A man appeared in the doorway, a bulky man, big and dressed as roughly as Joe himself. The man was arguing in a threatening tone, but he was backing away. Then a woman appeared in the door, blond hair under a fur hat. In her hand she held a pistol.
She was not frightened. She was coldly angry. The words he did not understand, but their tone was commanding. She gestured with the gun, and the man backed away, muttering. Then he turned and went down the path and away from the shelter. Once he turned to look back; pausing, he spat into the dirt.
Were these the people he sought? Yakov had spoken of a woman who said yes or no, and this one appeared capable of it. He chuckled, amused, and the woman, who had started back inside, must have heard, because she paused suddenly, looking carefully about.
From where she stood she could see her antagonist, if such he might be called, walking away and some distance off. She looked after him, then looked carefully around. She spoke a question, as if to ask if anyone were there.
Suddenly he smelled something else.
Coffee!
He stood up, and her eyes were quick. They found him at once, and she spoke, questioning.
“I would like a cup of coffee.” He spoke quietly, just loud enough.
Surprisingly, her reply was in English. “Then come and get it.”
Her pistol was still in her hand when he stepped from the trees. He crossed the narrow path and went up through the scattered trees to where she stood on the step of the shelter. She was tall; her eyes measured him. “Who are you?”
“My friends call me Joe Mack.”
She was startled but not afraid. She knew at once who he was, who he had to be. And she knew trouble when she saw it. If they came looking for him, they would find them, they would be exposed, ruined, destroyed. All they had built would be lost.
First, the promised coffee, and then to be rid of him. She hoped it would be that simple.
He was tall and very straight. He walked easily, and his eyes swept the room as he entered. He stopped just inside the door where a sawed-off end of a log offered itself as a seat. He unslung his pack, placing it down beside him. “I have meat,” he said.
Her look was a question. “Bear meat,” he said. “If you like it.”
“I have eaten it but once.” She accepted a chunk of the meat and turned toward the stove, getting out some pans. When the meat was on the fire she brought him coffee. He tasted it carefully, then smiled. His teeth were very white. “That’s good! I’ve missed it.”
“Where are you going?”
He glanced at her. “You know who I am?”
“No, only that there is a search, a very serious search. They want you badly.”
He sipped the coffee. “I can’t get out of the country until spring,” he said. “I must find a place to live until then.”
“How did you come here?”
He shrugged. “Partly by chance. But I met a man, a man who said his name was Yakov. He spoke of people who live in the forest.”
“Live? Hide is the correct word. They have not come for us because they do not care. We are nothing, or less than nothing, and sometimes we are valuable.”
He glanced at her quickly. “Valuable? How?”
“Wulff — he is the man in power here — makes something from our trapping. Each year he receives furs, the best of them, and he looks the other way.”
“Are there many of you?”
“Twenty-nine now.” She looked at him with cool, measuring eyes. “Some of us are descendants of old exiles, from the time of the Tsar. Others served out their terms and had nowhere else to go. Some of us simply knew the wrong people. Nobody among us is looked for.”
“I see.” He looked up. “When I have eaten I shall move on. I will not endanger you.”
He sipped his coffee. She stole a quick look at him from under her brows. “I am Natalya,” she said. “Here they simply call me Talya.”
“It is a pretty name.”
She said nothing. He finished the coffee, and she went to the stove to turn the meat again.
“That man who left? He was angry with you.”
She shrugged. “He is a fool, but a dangerous fool. He will ruin us all. He is Peshkov. He was a soldier, a butcher by trade.” She paused. “He says his name is Peshkov. I think he lies. I do not trust him.”
He watched her as she prepared the meat. She was slim and graceful, a truly lovely woman. He was no good at women’s ages, never had been. She was probably in her twenties. She was poised, assured.
“What did Yakov tell you?”
“Nothing, except that you were here, a few of you.”
“Why did he tell you?”
“Winter was coming. He knew I would need a place to live out the winter, but do not worry. I shall not stay.”
She looked at his pack. “What is there?”
“Meat, nearly three hundred pounds of it, and a bear hide.”
“You carried all that?”
“It is nothing. I have carried such packs since I was a boy.” He smiled a little. “If you lived in America you might have heard of the Alaskan Indian who carried a piano over Chilkoot Pass during the gold rush days.”
“We have our packers, too. The Yakuts carry enormous packs.”
She brought a plate of sliced meat to him and refilled his cup. “You can hunt, then? Can you trap?”
“There’s a blue fox skin in there, too. It was not well treated. I hadn’t the time.”
“Will you share what you kill?”
“I am an Indian, a Sioux. The hunters among us always shared. But I shall not worry you. I shall move on, further away, and when spring comes I shall go back to America.”
She lifted a cynical eyebrow. “Is that so easy?”
He shrugged again. “I do not say it will be easy. I say I will do it.”
He ate in silence. The meat had not only been cooked, but seasoned. Nothing he had ever tasted had seemed so good. And with the coffee it was a dream time.
She stood up. “Ssh! Someone is coming!”
Twelve
The footsteps drew nearer. Joe Mack continued to eat, taking his time, enjoying every bite. Only one person was coming, probably a man by the sound of the steps, and Joe Mack knew what he could do.
The door stood open. Natalya stepped back, but she said, “It is all right. I know the footstep. It is my father.”
He appeared in the doorway, a slender man who appeared taller than he was. He had a thin, scholar’s face, clean-shaven. He stopped abruptly when he saw Joe Mack.
Natalya spoke to him and he listened; then haltingly, but in English, he said, “You are welcome here. We do not often have visitors.”
Joe Mack smiled. He liked this man. “I should imagine not, but this one will not be with you long. I do not wish to create problems.”
“Talya says you are a hunter.”
“I can hunt,” and then he added, “and trap.”
“It is an advantage. Our only income is from trapping. And our best hunter is gone. We need meat.”
Joe Mack indicated his pack. “It is yours, a fat bear.”
“Ah? I understood your people do not kill bears.” He flushed a little. “I mean the Indian people.”
“Only when there is need. We explain it to the bear.”
“I see.” He turned to his daughter. “We must instruct him in our procedure.” He turned back to Joe Mack. “We are left alone, but in the event a search should be made we have places to hide. So far Wulff does not know there are so many of us. And we make ourselves useful. Every two months a bundle of furs is left behind his dwelling. He wants only the best.”
Joe Mack glanced over at Natalya. “If you wish? I would share the meat with you and your father.”
He looked at her father. “Your home is here?”
The older man smiled. “For the present. One day we hope to return to our own country. We are from Lithuania, a country the Russians absorbed after World War II. You know us?”
“A little. There were Lithuanian miners who lived in the town where I first went to school. Often I visited in the home of one of my friends at school. His father was forever reciting the poetry of Martin Lap.”
“Of course. He was one of our best-known poets.” He shook his head. “Amazing! To hear his name from an American!” He paused. “I was a teacher, you know. A professor in a university, but the Russians only remembered that I was one of those who went to the forest to live as a guerrilla.”