The outer door opened, letting in a blast of icy air. “Joe Mack! You must go at once!” Baronas was anxious. “Lermontov has just returned, and he came back as swiftly as he could make it. Somehow they believe you are here. They are coming!”
“Thank you.” He hesitated at the door. “Remember? It may take a year, even two, but I will come.”
She stood up, looking at him. He would remember her as she stood, slim, tall, and blond, standing in the firelight, handing the shirt to him.
“I will be there.”
Twenty
He went swiftly into the night and swiftly through the forest. At his hideout he wasted no time. He took up his pack of meat and placed it at his feet. Then he donned his bearskin coat and shouldered his pack. Taking up his bow and arrows, he took a last look around. Aside from the ashes of his fires, no hint of his presence was left.
He went into the night and ran along the dark way he had learned and prepared. It was not a path, just a choice of openings between trees, but one where he could move swiftly with no fear of falling. It was bitterly cold. His breath crackled, freezing as it left his lips.
How cold? Fifty below, at least. Probably more. He must be careful, moving fast, not to work up a sweat. Sweat could freeze, leaving a layer of ice near the skin.
The earth was frozen hard, and there was ice underfoot. He slowed his pace to step with care, for now he was entering the area over which he had passed but once. He would go to the hideout prepared at the head of the Ningam River.
Moving with care, he was sure he was leaving no tracks. There was no snow. Contrary to what people believed, there was not much snow in many areas of Siberia. The climate is dry. He crossed a stream cautiously, tapping the ice ahead of him to test for weakness.
They need not follow him to find him. They could blanket an area with people to hunt him. They could fly over the country, searching for him. He must avoid abandoned buildings, avoid trails, avoid any place the eye would naturally seek out.
It was cold. He paused to listen and heard no sound, but when he moved on it was with extreme caution. From time to time he cupped a mitten over his nose, although it was partly shielded by the fur cap he wore.
Here and there he found a drifting of snow, scarcely more than frost. How far had he come? He hesitated again, making sure of his directions, and then moving on. What he must remember was that a great distance for him was only a short hop for a helicopter, and tracks were easily seen from the air.
He walked on steadily, avoiding the light snow wherever possible, keeping to the cover of trees when he could. When the first feeble rays of sunlight showed themselves, he was well on his way. He had been traveling for some seven hours, he believed, but doubted that at any time he had done as much as three miles in an hour, for the walking was precarious and he had tried to move on rocky, snow-free surfaces when possible. In another hour he should be close to his prepared hideout.
The mutter of the distant helicopter had been prodding at his unconscious for several minutes before it came to his attention. Quickly, he eased back into the trees, merging carefully with a tree trunk. He waited, listening. The cold was intense. He beat his hands together and tried rubbing his legs to keep the circulation alive. Meanwhile, the sound of the motor came closer and closer. At this distance and in the still cold it was audible for some time before he saw it.
When it came within view it was flying very low, and it just barely cleared the nearest ridge. Such a copter would probably carry three men.
It came in, flying no more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet off the ground, following the same stream he had followed. It came on, and when it passed he could see the faces of the men inside, although he could distinguish no features. It muttered on by, heading up for the ridge he must cross to get to his hidden camp.
He waited, stamping his feet against the cold. What if they landed? The growth was sparse, and they would find him quickly. His mind was clear. If they landed, he must try to kill the pilot. If there was not a clear shot, he must get the first man who showed in the door of the plane.
He would need three arrows for three fast shots, and then he must try to get away. His camp was at most five miles off and a good place to hide. Of course, if they threw in troops for an all-out search, he was finished.
He waited, his arrows ready, his mind clear.
The helicopter was coming back.
It swung low, a wide, slow circle around the area. Had they seen something? A track? A movement?
Suddenly it began to settle on a bench not forty yards away. There was no underbrush where he hid, only a few low-growing trees and some rocks.
The copter swung lower and settled, its blades beating the air. As it settled down the door opened. He bent his bow. A man with an AK-47 stepped down from the door, and as he started to turn, Joe Mack let go his arrow.
It was an easy shot and took him right through the spine. The man started to fall, and Joe Mack let go with his second arrow.
His target was but dimly seen: a man inside the copter, apparently the man at the controls. Light glinted on a gun barrel, and he hit the ground just as the man in the copter opened fire. Bullets sprayed the trees. Ducking, he came to his feet running, but not away.
The copter would have a radio! When he was almost aft of the copter he let fly another arrow through the wide-open door.
Someone inside the copter was shouting. The man lying on the ground had not stirred.
The propeller started beating faster, and the helicopter started to lift off. He waited, watching. Something was wrong. The pilot was injured or —
It lifted, cleared the ground, started forward, made a wide circle, and then seemed to veer sharply before it crashed head on into a ridge not quite a half mile off. It crashed with a tremendous sound of breaking trees and tearing metal; then there was a puff of flame and a sharp explosion, and the flame was snuffed out.
He ran forward to the dead man, for he was dead, an arrow in his spine. Joe Mack withdrew the arrow, then hurriedly went through the man’s pockets. Some matches, a belt knife. He tumbled the body into the draw and scattered brush over it. He did not take the AK-47, for the magazine was empty. He covered that, too, so it would not be quickly seen from the air, and then he started away.
He was running now, running hard.
His hideout at the head of the Ningam was not five miles off. By the time he reached it, night would not be far off. Had the pilot gotten off a call for help?
As he ran he was thinking. They would blanket the area if the pilot had gotten a message through, and he would have no chance. If not, they might think the crash pure accident. The shafts of his arrows would be burned, and unless their investigation was careful they might miss the arrowheads, which might have fallen into the earth when the copter burned.
After a careful look around and intent listening, he crossed the ridge and went down a dry watercourse on the far side. At once he was under cover of the trees, and trotting steadily he headed for his hideout. Night was almost upon him before he was under cover. So far, there had been no sounds of aircraft, although the mountain that now intervened might kill the sound.
He slowed to a walk and began picking his way. The forest was so dense he had a difficult time even finding the marks he had left to lead him back to his hideout.
His heart was pounding as he swung down through the trees and crept into his burrow.
He had been unable to see what happened inside the copter. He had shot his arrows into bodies, he knew. Evidently he had wounded one or both of them — in the crowded confines of the small copter it would not have been unlikely. There would have been small chance of escaping injury.