Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

He arose and went back off the ridge and followed it toward the southeast. It was easy walking here, with few trees, scattered rock, and nothing but sky above. It was clear and blue, like most skies in this part of the country. He did not hurry, but he made good time. Yet at intervals he stopped to study his back trail. Alekhin would be back there somewhere, or perhaps outguessing him and waiting up ahead. That had been one of the reasons he had changed direction so drastically.

Later that day he killed a musk deer and broiled a steak over the fire. He ate hugely, eating as his forebears had eaten when meat could not be saved and another kill might be days away.

When he had eaten he put out his fire, obliterated as much as possible of the sign it left, and hiked on another two miles before finding a place to sleep.

Somewhere far ahead was the Kolyma River and beyond it mountains of the same name. When he reached those mountains he would follow them toward the northeast.

He was tempted to go into Magadan, just for a change of diet, if no more. He had his suit and he had the white shirt Natalya had made for him. At this time of the year, he might even get away with wearing moccasins. He shook his head. Not with a suit. A new suit, at that. It would draw attention he did not want. Nonetheless, it was a temptation.

There was no trail or path where he now walked, and he kept his eyes open to pick up an animal trail. It was easy to get oneself into a cul-de-sac, not knowing the mountains. If you followed a trail, it was always a way somebody or something had gone before.

It was bitterly cold and getting more so. Before nightfall he would have to get down off the top of the mountain where he now walked. Warm air rises, and if he could find a hiding place on a good slope he would settle in, even if it was early.

He heard the helicopter only a moment before it appeared, and there was nowhere to hide. Hoping they had not seen him he dropped to the ground among some flat rocks, hoping they would take him for snow or even a dead animal. He lay perfectly still, but inside his coat his hand gripped the AK-47.

The copter swung by, not directly overhead, and started on; then it around and came back, flying lower.

They had seen something. They were coming back for him. All right, Joe Mack, he whispered to himself. Get them the first time.

He lay still, and they swung by directly over him, not fifty feet off the ground.

He rolled over as they swung by and let go with a burst just as they began their turn. They were making a tight turn not more than fifty yards away, and they believed he had only a bow and arrows. What they got was totally unexpected.

The copter dipped sharply and then smashed into the ground, tipping slightly and then righting itself. The rotor made a few despairing turns and then slowed to a stop.

Lying behind the rocks — a poor cover at best, for they were very low — Joe Mack watched, ready to fire again.

Nothing happened. Nobody stirred.

He waited a slow count of twenty and still nothing moved. His gun covering the side of the helicopter, he got to his feet. Working his way toward the tail, he kept the gun in position and slowly drew abreast. He heard a low gasping moan, as if someone had tried to move and had been stopped by sheer agony. With his left hand he opened the door.

The pilot lay slumped forward, obviously dead. The man nearest him made a feeble effort to reach for a weapon. “No!” Joe Mack spoke sharply, the muzzle of his gun against the Russian’s side.

He was a young man with a boyish face, but a tough, competent-looking man. In Russian he asked him, “How are you hurt?”

“My legs are broken, I think.”

Quickly, efficiently, he searched the man, taking a pistol from him. Then, with infinite care, he lifted him out of the seat to the ground. From the helicopter he recovered the man’s heavy coat and several blankets. There was a folded emergency tent, and he took that out and laid it on the ground.

“Not much I can do for you,” he said. “I’m no surgeon. Did you get off a call for help?”

“No.”

Joe Mack believed him. There had been no time, no chance. “How soon will they start looking for you?”

“When we do not answer.”

“All right. I’m going to fix you up as warm as I can, and then I’ll leave. Sorry about this, but you shouldn’t have been hunting me.”

“We were not. That is, until we saw something lying there. We were going to pick up a prisoner. A dissident.”

Joe Mack gathered all the coats and blankets from the copter to make the wounded man as warm as possible. As he talked, he built a windbreak of the flat rocks.

“A dissident? I didn’t know you had such things.” He spoke with a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

“We have our share. This is a bad one. He tried to free another prisoner. Did free him, in fact, but was captured himself.”

“Tough.”

“Yes, he is a tough one, as you say. Very strong man and not afraid. Too bad he has become a dissident. We need such men in Russia.”

“So does every country.” A thought came to him suddenly, a wild random thought. Yet why not? “What was his name?”

“Yakov. We do not have a patronymic. He was known to the KGB.”

“You are not KGB?”

“I am a soldier,” the man said. Then, “How will they find me?”

“I shall build a fire and leave some fuel for you. There is much lying about. And I found a flashlight in the plane.” He had found two of them, as a matter of fact. One he intended to keep. He had also found emergency rations, such as every such ship carried in this country, and matches.

He built a small fire and made tea, hot, black, and strong. “Best thing for shock, they tell me.”

He drank some tea himself and moved a packet of the emergency rations close to the wounded man.

“I won’t be able to stay, you know. In fact, I’d best be off and away.”

“I am obliged. You could have killed me.”

“You are a soldier. I am a soldier. In combat I might have killed you or been killed, but you are wounded. It is a different thing.”

“It is said you are a Red Indian?”

Joe Mack smiled. “I am.”

Obviously in pain, the man bit his lip and held himself hard against it. Then he said, “Do not Indians take scalps?”

Joe Mack shrugged. “That was long ago, in another world almost. Yes, it was a way of keeping score. I have never taken one, although in a couple of cases I might be tempted.”

He gathered his things, rummaged in the plane for more ammunition, found it, and took what other rations were available. Then he brought more wood for the fire. There was not a shortage of that, except that it needed gathering.

“It will keep a small fire going, and from up there they will see it easily. I must be off now.” Yet he lingered. “Yakov, you say? Where were you to pick him up?”

“Near Khonuu. It is not far,” he caught himself and was silent for a moment, “if you are flying.”

He paused again. “The KGB are holding him at the airfield.” He glanced up. “I have feeling for him. They will be rough, I think.”

“When were they not? I do not know your country. I did not think there were rebels here.”

The flyer shrugged. “There are none, or at least few who speak out. There is corruption, of course, and the black market. Many are discontented but have faith that everything will be put right.”

Joe Mack went into the darkness and gathered fuel. There were few trees here and scattered, but there was much debris fallen from them and dead trees, blown down or struck by lightning. He dragged some heavy stuff closer.

“You will not escape, you know,” the flyer said. “Alekhin knows where you are. He will find you.”