suspicion and distrust.

He had gone down into the town, taking his time, for he could walk but slowly. It was warm in the sun, and there was no snow in the town, although he could see it on the mountains. He had learned to use his eyes and ears and to pay attention, so within a short time he knew the business and the activities of most people along the street. Trucks and vans came here, unloading goods or loading furs, and he watched for a familiar face.

Suddenly he sighted someone he knew. He started forward and then relaxed. His truck driver friend was involved with the black market, among other things, and might not wish to be seen. However, glancing over, the driver saw him and came over. “Still here? What do you know? I saw Potanin the other day!”

“Potanin?” Zhikarev concealed his excitement. “Where?”

“He’s got a post near Iman now.” He lowered his voice. “Up to his old tricks, too. If you’ve got some furs—?”

“Are you going that way?”

“Midnight.” He glanced around, “Furs,” he said, “Potanin an’ me. Trouble is, we’ve nobody over the river. You know?”

Evgeny Zhikarev forced expression from his face. “There’s a man in Hulin, just across the river,” he suggested.

“His name?” The driver was excited. “Just the one I need!”

Zhikarev shook his head. “It is not that simple. He is not Chinese, and he had relatives in Yakutia. If it should be discovered that he was involved in anything, they might suffer. He will deal, but only with people whom he knows.”

“Could you come? You know Potanin. He trusts you. It is a big deal, and for you there would be something. You could have an edge of the deal.”

“Well,” he seemed to hesitate. “I am happy here, but — well, I like to be dealing. This—” he waved a hand, “is a bit tame.”

“At midnight, you say? Here?”

“Right here.”

“Expect me,” he said, and hobbled away along the street.

Iman! It was right on the river! If he could not wangle some way to cross the border to make their deal, he would be surprised. This was it, his great chance. He must be careful not to betray himself to his cousin or his family.

There was always the risk, too, that the truck would be stopped and inspected. There were few roads and they were watched, although carelessly.

When he stepped into the house his cousin was waiting for him, along with his wife and their son, their faces stern.

“Evgeny Ivanovich,” his cousin said, “I must ask you to leave this house.”

Evgeny Zhikarev tried to look startled. “Leave? Why?”

“We have just heard it. You are to be arrested. The KGB looks for you. We cannot afford—”

“Of course,” he said, and waved a hand. “I shall leave at once. I would not wish you to be troubled because of me. I did not know, but—”

They had expected trouble. They had expected argument, pleading. They were both astonished and overjoyed.

“Please. Think no more about it. You are my own cousin. You have a wife, a family! However,” he paused, “if you could make up a little bundle? Some food? Anything to keep me alive?”

“Of course! Sonya?”

She hustled about while he gathered his few things. This was easy, almost too easy. So they knew of the order for his arrest? Where were the KGB then? Or was it GRU? He must be careful, and if he could get away, it would be none too soon.

“But how—?” said his cousin.

He put a finger to his lips and looked sly. “I know a fisherman! A good man! He will take me up the coast to Magadan.”

At midnight, when the truck drew alongside, he was ready to move from the dark doorway where he waited.

He heard it rumbling over the pavement before it reached him, and he was prepared. Despite his crippled feet, he moved quickly when the door opened. He scrambled in, and the truck roared off before he was fairly seated.

“I am taking a risk, my friend,” the driver said. “For anyone else I’d not do it, but we have made a bit together, you and I, and perhaps again, but now they search for you. I’d be arrested if they found you in my truck, so keep low and sit well back. The fewer who see you the better.”

“You have heard something?”

“They look for you. Look everywhere.” The driver glanced at him. “They must think you important.”

“It is the American, the one they search for. Maybe some of the furs I bought were trapped by him. At least, that is what they think. I know nothing! I never saw the man! Some of the furs — well, let us say they were different. Let us say I recognized a strange hand. But know? I knew nothing. I know nothing! I do not wish to be questioned, that is all.”

“Is Iman good for you, then? I hope so. I can’t risk taking you further.”

“You say Potanin is there?”

“He is. We did some business. Oh, just a little bit! But he is hungry, that one! He has found a woman, and she makes demands! If you have a proposition, I promise you he will listen.”

The truck rumbled on, climbing a steep, winding road. Evgeny Zhikarev leaned back and closed his eyes, praying to an almost forgotten God. “Please, dear God! Just this once! Let me escape them! Let me cross the river into China! I haven’t the strength anymore!” He whispered it in his mind, praying, fearful of what lay ahead and of what came from behind.

The dark walls of the forest closed down. Thank God he was not out there, walking that dark forest in the snow!

Where could the American be? How could he escape them? As a boy he had traveled through the dismal forests of fir in the urman, or taiga, in western Siberia. He had been frightened, terribly frightened of the bears, although he had never seen one. And in the eastern forests, he had been afraid of the tigers, and he had seen one take a woman from a field.

There were tigers here, in this forest. He spoke aloud, saying that, and the driver nodded. “Saw one my last trip. Big fellow, standing in the road when my lights caught him. He wasn’t afraid, either! Not afraid of me or the truck. He crouched, and for a moment I thought he was going to jump right over the lights at me. I swerved, almost skidded off the road, but when I got the truck straightened out he was gone!”

They rumbled on into the night and Zhikarev slept, awakened, and slept again.