When morning came he made a stew of some of the dried meat and then made tea, taking his time and resting. It had been weeks since he had slept so well and days since he had enjoyed a warm meal.
The forest was changing. Now there were many cedar trees, some ash, oak, and walnut. There were more birds, too, and the tracks of deer were everywhere about.
As he moved, his thoughts were busy, not only absorbing the country but trying to guess what Zamatev was doing. They knew about where he was now, not within miles, but certainly within the area. His sudden shift toward the east might delay pursuit for a brief time, but no more. Also, it would have the effect of narrowing still more the area in which they must search. He must at all costs avoid contact with or being seen by people, something that could grow increasingly difficult. Twice on this day he had come upon the remains of old campfires, so hunters did range these woods.
His thoughts kept returning to Natalya. How were they? What had happened after he left? Could she get away to the coast? To the Maritimes? Even so, how could he possibly slip in there and get her out? It was ridiculous to even consider it, yet he might get her away from there. The interior? No chance, no chance at all.
He stopped suddenly. He had been following a game trail, and suddenly in the trail before him was the track of a large cat.
A tiger!
As if he had not troubles enough. It was a fresh track, perhaps not an hour old. There were leopards in the area, too, or down in the Sikhote Alins nearer the coast. But this was a bigger track than that made by a leopard, and tigers went further in their hunting than did leopards, and they stood the cold better. This area had long been known for tigers of great size as well as of fierceness, and the Chinese as well as the native Soviet population had suffered from them.
He followed, estimating the size of the beast by its stride and the impression of the tracks, although there was small chance of that because of the frozen earth. But here and there, in a few soft spots, the pugs made a definite impression. The tiger was a large one. Soon the tracks left the dim trail and went off down the mountain to the east.
The months had changed him. He was lean, hard, and even more muscular. More and more he was becoming the Indian, a man of the wilderness. He was no longer a stranger to this country, for he had come to know its ways and had learned to live with it.
As night came on again he moved higher on the slope to find a place where he could catch whatever warm air there was, for it would rise, leaving the slopes often warmer than the valley below.
He found a rockfall where several great slabs had fallen in such a way as to leave a shelter beneath them and a place where he could have a small fire unseen. He was gathering sticks for his fire when he saw the highway.
It was miles away but could be nothing else, for he saw the lights of what appeared to be a convoy moving along toward the east. There were six trucks in the line. Borowsky had told him that trucks often traveled so because of occasional hijackings. The goods they carried were worth so much on the black market that hijackings were not uncommon.
He returned to his well-hidden cave under the slabs and fixed a small meal. He did not make tea. He had enough left for one more brewing, and then he must do without. Coffee was an almost forgotten luxury.
Later, when he emerged to make one last gather of fuel before sleeping, he looked down toward the highway.
There were no lights. He was turning away when he saw one set of lights moving very slowly. He paused, watching.
Something seemed to be wrong. The truck slowed and slid a little to one side, and then the lights were stationary. After a few minutes they started to move once more, barely creeping. Then the truck turned toward him and stopped. The lights went out.
Puzzled, he watched for a few minutes, then returned to his fire and his bed.
It was still dark when he awakened. The first thing he thought of was the truck.
Apparently it had been disabled. Yet that was not necessarily so. Should he go down to it? Almost anything such a truck carried might be useful to him.
Yet he might be seen. He decided not to take the risk and came down off the mountain and started east. The highway, if such it could be called, ran along the river he had crossed a few days ago. That river had taken a bend to the north, and —
He stopped again. Directly before him was a road! A dirt road of simply two parallel tracks, such as many he had seen in his own country. On that road were fresh tire tracks, two sets of them. Puzzled, he turned left, following along. He found the tracks of some small animal crossing the fresh tracks, and there were spots of oil, scarcely stiff from the cold.
The truck he had seen must have turned off the highway and come here. The second set of tire prints showed the truck returning. Wary, but curious, he followed the road but kept back in the trees.
Something dark and shadowy loomed ahead. He drew closer. A building, a tailings pile, and a track that ran out on a dump and ended there.
For a few minutes he watched. The place seemed deserted. An abandoned mine.
Why had the truck turned off the road to come here? It had not been disabled as he had thought, but simply seeking the turnoff in the darkness.
No smoke, nothing. He moved down to the nearest building, where the road ended, and peered inside.
Boxes, crates, and barrels, all neatly stacked!
He had come upon the cache of a black-marketing truck driver. Not many of the boxes and crates were alike. It was possible that the driver, either on his own or with the connivance of some others, had been loading extra boxes from a warehouse, discharging them here to be picked up by others.
Was there somebody around? Someone to guard their stolen property? Or was it sufficiently far into the wilds where none was needed?
He had learned to speak a little Russian, but read it he could not. He doubted if the few words he saw stenciled on the boxes had anything to do with the contents. Another quick look from the window showed him nothing, and with a hammer nearby he opened the nearest box.
Canned goods! He tried a second and a third. Food in most of them, and then several boxes of clothing.
Running to the windows for another quick look, he made up a bundle of both clothing and food and carried it into the forest. What he had hoped to find was a pistol and ammunition, but there was no such luck, and he had already spent enough time. Bundling the boxes back into shape, he renailed them, and wiping out what tracks he had left, he slipped away into the woods.
From first to last, he doubted if he had been in the building more than twenty minutes. As he was leaving he heard the distant sound of a truck.
Catching, up his bundle he scrambled higher on the mountain. Looking back, he could see nothing of the building he had just left or any sign of the road leading to it. A truck was passing on the highway. Taking his pack, he moved back deeper into the forest and away from the highway. At dusk he stopped and building a small fire, ate better than he had for weeks. When he had eaten and his fire was down to glowing coals he looked again at the clothes he had taken. There had been no time to try on what he had found, and he had judged the coat just by laying it open on its box, but it had looked large enough. He had taken the pants that went with it, and now he tried on the coat. It was a passable fit, not good, but better than he expected. The trousers were too large in the waist, but that was no problem. A tight belt would handle that.
He packed the suit in as neat and small a package as possible and put it with the shirt Natalya had made for him. If he needed to go into a city, he was now prepared, but for one thing. He had no shoes or boots. His moccasins would attract the eyes of any who saw him.