What awaited him beyond the Olekma he did not know, yet slowly things forgotten were returning to mind — from books he had read long ago and Army orientation lectures.
How to cross the Olekma?
Finding a game trail, he followed it along the mountainside, pausing from time to time to listen. He heard nothing.
When he had walked for what he believed was over two miles he paused to rest and to listen. As he waited, he chewed on some of the dried mutton from the mountain sheep.
If that group of soldiers was hunting him there would be others. Somehow he had given away his presence here, or he had been seen.
The river would be watched. Crossing the Olekma would not be as easy as crossing the Kalar.
Would they try to take him alive? It did not matter. He would be better dead 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.
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.
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.
The water was icy cold, and the night was still. Despite his efforts, the water splashed and the dog came to its feet growling. He pushed off, and the dog rushed down to the water, barking furiously. The door slammed open and the man shouted angrily; then, flashlight in hand, he walked down to the water’s edge.
He was downstream of Joe Mack, and when he flashed the light out upon the water it swept fifty feet away from him. One hand on the heavy plank, Joe Mack swam across the current, but inexorably he was moved down toward the spying, examining light.
Joe Mack, his heart pounding, turned the plank downstream and tried to swim more strongly, going with the current but across the stream. The light swept above him, hesitated, and swung back, as if the man had glimpsed something to arouse his suspicion. Joe Mack let himself sink under the water but kept the plank and its small burden between himself and the light.
The light’s rays reached them, but feebly. Slowly, Mack had been working his way across and downstream, carried by the current at a swifter pace than his swimming could have done. The flashlight touched his burden, but he knew he was by now so far out that the light would reveal nothing but some floating debris.
The light veered away and he heard the man calling to the dog, his light bobbing as he walked back to the house.
It seemed a long time before he reached the opposite bank, and when he at last
scrambled ashore on a muddy bank and retrieved his small bundle, he was at least a
mile further downstream than he wished to be.
Shivering, he tried to wipe himself dry with a handful of grass. Then he donned his clothes again. They were only partly dry, but brought almost immediate warmth.
Going back on the mudbank, he shoved the plank back into the stream. There was no time to erase the footprints he had made.
Walking swiftly, he pushed his way through the willows into a thick stand of birch. Weaving among the slim white trunks, he climbed steadily, getting away from the river. He entered a forest of mingled birch, mountain ash, bird cherry, and a kind of poplar. When he had a good mile between himself and the river, he slowed his pace. Soon he was going to have to stop, rest, and prepare food. Better still, he would make a hot drink of some sort.
He was tired but he struggled on, holding to the edge of the forest and working his way back north until he reached the stream he had glimpsed coming down from the ridge above him. The streambed was cut into the mountain, offering him cover for his climb up the bare rock.
Only a few shrubs appeared, but considerable moss. It was hard climbing now, all uphill, and morning had come. He would either have to remain hiding in the streambed or cross the ridge in daylight and hope he would not be seen.