Louis L'Amour: Last of the Breed

There was nothing but bare rocks, sparse trees, and occasional clusters of birch. North of here there were, he had heard, no trees at all.

He slowed to a walk. He had the AK-47 and some ammunition. He had the pistol. He would cache the pistol, too. But it must be soon.

Well, Joe Mack, he said, you gave them something to worry over. Now we will see. To hold out here, where defensible positions were few, would be wasted effort. He could get a few of them before they got him, but he would not get the ones he wanted.

He walked now, choosing a careful way, ever alert for a place to hide. He found nothing that they would not find within minutes. Some stretches had had many good places for concealment, but this seemed to have none.

Was it all over, then? Talya, he said to himself, you would not like to see this. But we had our dream. We had it for a little while.

He could not give up. He could not surrender. But these men were not the men he wanted. Zamatev was the one and Alekhin. These others were but tools to be used by them. Good men, some of them, men who did what they were told the best they knew how.

He fought to keep cool. Now he must think, he must plan. Night was coming, and with night there might be a chance.

From a ridge he looked down toward the road. Two cars had stopped, and the soldiers were talking. Others were scattered along the road, the road that was barely a trail.

Crouching at the base of a tree, he tried to think of something he might do, anything he could do.

Nothing. There was nothing. He was trapped.

He could expect some rough treatment. He could expect torture. They would take no more chances with him now. He thought of Pennington’s family, never to know their husband and father had not abandoned them.

Never for a moment had he forgotten them or what his message to them would be.

Alekhin! The big Yakut would win after all.

Slowly, carefully, he moved down the slope, keeping from sight. He knew that Alekhin was behind him. He knew his trail was slowly being worked out, and Alekhin would have soldiers with him. There were waiting lines of soldiers and moving cars on three sides now and he was moving down toward the north. Behind him was Alekhin.

He looked at the cars and the men. Could he shoot his way through? There was no chance. There were simply too many, and they were too scattered out.

He crouched by a tree to study a route and saw a long crack in the rock. Suddenly he moved. He laid his bow and arrows in the crack, thrusting the pistol and ammunition into the quiver. When all was hidden, he placed bark over it and then leaves. The earth was too frozen to use.

They had seen him with the AK-47, so he kept it.

He could go down there shooting, but he doubted if they would let their men fire, except at his legs. They wanted him alive, and he did not want to be crippled. If he were crippled, his last chance would be gone. He was going to need his legs.

Zamatev was not down there. Neither was Alekhin.

He walked down the slope and stepped into the open.

“Are you looking for me?” he asked.

They were wary. Slowly, guns pointed, they moved in around him. One jerked the AK-47 from his hand; another, a man in civilian clothes, struck him viciously in the kidney with a rifle butt. He started to fall, caught himself, and remained erect. His hands were jerked behind him and handcuffs put on.

Several men moved in around him, pushing the soldiers away. These were KGB, and there seemed no good feeling between them and the soldiers, who watched with expressionless faces. Joe Mack stared straight ahead, his mind busy.

What else could he have done? He was surrounded, there were too many of them, they were closing in, and up there he had no place to hide. Not even a good place to make a stand. It was bare rock, a few scattered trees, a few spots of snow.

He knew he would be beaten. He expected to be tortured. He could endure pain. He had been through that before, but what he must do was escape again. If they had shot his legs from under him, he would have had no chance. Now there was still hope.

Long ago, when his people had been captured by other Indians, they had endured torture, and as the poet had said, they ‘had not winced or cried aloud.’ Indians had known how to endure pain and to laugh at those who tortured them. Often, if they showed bravery, the tortures were stopped and they were adopted into the tribe. Some of the mountain men had survived the same treatment. Joe Mack had taken the greatest gamble of his life, and the chances of escape were a thousand to one against him, yet shot down and crippled he would have no chance at all.

An officer was on a radio, talking. The soldiers stood around, staring curiously. He ignored them, standing tall, looking toward the mountains where he had hoped to be. His heart was pounding heavily and he was asking himself if he was brave enough, if he was the man he wanted to be, the man he had trained himself to be. Now, he whispered to himself, you will find out. He had been told the story of a great-grandfather who had been captured by the Blackfeet and tortured and finally burned at the stake. Even as the flames rose around him, he had laughed at them. He had sung his death song in a voice that did not quaver, and the Blackfeet had marveled. An old warrior of their tribe had told him the story. Was he that kind of man?

One of the KGB men came to him. “Alekhin comes,” he said. “If he leaves anything, we get our chance.”

Joe merely looked at the man, and infuriated, the man slapped him across the mouth. Joe Mack’s expression did not change. Angered, the man shoved him, then kicked his feet from under him. When he fell the man kicked him brutally in the ribs. Then he stepped closer, drawing back his leg for another kick. Joe Mack rolled over, the kick missed, and the man fell. The soldiers laughed.

Furious, the man lunged to his feet and caught up a heavy club. Frantically, he began beating Joe Mack, striking him on the head, shoulders, and back. Bobbing his head, Joe Mack avoided the worst of the blows, but his scalp was split and blood trickled down over his face.

Suddenly a car wheeled up and stopped. Alekhin stepped down. Joe Mack knew him at once by his size and the small blaze of white where the hair had lost color over an old scar.

Alekhin walked over. “So! We have you. Now we shall see!” He turned to the KGB men and motioned to an old stable that stood nearby. “Take him inside.”

A Russian officer started to speak and Alekhin turned his back on him, saying over his shoulder, “You are not needed anymore. Go!”

Ostap got out of the Volga. He stared at the blood on Joe Mack’s face and felt sick inside. He did not know what to do. Nobody had sent him away, and he had no way in which to leave. He must stand and wait for them. He was frightened.

The officer had turned away, angrily. His men were forming up and moving to their trucks. Ostap wanted to go with them, but he had not been dismissed and he feared to displease Alekhin.

It was very cold, and he wished he was back in Magadan. Was Katerina free? Had they lived up to their bargain? Why would they want her, anyway? She knew nothing.

He hunched his shoulders against the wind and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Several KGB men were standing around, talking among themselves.

Suddenly he heard a loud thump from within the stable, then more. He heard no screams. One of the KGB men came over to him, grinning. “They will teach him! They are artists! They know how to beat a man! You will hear him scream!”

He did not scream. Two men came out after a while, dripping with perspiration, their fists bloody. Two others went in. Ostap turned away, sick to his stomach. He had done this. He had told them where the American was. Many times before, when hearing of such things, he had laughed and shrugged. “Serves them right!” He had said that, said it several times.