Louis L'Amour: Last of the Breed

The point was, he knew where the American was. He knew! That kind of knowledge was worth money. It was worth a trade; it was a chance to save Katerina. For a moment he hesitated: Katerina or the money? No, it had to be Katerina. There was one thing he valued above money, and that was his personal comfort. Katerina took care of him. Above all, she understood him. She accepted his foibles, his trickiness, and his weaknesses and took care of him anyway. He could find other women, he knew. Occasionally, he had, but they were too demanding of him, of money, of his time. Katerina took him as he was, and was therefore priceless. Of course, he told himself, he might get a little money on the side, too.

But whom must he speak to? He was far from Magadan now, completely out of touch with anybody there. Besides, if he went back into that town they would arrest him.

It must be somebody nearer, somebody involved in the search. But if he were to bargain for Katerina, it must be someone in command. Someone who could actually say yes or no. That meant, as far as he was concerned, either Shepilov or Zamatev.

He could not deal with Shepilov. That one would have him up and given the treatment until he told whatever he knew. With Zamatev he might bargain, and with Zamatev he had an in. He had Kyra Lebedev.

He would watch a bit longer and see what direction the American took, and then he would head for Evensk.

He held himself very still, waiting. Would he cross among the lakes? It was a long trek, and there was much swampy country down there, still partly frozen, however.

Joe Mack edged along the woods and started off to the north. Waiting only a few minutes longer, Ostap got to his feet and ran down the dim trail toward the road below. Even as he approached it, he heard the sound of motors and saw four cars coming along the road toward Evensk. The cars slowed and stopped when they saw him, and a man in the lead car motioned for him to approach.

Wary, but unable to avoid the meeting, he went up to the man who had motioned. He had never seen him before, but he knew at once that he faced the legend. This was Alekhin.

“Where are you going?”

“To Evensk. I must speak to Colonel Arkady Zamatev or to Comrade Lebedev.”

Alekhin eyed him thoughtfully, his flat, heavy-lidded eyes revealing nothing. “Why must you speak with him?”

Ostap hesitated. If he told Alekhin, he would get nothing, nothing at all. “I have information about the American.” Then, firmly, he added, “It is for one of them only. Nobody else.”

Alekhin stared at him. This one he could twist in his hands. He could wring him out like a rag, but no one intercepted information meant for Zamatev.

Leaning from his seat, he called to the driver behind him. “Boris! Take this one to Evensk! Call Colonel Zamatev! If you cannot, speak to Comrade Lebedev! Quick now! Then bring him back to me unless the Colonel wishes him.”

He looked at Ostap. “You speak to him. Tell him. You better have good information, or I will speak to you after. Go now.”

In Evensk, the connection was not a good one, but Boris got Kyra on the phone for him. “What can you tell us, Ostap?” She sounded abrupt, impatient.

“I have seen him,” he said, “the American.”

“What?”

“I want Katerina released,” he said, “and a little something for our trouble. You see?”

“You have actually seen him?”

“He is not waiting for you,” Ostap said, “but if you move now, he cannot have gone more than a few miles.”

“Describe him.”

Ostap was a good observer. His description was quick, accurate and brief.

“It was one of Alekhin’s men who called. How did you meet him?”

“Alekhin has gone north searching for him. I told him nothing. I want Katerina released.”

“I know,” she replied brusquely, “and a little something for yourself!”

“I could have called Comrade Shepilov,” he replied.

“Katerina will be freed. Take Alekhin to where you saw him. I shall be there within the hour. If this is just a story—!”

“It is not.”

When he left the office he said to Boris, “Take me to Alekhin. I know where the American is.”

“I heard you,” Boris replied. “You should have told him on the road.”

“Katerina is my wife. Shepilov arrested her. I want her free.”

“And a little something for yourself,” Boris said. “All the Soviet Union needs is a few more such patriots.”

Ostap flushed, but he did not reply. Boris was a very tough, competent-looking man. The less said to such a man the better.

Boris was speaking on the radio. Then they drove off, moving rapidly. Ostap hung on desperately as the car careened around sharp curves and raced over bumpy roads that were hardly more than trails.

Alekhin was waiting beside the road. He reached a hand into the car and jerked Ostap out of his seat. “Tell me! Where?”

Frightened, Ostap led the way to where he had stood and pointed. “Over there, at the edge of the trees.”

“Stay back!” Alekhin ordered. Then he walked over. Ostap watched and then said, “By that old tree! To the left!”

Alekhin moved and then stopped and began to look around, very slowly, very carefully. The American left so little sign. He moved a step, looking, then looking again.

Yes, there was a slight indentation in the moss at the foot of the tree. Something or somebody had been there. Slowly, carefully, he began to work out the sign left by the American. As always, there was very little.

He walked back to Boris and indicated what must be done. “There are roads on three sides! I want patrols, very slow patrols! Night and day! He must not escape this area! You understand?”

“I do. It will be done.”

“What of him?” Boris jerked a thumb at Ostap.

“Let him stay. We have no time to take him back. Besides, the Colonel wishes to speak to him.”

Alekhin paused, thinking about it, and then he added, “If we do not have him by dark, I want cars with headlights on the road. I want him taken. I want him stopped. If you must shoot, shoot at his legs. Break his legs, but do not kill him.”

By midday Joe Mack knew he was trapped. Through a gap in the scattered trees he glimpsed several cars on the road below. Moving further north he glimpsed more cars cutting him off in that direction. So they knew he was in here. Somehow they had seen him. Somehow they knew without doubt he was here. Warily he worked his way further north and west into the roughest terrain. They had cornered him in one of the few places around that had roads on three sides, even though they were scarcely more than trails.

At a steady trot, he headed north. They knew where he was, and this time they would not let him get away. He would try, but his chances were slight. They were going to get him, so what could he do?

He could try to escape again, of course, but they would give him no chance this time. They would cripple him or put him so tightly in manacles that he could not escape. Yet, suppose he could?

He would hide his bow and arrows. He would hide his knife. He would hide the little meat he had that was dried and smoked. He would hide his goatskin coat, or better still, the suit and shirt.

Soon they would be making a sweep with helicopters and then ground troops. He could, of course, fight until they killed him, until they had to kill him.

That was one way.

He moved on north into the woods, but when he had gone only a little further he saw from a mountain ridge, saw afar off, the glint of sunlight on the windshields of cars. He could try to run between them, but they would be expecting that, and they would shoot him down.

As he walked, his eyes searched for a place to hide, any place at all where they might not find him.