The pilot, at least, must have been severely injured and must have either died or passed out at the controls.
How much would those who came looking know? Had the pilot gotten off word that they were attacked? He had not seemed to be using a mike, but Joe could not really tell.
Now what to do? To remain where he was and hope he was not found? Or to try to escape and perhaps be seen out in the open?
At Chagda, almost due north, was an airport, a major flying field, he believed. The search would probably originate there, but his knowledge of the country was too slight. Baronas had mentioned Chagda.
There was a village or town named Algama no more than twenty miles from where he lay. That was to the east, as near as he could remember.
To stay still, to wait, that would be hardest of all; but he was an Indian, and patience had been a part of his training. There was no good hiding place anywhere around, and it would be best to simply sit tight and hope he was not found. Far better than to be traveling when the country was being criss-crossed by planes and helicopters following the crash.
It was bitterly cold, and he chanced a small fire in his well-hidden camp. He prepared some tea, given him by Baronas, and then he slept.
Hours later he was awakened by the drone of a plane flying over.
Huddled in his bearskin coat, he waited. For hours, he heard nothing; then came the drone of a circling plane, not a helicopter. Had they found the wreckage? The explosion and the brief fire could not have left much to see. As near as he could make out from the little he had seen, the wreckage had caught fire and the sudden explosion had put it out. Of course, he could see nothing in the woods where the copter had crashed.
All day long, at intervals, he heard searching planes. For three days, shivering in the bitter cold, he stayed under cover. Finally, when hours had passed with no further sounds of aircraft, he left his hideout, packing all the meat he had, and started toward the river.
The Ningam flowed into the Gonam, and some sixty to seventy miles further the Gonam entered the Uchur. There was a village there. All this he knew from his talks with Baronas and Botev.
He could use the river only as a guide. It would be frozen over now, the chances were, but trusting river ice was no part of his plan. During the night there had been snow, and the river ice would be covered with it. Ice beneath snow often melted, leaving places where one might easily break through.
Joe Mack, running lightly, followed along a dim path close to the river, taking advantage of the easier travel. Hour after hour passed and he saw no one, heard no one. Once, ahead of him and across the river, he heard dogs barking, but he was too far away for them to be barking at him.
The Uchur lay somewhere ahead of him. With luck he would reach it the following night. It was a large river, and crossing it would present a problem.
He slept the night in a small cave warmed by a handful of fire. He slept badly, for the cold kept awakening him. He had been careful to keep his ears and nose covered through the day, knowing they were most liable to frostbite. So far he had been unbelievably lucky.
He was brutally tired, and it began to seem that he had never been warm. There was a mountain ahead of him, and he stumbled along, numb with cold, thinking only of trying to keep to the east of it. Near the base of that mountain the Gonam flowed into the Uchur.
It was after midnight when he came at last to the river’s edge. Stumbling, half frozen, he stared at the ice. Was it frozen all the way across? He had no way of knowing. He worked his way along the bank, following a well-worn road. Out upon the ice he could see shelters built by fishermen who fished through holes made in the ice. Some of them showed light.
The road he was following dwindled into a path, and the path led down to the ice. Somebody, several somebodies, had walked out on the ice. Taking up a stick, he started, tapping the ice ahead of him. He followed the tracks, dimly visible in the light layer of snow. A long time later he scrambled up a steep bank, slipping twice and falling before he made the top. Exhausted and half-frozen, he stared about, his eyes blinking slowly, trying to see something, anything that might provide shelter.
He started to walk and slipped and fell. It seemed he should just lie there, just give up —
“Get up out of that!” It was a woman’s voice, speaking Russian, but a harsh, bitter voice. “Get up I say, or you’ll die!”
He got to his knees and then, with an effort, stood up. “Come inside, you fool, before you freeze!”
She shoved him toward the door of a squat, ugly shack in the trees, and he almost fell inside, then straightened up. It was warm inside, almost hot. It was a snug shack with a stove, glowing and red, a table, two chairs, a bunk bed, and a wide bench. There were some shelves against the wall and some clothing hung on pegs.
He turned to face her, and they stared at each other. She was a big young woman with broad shoulders and amazingly blue eyes. “Yes, I’m a woman,” she said, “so you can stop staring. I’m a married woman, too, and not looking for a man if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not,” he said simply. “I am just cold and hungry.”
“I can see that. Sit down.” She came to help him with the pack. “What’s in this?”
“Meat,” he said.
“You can share some of that with me. It’s little enough I have here with my husband gone off and no money.”
“Help yourself,” he said.
“There’s tea on.” She delved into his pack. “I’ll fix some of this for us.”
“Take some for yourself,” he said. “I’ll be on my way at daybreak. Keep some. If you’ve no meat, it will help you.”
She thanked him and then ignored him, preparing the food. As he grew warmer, he looked carefully around. The place was neat, but everything was shabby. Poverty stared him in the face.
She handed him a thick mug of tea. “Drink that,” she ordered. “You’re done in.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She turned to look at him. “What are you?” she said. “Who are you?”
“A traveler,” he said, “who wants nothing to do with the authorities. They will not even thank you for feeding me.”
“The devil with them!” she said bitterly. “They’ve taken my man away and left me little enough to do with.”
She stared at him. “What are you? You’re not Russian?”
“My mother was an Ostyak,” he lied.
“They are good folk. I once lived in Baltshara. There were many of them who lived in the forest there. They were all right as long as they were not cooped up.” She glanced at him. “You’re running from something.”
“Not running,” he objected mildly. “Just avoiding.”
She laughed without humor. Then she dished up the meat. “Eat this. Are you warming up a bit?”
“I am, thank you. You are a good woman.”
“Keep that in mind,” she said brusquely. “I am and shall be.”
They ate in silence. She refilled his cup. “Where do you go?”
He shrugged. “Away.”
She looked at the bow and the quiver of arrows. “I’ve seen nothing like that since I was a child.”
“Do you have visitors?”
“Me?” she snorted. “I do not.” She indicated the bench. “Sleep there, and when the day comes, be off with you.”
“All right,” he said. She had taken little of the meat. He took out more. He guessed it was about ten pounds. “Keep this. You’re a fine woman, and you have shared with me.”
He slept well and quietly, and when dawn came and his eyes opened, she was already at the fire.
“There’s tea. Drink it and be gone.” She stood up, looking at him. “I have had time to think and I know who you are, although you could pass for an Ostyak with some.”
He ate, drank the tea, put on his coat, and shouldered the pack.
“You’re a good woman,” he said. “I shall pray for you and yours.”
“Pray, is it? A long time since I’ve heard of that. Not since I was a small girl and we had churches where I lived, and priests. Well, pray if you will. I could do with a few prayers. Now be off with you, and if you say you have seen me, I shall say you lied.”