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than a prisoner again. But what if he could cross the river in darkness? The
nights were growing longer. Could he find some means, some way?
He turned down the slope among the stone pines, taking a diagonal route along
the mountainside. Ahead of him was a small stream. He paused before
approaching to listen again. Then he went down to the water and followed the
stream down toward the main river, pausing often to listen.
He was one man alone in a hostile country, where no man was his friend. He
must be prepared to kill or be killed.
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Above all, he must remain alert. Although the land before him was virtually
uninhabited, there was always the chance of coming up to a hunter or
prospector. If he remembered correctly, the Russians were building a new
railroad across the country before him. Their Trans-Siberian line ran along
the Amur, too close to China for comfort.
Finding a rock under larch trees, closely screened from behind by thick brush,
he seated himself. From the flat rock he could look down upon and across the
Olekma to study its traffic. This high up, the stream was moving little. For a
half hour he scanned the stream, as much as he could see of its shores, and
the country around. Across the river there was a narrow belt of what seemed to
be low-growing trees and brush, and beyond that the bare mountainside. He
watched the shadows gather in the canyons opposite, and he thought he saw a
way over the ridge that might offer concealment. Apparently there was a small
river that headed up in the mountains opposite, flowing off to the northwest.
If he could follow it up to its source near the rim he would be hidden until
he had to cross the divide.
Going back into the trees he lay down to rest, staring up into the dark green
latticework of evergreen boughs. Slowly, his muscles relaxed and he rested
easier. Tonight he must cross the Olekma, strike through the low trees to
reach the streambed, and then turn southeast following the stream toward the
rim.
To think that only a few weeks ago he had driven in from Edwards Air Force
Base to lunch with some friends in Beverly Hills, looking forward to his few
days in Alaska. Now he was a fugitive, fleeing for his life in the interior of
Siberia.
He was six feet two inches, and when he had left for Alaska he had weighed one
ninety. He smiled wryly up into the branches overhead. He doubted if he would
weigh more than one seventy-five now, and he would probably be leaner than
that before this ordeal was over.
The nights were growing longer and colder. He would need warmer clothing, and
he would need, most of all, a place to hole up and wait out the winter.
But where? How?
He slept then, and awakened to a faint stirring in the brush nearby. He sat
up, reaching for his weapons.
The stirring stopped. Something was there, watching him. He got to his feet
and took up his bow and notched an arrow, waiting. Nothing happened.
The day was gone. Now it would soon be dark. Ignoring whatever was in the
brush, he started away, following the stream down toward the Olekma. An
animal, he thought, perhaps a wolf prowling in search of prey. But not in
search of him.
The river lay suddenly before him, its dark waters glistening in the dim
light. There were many willows along the shore and some larger trees he could
not make out in the semidarkness. He looked across. He was a good swimmer but
not a great one. He had never spent much time in the water. The mountain
streams of his Homeland had been narrow, rushing streams, rarely deep. He
looked around for a drift log but found none. There was driftwood everywhere,
but most of it too light to be of use, except for a few gigantic old floaters
that had buried themselves in the mud, their roots splayed out like immense
black spiders.
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Then he found what he wanted. This time it was a plank, a three-by-twelve
fully eight feet long washed down from some lumber mill or construction
project. He pushed the plank into the water, sliding it over a log. When the
end dropped off the log, it splashed.
Instantly the quiet of the night was ripped apart by the vicious barking of a
big dog, and not far away.
A dwelling nearby? He had seen no signs of it. Yet suddenly, not fifty yards
off, there was a rectangle of light as a door opened. A gruff voice demanded
the dog be still.
The man stood listening; then he admonished the dog in a softer tone and went
back inside.
Joe Mack waited until the dog walked back and lay down at the door. Carefully,
then, he removed his vest and sweatshirt, wrapped his bow, arrows, and sling,
and waded into the water, trying to make no sound. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]