Leave it to him. He knew how to get even. He hated them all, everyone except Yakov. He was afraid of Yakov.
He had been afraid that night when the American was behind him with a knife. Damn him! How had he managed that? Anyway, he’d shown him! He was on the run now with half the army after him. They’d get him, too. He wished he could be there when it happened. He would just like to have the American see him there, smiling at him. Come to think of it, he had never found the place where the American had been hiding.
He walked back to the Baronas cabin, snow crunching under his feet. There was fuel there, and he built a small fire. He would roast some meat over the fire, and then he would go have a look. It irritated him that he had not found it before. Then he could have waited outside and shot him when he emerged. He might have gotten a fat reward for that. They’d given him nothing for telling them where he was hiding.
It was cold and miserable in the long-empty cabin. He stared around angrily. It had always been warm and somehow comfortable when they were here.
He made tea and sipped it, squatting on his heels. Everybody was gone, so there was no sense in staying here. They had never liked him, none of them, but he knew them. That was the thing. He knew them and they knew him. They had always been glad enough to get the meat he brought. He’d made them pay for it, one way or another, until that American came, giving them all the meat he could kill.
Where would he go now? Where could he go? He had thought them a miserable lot, even Baronas and that Natalya. Really thought well of themselves, they did. Well, all that education did them no good. They had been in the same fix he was, but now he had fixed them. And they were gone.
Gone.
The word had an empty sound. He had not liked them, but he had known them. Theirs were familiar faces. He had been comfortable around them even though he despised them. Now where could he go?
They had all gone away, scattered like blown snow, but if he sat down he could probably figure out where they had gotten to. Baronas had been no trapper, so he would not be apt to go into the deeper woods. He had heard they were talking of going to some warmer place where the climate would be better for his health.
A warmer place meant the coast of the Sea of Japan. At least, that was the closest place and the only place they could go. They would not dare try to go back into Russia. Anyway, they were not Russians.
Peshkov was a hating man. For the first time in his life he understood that. There had never been anyone he liked. He had tramped with several men, but just because it was easier that way. He had gone along with them, deserting them when the occasion demanded. He was a trapper and a hunter, but a petty thief as well, taking whatever served his purpose and he could get away with. Larger and stronger than most men, he usually had no trouble. Few men were armed and most of them subject to bluff; the others he learned to avoid.
Stephan Baronas had politely ignored him, and Natalya had quietly been in command at the little settlement, something he had resented from the start. In the first place, that she was only a woman; in the second, that she was Lithuanian. Her father had been looked up to among the refugees, but he was not one to relish command or authority. Little by little it had been Natalya who had responded to the needs of their little community. Peshkov’s efforts to take control had simply been ignored by everyone, and he had not known how to cope with that. Several times he had attempted to get her alone, thinking that when he did he would show her who he was and what she was to him. Unfortunately, when he finally succeeded, she proved to have a pistol and a willingness to use it.
Seated beside a fire in what had been the Baronas cabin, he made up his mind. He would find her and show her who was boss. He would wound her if necessary, kill her if he decided it was in his best interests.
To find her would be no great problem. He was a tramp and knew others of his kind. A woman so beautiful would be remembered. He smiled into his empty cup. Then he arose, put out the fire, and stowed away his gear.
First, for his own satisfaction, he would find where the American had been hiding. Then he would hunt down Natalya Baronas.
He was chuckling to himself, thinking of her horror when she would see him again. He would track her down when she was gathering fuel and strike her down. She would be tied up and helpless before she became conscious. He’d show her a thing or two.
It took him a good two hours, during which time he became more and more irritated and impatient. He refused to believe the American could so outwit him, and it was on his third passing that he suddenly decided to explore that crack in the rock. He was a heavy man, and it was a tight squeeze, yet he forced his way through, glimpsing the shelf beyond. Vague sunlight was falling through the trees, and enough was visible so that he was sure he had found it.
Right over there, within a step or two. He could see the place where a fire had been, and –
He pushed himself through the last of the crack and stepped out quickly. After all, he wanted to be away from here before dark. He —
In the instant he took his step he heard the water falling far below, but an instant too late.
He felt himself falling, and wild with panic he dropped his rifle and grabbed out wildly. His fingers caught the edge and held on, and he hung suspended above the void.
He was a strong man, but a heavy man wearing a heavy coat. A moment he hung, choking with fear, and then he tried to pull himself up.
He couldn’t do it. His fingers seemed to slip and he cried out, calling for help.
There was no one to hear. The village was deserted.
He fought down the panic. He could get up there; he had to get up there. Using all his strength he pulled himself up and then tried to get an elbow over the edge.
He made it. His elbow rested on the edge, and he pulled himself up further and swung a leg to the ledge.
In one awful instant he felt the rock under his elbow crumble, and then he fell.
He seemed to fall for a long time, and then he struck with a moment of stabbing agony and then brutal, unendurable pain. He lay on the rocks, half in the icy water, and stared up at the feeble light far above and knew his back was broken.
Evgeny Zhikarev had waited and planned too long to accept defeat. Carefully, through his friends among the traders and dealers in furs, he put out feelers. From here and there he received news. An order had gone out for the arrest of Stephan and Natalya Baronas. Zamatev was rounding up all who had had meetings or contact with the American, who was still at large. The village had been deserted, Botev and Borowsky had disappeared, and so had Baronas and his daughter. Evgeny Zhikarev knew his own time was short. Undoubtedly, an order for his arrest was already out.
He was not a man to panic. He did not plan to be taken again. He had gone that route, with crippled feet to show for it, as well as some other scars.
His cousin was growing restless, and he knew that his cousin wished he would go away. It had been a warm, wonderful visit, but as the visit lengthened the cousin’s patience grew shorter. No matter, he was going.
He would go suddenly, without warning, for who knew about relatives these days? Which could you trust, if any? The Soviet system was founded upon suspicion and distrust.
He had gone down into the town, taking his time, for he could walk but slowly. It was warm in the sun, and there was no snow in the town, although he could see it on the mountains. He had learned to use his eyes and ears and to pay attention, so within a short time he knew the business and the activities of most people along the street. Trucks and vans came here, unloading goods or loading furs, and he watched for a familiar face.