Louis L'Amour: Last of the Breed

“My grandfather was a Scot. Once long ago he sailed to these shores and traded here with Swenson.”

“That was long ago. Nobody remembers Olaf Swenson anymore. They do not remember the good days of trade, nor do they remember that we Chukchis crossed the narrow seas to Alaska each year, sometimes more than once in the year.”

“You caught salmon there?”

“No more. All that is gone. They will not let us go anymore, but sometimes — sometimes I wish I could go again, but I am old, old.”

“I would go,” Joe Mack said, “if I had a kayak.”

The old man looked up. His brown face was deeply lined under the mane of white hair. He looked at Joe Mack and at his braids. He looked at his face again.

“It would need a man who knew the kayak to do it. Such a trip is not easy.”

“But with a kayak, they might not know he was going. It is a small thing, made of hide only.”

“It might be done. I am an old man and have not tried.”

“But I am a young man, and my home is over there. I want to go home, Grandfather.”

“I have a kayak, a very good one. For the grandson of a man who sailed with Olaf Swenson — I do not know. Perhaps.”

“I have some rubles. A kayak is not a small thing. It is made with craft not many possess. I would pay.”

“What are rubles to an old man? The sea gives me my living, and I give it my blessing.”

“Once long ago, Grandfather, it is said my people came this way, crossing when there was no water here. I follow in their footsteps.”

“I have heard of this, and I have found arrowheads and bones. Yes, I believe it is true.” The old man looked up from the net. “Those who watch have eyes to look where we cannot see. They have wings to fly over.”

“I shall go at night, Grandfather.”

“Ah? It has been done by day, and long, long ago. One must understand the kayak.”

“We are not strangers. I have used them at sea, and upon rough rivers.”

“When?”

“Tonight, if I live.”

The old man looked at him again. “I have heard some shots fired upon the mountain.”

“Yes, and today I shall go back to find one who looks for me. I do not wish him disappointed.”

“There will be shooting?”

“I hope not. I wish to do it with these.” Joe Mack held up his hands. “My people were warriors once. Am I to be less than they?”

“If you come in the evening when the sun is low, the kayak will be lying by those roots. What you do is your affair.”

“Speak to the spirits of the sea, Grandfather. My voice is lonely in the night.”

He smelled the smoke before he saw the fire, and when Joe Mack walked through the scattered rocks, Alekhin was waiting.

Joe Mack’s eyes swept the little hollow, but the Yakut said, “They have gone to recover the bodies you left.”

“I came for you.”

“I am here.”

Colonel Arkady Zamatev took up the package the soldier had placed on his desk. Slowly, with careful fingers, he began to undo the knots.

The package was very light, and it was wrapped in the skin of some small animal, but there was something inside, part of which felt like bark from a tree.

The last knot came loose, and the package opened. Colonel Arkady Zamatev sat very still, his mouth dry, his heart beating heavily. What lay on the table before him was obviously a human scalp with a small, distinctive blaze of white on one side, white hair growing where an old scar had been.

With it was a narrow strip of birchbark, and on it, printed in neat lettering:

THIS WAS ONCE A CUSTOM OF MY PEOPLE.

IN MY LIFETIME I SHALL TAKE TWO. THIS IS THE FIRST.