Last Of the Breed (1986) Read online

  In the past several days he had survived on berries, scrapings from aspen bark, several ptarmigan he had killed, a number of squirrels, a marmot, and fish he had speared.

  For a long time he stared wearily down toward the river; then slowly he turned his head to scan his immediate surroundings.

  The face of the cliff behind him was obscured by a thick, almost impenetrable thicket of stone pine. Below him, stands of birch and aspen covered the slope, and a trickle of water ran down through the rocks toward the river, far below. He was turning his head away when something caught his attention. Under the stone pine the shadows seemed unusually black. He looked again, then went closer and dropped to his knees. Behind the thicket of stone pine there appeared to be a cave.

  Crawling under the lowest branches he found himself in an overhang perhaps ten feet deep and as many wide. Here, for a little while, he would rest.

  Outside, several times in the past few hours, he had seen the droppings of either mountain sheep or deer. They looked much the same.

  If he could kill a mountain sheep he would have both meat and the hide.

  The spear he had fashioned was adequate, but no more. What he needed was a bow and some arrows. Even if he had a rifle it would do him more harm than good to fire it, as the sound would be sure to attract attention. He also could make a sling. Many Indians had used the sling, and he had been expert in its use since childhood.

  His grandfather had been both a harsh and a kindly man. “Learn to live off the land,” he had said. “Your ancestors did it, and you can. Learn the roots, the leaves, the nuts, and the seeds. Now you do not have to live so, but who knows what the future may hold?”

  The great men of his boyhood days had not been George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, not Jim Thorpe or Babe Ruth, but Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Gall, and a dozen others. From his grandmother he heard the stories of Indian war parties, of raids against the Arikara, the Kiowa, the Crow, and the Shoshone. Throughout his boyhood he had been enchanted by tales of the great warriors of the Sioux nation, of scalps taken, of coups, of men who would die rather than yield.

  Each summer when school was over he went into the woods with several companions, where they lived as Indians once had, where they hunted, trapped, and lived off the country as they had been taught.

  He slept, shivering and cold, beside a small fire in his cave, and when dawn broke he knew he must remain here until he had killed animals to provide him with food and clothing. He must make a bow and arrows. In the meanwhile, he made a sling and gathered stones with which to arm it.

  He teased his fire to life with bits of bark and then added larger sticks. Then, armed with spear and sling, he went out on the mountainside.

  First he listened long and carefully for any sounds other than those of the taiga, as the forest was called in Siberia. He went to a vantage point and watched the river, but saw nothing. He sat very still, every sense alert. He needed meat and he needed clothing. He also needed sinews to make a bowstring. In the old days these had been made from sinews taken from a buffalo’s shoulder or just below it. Now he must make do. There were wild reindeer in the valleys and along the slopes. So far he had seen two, but had been without a weapon to kill them. The spear would do if he could get close enough, or even the sling if the distance were right and if he could throw with sufficient accuracy.

  Slowly the minutes passed, and he waited, watching. A glutton passed, but he had no wish to attack so formidable and useless a creature. Yet the fur might be used, and on another occasion —

  A huge bear lumbered along the mountain, keeping under cover of the aspen well below where he sat. Again he had no adequate weapon with which to face such a beast. Yet it was fat he needed, and the bear was rolling with it.

  Joe Mack shivered in the chill morning air. It was now August, The Moon of the Ripe Plums, but most of the month had already gone, and the time of Yellow Leaves was approaching.

  Shortly before the sun was high he killed a blue fox, skinned it, and roasted the meat over his fire. He stretched the skin and scraped it. Then he left it stretched in the cave and returned to watch the trail again.

  The next day he went down to the river and speared three fish. Carrying them back, he came into a small hollow where the air was warmer, and there was even a slight change in the vegetation. Tiny microclimates like these occurred in the mountains from time to time, places that through some chance were warmer or colder than elsewhere. Hunting through the woods, he came upon several plants more typical of Manchuria or Japan than Siberia. Suddenly alerted, he searched carefully and found a half dozen ash trees. From the hidden side of one of them he cut a limb he believed might make a good bow, then worked his way by a devious route to his cave.

  All the next day he worked on his bow, shaving it with edges of stone and trimming it with care. At times he tried bending it. He made two notches in the bottom, one in the top.

  Yet he was worried. He was staying too long in one place, and he could not avoid leaving some sign of his presence.

  On his fifth day he killed a mountain sheep, skinned it, dined well, and went to work curing the hide. At noon, tired of his work, he went out into the air and sat on his rock, watching the river.

  He heard the sound before he realized its meaning. He listened, watching the river, and at last a motorcraft of some sort came within sight. Although he was too far off to make out its cargo, it seemed to be loaded with men. Then as the boat passed he caught the gleam of sunlight on rifle barrels.

  Soldiers! At least a squad of them!

  Worried, he returned to his cave. Had they, then, discovered where he was? Had he somehow given himself away? Was this a search party or just some natural movement of troops?

  The latter he could not believe. There was no border here to be protected, no fortress, no camp. Such a small group would not be on a maneuver, so where were they bound?

  Cutting the meat from the mountain sheep into thin strips, he smoked and dried it, meanwhile cleaning some of the sinews and rolling three strands together to make a bowstring. Then he took his bow, his bowstring not ready for use, and his small packet of meat wrapped in the skin, and he went up the mountain.

  Leaving the bank of the Kalar he went off to the north following a ridge above a smaller stream, traveling northeast. He did not pause to hunt or to rest, but continued to move, keeping under cover of the forest and among the rocky crags. By nightfall he was sure he had covered twenty miles, and he camped that night beside a huge fallen tree, in the open and without a fire. In the morning he carefully removed all sign of his presence, and lifting handfuls of leaves he let the soft wind scatter them where he had slept.

  Crossing a saddle between the highest peak and a long ridge, he started cautiously to descend toward the valley.

  Finding a shelter in a thick stand of stone pine, he went to work on the sheep’s hide to make it into a vest, using rawhide for a lacing. It was slow, painstaking work, but from where he sat he had a good view of the mountainside, and he could work and keep a good lockout, too.

  He did not want heavy clothing but several layers of light clothing that would conserve his body heat and still allow free movement of all his limbs.

  Before darkness came he moved off along the slope of the mountain, working his way down into the aspen, where he found a thicket where many leaves had fallen. There he bedded down, a dry camp with no fire.

  When he awakened he saw not far below him several towers of a relay station or something of the kind, and a small village. He was close enough to distinguish people moving about but not to judge who or what they were. He turned back to the thicker forest, working along a steep ridge where he camped again. There, hidden among rocks and trees, he continued his work on the sheepskin vest and on his bow. Now he began to look for the proper sort of wood for arrows. He did not like the bowstring he had, but it would do until he found better.

  Watching the scene below he glimpsed people moving along what seemed to be a road, and far in
the distance to the south he saw a thin trail of smoke from what might be a village. Where there was a village there would be dogs. From where he sat he could see that the Kalar took a bend toward the south and then back to the north again. Without doubt he must cross the river again, and he did not look forward to it. Crossing a river meant exposing himself to possible observation, aside from the discomfort of getting wet in what was increasingly chilly weather.

  Rising, he worked his way along the mountain under the shadow of the ridge and walked east, trying to keep under cover. Here, however, the trees were scattered and much of the mountainside was exposed.

  The nights were growing longer now. He walked on, stumbling occasionally and very tired.

  At last he sat down, unable to go further without resting.

  He sat leaning against a rock, half concealed by a bush and tree that grew nearby. The sun was rising and even that slight warmth felt good. He leaned back against the rock. His eyes closed.

  Had he gone fifty feet further he would have found a path, a very dim path, but nonetheless a path.

  About two miles from where he sat, the Kalar River flowed down from the north, the river he dreaded to cross. And some miles beyond was another river, still larger and much more dangerous.

  Days of constant moving with too little food and little rest had drugged him with weariness. Slowly, his muscles relaxed, once his eyes almost half opened, and then he slept.

  A cold wind moaned in the stone pines; a dried leaf skittered along the path and came to rest. A rock thrush poised on a twig and then flew off a few yards.

  On the path there was a faint scuffling, and a man came into sight. He was a short, stocky man, as wide as he was deep, a man in a ragged fur cap, a moth-eaten fur coat, and thick pants stuffed into clumsy-looking boots. He had started around a small bend in the path when he saw a foot.

  He stopped, looking carefully around. Nobody else. Nobody near, at least. He listened again and heard a faint snore. From under his coat he took an AK-47, and the gun gleamed brightly. His clothing was ragged, but there was nothing wrong about the gun.

  Stepping around the tree, he saw a man asleep against a rock, a man emaciated and worn. He saw the pack of smoked meat, the spear, the sling, and the bow without a string and without arrows.

  Yakov moved quietly to a seat on a rock facing the sleeping man. Then he picked up a pebble and tossed it against the man’s face.

  Joe Mack awakened with a start, but with every sense alert. His opening eyes looked into the muzzle of the AK-47.

  Chapter 7

  The man’s cheeks were chubby and he looked fat, but Joe Mack was not deceived. He had seen such men before and knew that what looked like fat was the natural muscle of an extremely powerful man, one naturally strong, born to the strength he had.

  For a moment each measured the other, and then the man spoke in what Joe Mack knew was Russian, although he knew no more than a few words of the language.

  “I do not speak your language,” he replied.

  To his surprise the man’s face lit up with humor. “Engless!” he said, astonished. “Spik Engless!”

  The AK-47 did not waver. “Who you are?”

  “I am an American” — he spoke slowly — “traveling in your country.”

  The man’s eyes made a point of looking him over. “This clothes? It is tourist fashion?”

  Joe Mack grinned suddenly, and the man’s face lit up again. “Tourist the hard way,” he said.

  For a moment the man puzzled over that, and then he smiled again. “Why you here? This is far-off place.”

  Joe Mack was puzzled. The man was no soldier, yet he carried an AK-47 and gave every evidence of being ready to use it. His clothes were nondescript, his manner as guarded as his own. Was this man also a fugitive?

  “It is better I travel in far-off places,” he spoke slowly again. “I eat what the land provides.”

  The man’s eyes searched his. “I am Yakov,” he said.

  “I am Joe Mack,” he replied.

  “Where you live?”

  “In America. Until I return there I live as I can, where I can. Soon winter comes. I have no home for winter.”

  “Ah?”

  Yakov was ten feet away, and the AK-47 did not waver. There was no way he was going to cover that ten feet and lay a hand on that gun without catching four or five slugs, and the man was no fool.

  “Why you not go down there?” Yakov waved toward the distant village.

  Joe Mack took a chance. After all, what was Yakov doing up in the mountains with an AK-47? “They would put me in a house with bars.”

  “Ah! An American? A prisoner? In Siberia? Russia is not at war with America!”

  “No?” Joe Mack lifted an eyebrow. “Tell that to Colonel Zamatev. “

  Instantly, the man’s manner changed, “Zamatev? You spik Zamatev?”

  For the first time the muzzle of the gun lowered. “Where you spik Zamatev?”

  “West of here, many miles. I was his prisoner.”

  “You escape? He look for you?”

  “He looks.”

  Yakov was silent, obviously thinking. He pointed to the crude sheepskin vest. “You make?”

  “I did.”

  Yakov indicated the bow staff. “What that?”

  “A bow. I am making a bow. Then I shall make arrows. I need to hunt.” Joe Mack lifted the sling, and the AK-47 covered him again. “The bow will be better than this.”

  “How you kill sheep?”

  Joe Mack indicated the sling. He took from his pack a piece of the smoked and dried mutton. He extended it to Yakov. “You like? It is sheep.”

  Yakov accepted it, and Joe Mack went to the pack for another piece. They chewed in silence.

  “You no look American.”

  “I am an Indian, a Red Indian.”

  “Ah! I see Indian in film. Cinema.”

  “I’m no cinema Indian,” Joe Mack replied irritably.

  Yakov looked around at him. “Soon cold, very cold.” He hesitated. “I am escape also. I escape three years past.”

  “Three years?” Joe Mack studied him with quickened interest. “How do you live?”

  “I live.”

  He hesitated, as if thinking. “My father,” he said, “was Lithuanian. He is exile to Siberia. My mother is Tungus woman.” Yakov looked at him. “Tungus are reindeer people.”

  He got up. “I think better we go.”

  Joe Mack got up. “I travel alone.”

  Yakov spoke over his shoulder. “Cold come, you die. It needs much food to last the cold. Better you come with me.”

  Reluctantly, warily, Joe Mack followed. Yakov led off at a fast pace, turning back along the path he had come. After a moment he broke into a trot, glancing back once to see if Joe Mack followed.

  For an hour they ran, and then Yakov slowed and began to walk, “The Kalar,” he pointed.

  The river crossed in front of them, about a quarter of a mile away. Now Yakov moved with a caution that equaled his own as they worked their way through the trees to the riverbank. There, artfully concealed, Yakov had a canoe.

  In a small cove, hidden among reeds, they waited, listening, At a word, Yakov dipped his paddle deep and Joe Mack followed suit. In less than twenty minutes they were across and hiding the canoe at a place known to Yakov; then he led off through the brush.

  At a clearing, he stopped. “East is Olekma. Big river. Very dangerous for cross. Too many peoples, boats. Sometimes nobody, so better you wait.”

  He drew a diagram in the clay, a diagram of a route and landmarks still farther east. “Here” — he put a finger on the map — “is people like me, like you. If they like you, you stay the cold. If they do not like, you go.”

  He got to his feet. “I go back now. It is far to go. You spik my name.” He shrugged. “I do not know. It is a woman who spik yes or no.” He waved a hand. “You go.”

  Joe Mack stood and watched him go, but Yakov did not look back. Again he looke
d at the crude map drawn in the clay; then he rubbed it out.

  Yakov, a strange one. He had ferried Joe Mack across the river, set him on his path and then returned to doing whatever had been on his mind. Whatever it was required an AK-47.

  A woman who says yes or no? What manner of woman? He had read of beautiful Russian women, but that was in Tsarist days. The only Soviet women he had encountered had been Russian athletes whose femininity was doubtful, to say the least. He had seen others in photographs, but with the clothes they wore it was hard to say if they were attractive.

  In any event, that was a bridge he did not propose to cross. Somewhere to the eastward he would find shelter and somehow endure the winter.

  Yakov had taken him across the river, and for that he was grateful. Now he must survive, and that night by the campfire he worked at his bow, tapering it slightly, testing it from time to time by bending it over his knee. And that night it was cold, so very, very cold. Merely a taste of what was to come.

  In the morning he made arrows, choosing the light wood with care, straightening and smoothing them. After two days he started on, his arrow shafts carried in a crude quiver until such a time as he could make better.

  Ahead somewhere was the Olekma River, and he knew the name. Often he had sat with flyers who knew or had studied Siberia.

  He knew that four of the greatest rivers in the world poured out of Siberia — the Ob, the Yenisei, the Lena, and the Amur. He knew that the United States was more than 3,000,000 square miles, but that Siberia was more than 5,000,000, and there were vast areas still almost unknown except to native peoples.

  From obsidian, found the second night after leaving Yakov, he chipped out arrowheads that were masterpieces of the art. As he worked he studied the country. No matter where he stopped he must ever be alert, watching the country, noting every subtle change of air or wind.

  Yet now, for the first time since, leaving home as a small child to attend school, he was lonely. Not for people, but for something else, he felt some indescribable yearning, some reaching out from within him, some strange wanting.

  He looked now across the vastness that lay before him, from the bare and icy mountains that arose around him, across the forest to the bare knife ridges that hacked the sky, and he felt that longing again.