Only when he moved out of his small hollow did he see what he had done. His northeastward march had taken him into a cul-de-sac rimmed with high mountains. To escape he must scale those icy ridges. They rose steeply up to at least a half mile higher than he now was, and climbing on the slippery rocks would not be easy.
Suddenly his eye caught a glimpse of something in the trees not far off. It was the corner of a roof — a building of some sort! He looked, looked away, and then looked back. It was still there, but there was no sign of smoke. He went closer through the trees. It was a good-sized structure, almost square, built of logs. No smoke came from the chimney. He went down through the trees to the path that led to it. He saw no tracks or any sign of travel in a long time. With the coming onset of winter, it was doubtful if there would be anyone traveling this way. Avoiding the path, he kept under cover of the trees.
Bit by bit he worked his way around the structure. There were four windows and a back door. That door showed no signs of recent use.
He waited for a while, watching the house. There was a trough behind it into which water ran, water from a spring. He could see and hear the water falling from the pipe into the trough. As he watched, a deer came down from the trees opposite and drank at the trough. Waiting for the right shot, he killed the deer with an arrow and went forward to skin it. He was expert, and it took him but little time to skin out the deer and save the best cuts of meat, yet ever and anon he straightened up to listen and to look all about him.
Aside from the structure beside him the place reminded him of a corner of the Seven Devils country in Idaho. His father had sometimes hunted there with old Cougar Dave, crossing the mountains to get together.
He went up to the back door and tried it, but it was locked. He walked around the building and tried the front door, and it opened easily under his hand. He stood in the doorway, making a careful survey of the inside.
Along one side was a row of bunks, enough for a dozen men. There was a stove and a much older fireplace. A few utensils lay about, and old clothes hung on nails along the wall. There was much dust and no evidence the place had been occupied for years.
The clothing was ragged and old, most of it filthy. He guessed convicts had been working here, probably at a mine, for he had discovered a few tools and a miner’s lamp. There was nothing else of use. He backed out and closed the door behind him. Surrounded by mountains as it was, he took a chance and built fires to smoke his meat and dry it. For three days he remained where he was, cleaning the deer hide and resting. On the fourth day he buried what remained of the carcass, hid the sticks on which he had dried his meat, and wiped out what tracks he had left, sifting leaves and dust over the area. Only then did he strike out upstream.
Following the stream he came to its source and found himself facing a low saddle in the mountains. He slept there, and on the following morning started across the pass over the saddle.
The morning was cold, and there was ice along the shores of the stream he followed. Plodding on steadily, he saw no game. He had walked several miles when he became aware of a faint drone. Pausing to listen, he heard it again, the faint but unmistakable sound of a helicopter!
Hastily, he glanced around. Some low-growing spruce mingled with larch grew along the
stream; running, he took a dive under the nearest spruce, pulling himself in tight beside its trunk. The spruce branches swept the ground, making perfect cover.
Had he been seen? He had not seen the helicopter, not taking time to look around for it. But had they seen him?
It was overhead now, circling. Then it rose, flying higher, took a half turn around the basin, and then went off downstream. Watching through parted branches he saw the copter dip down; it seemed to be landing near the structure.
Suppose they came upstream, looking? It was all of five miles of uphill walking, but they could hop it and land close beside him. He had to get away, but once out from under the spruce he would be in plain sight if they flew this way again, and cover was scarce.
To go or not to go? He waited, listening, thinking.
Peering through the spruce branches, he studied the terrain before him. Some two hundred yards away was a cluster of granite slabs, apparently pieces broken off by frost that had slid down the mountain. Once among them he should have cover, and his clothing blended well with the surroundings. He left the spruce at a run and then slowed to look and listen. He saw and heard nothing.
Were they still at the log house? Had they discovered some sign of his presence that he had failed to eradicate? He trotted on, weaving his way among the rocky debris, and reached the small forest of slabs and took shelter among them. No sound, nothing.
He was about to leave his shelter for another run when he heard the helicopter. It was coming in low through the very pass he had chosen. The slabs of granite had fallen in several places, so they provided crude shelters. He crawled well back under one slab and waited.
The copter came in so low he could feel the wind from the beat of the rotor blades, but it continued on through the pass and turned north to avoid the peak that faced the end of the pass, lying a few miles further east.
Rising, he followed on through the pass. There was little cover, but he knew he must accept the risk. Often, he saw the tracks of animals, and several times, of wolves. He was carrying meat, and even though it had been smoked and dried the wolves would smell it. He camped that night among a patch of stunted birch trees and slept, shivering and cold with no fire and only flimsy cover. Morning was a relief and he started again, his body stiff with cold. It was a long time before he warmed up, and fear rode his shoulders like some monster he could not cast off. He crossed the saddle and by midday had turned south again, leaving the towering peak behind him. His feet were numb and moved awkwardly. There was no shelter from the wind or any place to hide. He stumbled on, cold and tired, for he had slept badly, fighting the cold through the long night.
Desperately, he needed to find some animal that could provide him with a warmer coat or something to wrap around himself when he slept.
Day after day he worked his way southward. Several times he saw planes, and twice there were helicopters. Were they searching for him or involved somehow with the railroad? He had no way of knowing, but it mattered little, for by now all Siberia must be aware of his escape.
He was always cold. He needed better food, and he needed fat, always the hardest thing to find in the wilderness. He had worn out another pair of moccasins, and his feet were sore from walking over rocky terrain. More and more often he was stopping to rest. From time to time he killed a ptarmigan or grouse. Once he caught some fish. Time had ceased to exist; all he thought of now was to move on.
And then he saw the bear.
Eleven
It was a large brown bear, rolling in fat. Joe Mack squatted down beside a fallen tree and studied the situation. He needed that bear, needed it badly, but could he kill a bear of that size with an arrow? It had been done and no doubt might be done again, but he had never done it.
He glanced around for a tree with low branches. He might need to climb very fast, and it was unlikely a bear of that size would attempt a tree. The larger bears rarely climbed trees, instinctively knowing what their weight could do.
He glanced again at the tree, decided what branches he would take, and looked again at the bear. There was almost no wind. Joe Mack took an arrow from his quiver, put it in position, and then waited an instant. Then, reaching back, he withdrew two more arrows. Once more he lifted the bow, waiting and watching. The distance was about right; the bear was facing away from him, its left side clearly visible. He drew back the bowstring and let the arrow go.