For that he must have a place with a water supply. He must have meat enough to survive for weeks if need be.
They were coming in force and the search would be thorough, yet it was Alekhin he feared, Alekhin or the chance discovery of some blundering soldier who just happened upon him.
Down below there where the soldiers would be coming, their walking channeled by the country itself, he had taken the time to prepare some traps. These men would not be the same as those others, so he had used some of the same devices.
At a place where a wide step was needed to cross a small stream, he had left some sharp stakes hidden by leaves and snow. A man taking the long step necessary to step over the stream would drive his foot into the angled stake, placed to receive him.
At other points he had arranged cords made of roots to trip a follower and a sharpened stake to meet him when he fell. He had also arranged some deadfalls of heavy logs. None of these would stop pursuit, but they would arouse caution and slow the soldiers down, make them less eager to try to find him.
At another point, a natural lockout into the canyon, he had undermined a flat rock slab and then propped it in place. A quick step and the slab would fall into the canyon, taking whoever stepped on it.
The canyon he had reached was either that of the Kolyma or the Indigirka, and he suspected the latter, although his map was not clear enough, considering what little he knew of the country. But the canyon was at least a mile deep and probably more. It was wild, lonely, and picturesque. Now to find a place to hide.
Joe Mack was familiar with canyons. He had spent time in both the Snake River and the Salmon River canyons in Idaho, deeper canyons than those of the Colorado. He had spent months wandering their few trails, climbing down their rock walls, taking refuge in caves.
He found himself on a high, wild plateau, swept by icy winds. There were scattered cedars, very little snow, and much broken rock, as well as scattered boulders and uptilted slabs. Careful to step on no fallen sticks, he moved across the flat rock, working his way toward the edge of the canyon itself. Fortunately, he had time.
From a projecting ledge, he studied each side of the canyon, and far down, perhaps a thousand feet from the top he saw a small cluster of cedar among a grove of aspen. The trees seemed to be growing on a level area. A small waterfall dropped off the side nearby. As the air was very clear, he knew the place was farther away than it appeared to be. To the usual eye it was but one of many outcrops where trees had found a lodging.
He moved slowly ahead, searching for animal tracks. Soon he found those of a goral and followed them. They wandered off into the forest, and he looked for others. Finally, he found what he wanted, the tracks of a mountain goat and later those of a small bear. Their trail followed a narrow, tree-clad ridge until they suddenly dropped off into a snow-choked hollow. He followed, and then going around a huge old cedar, the tracks dropped over the edge of the cliff. He could see the river, running with white water, a good two thousand feet lower. The path was narrow, and he edged along carefully, facing the rock for a dozen yards at a time, clinging to mere fingerholds. When he could glance down, he saw fringes of ice in some of the tiny coves, but the river itself was unfrozen.
Twice he crossed small open areas scattered with trees, picked up the trail again, and worked his way further along. Twice he went across acres of scattered rock fallen from the peaks and cliffs above. Then through a crevasse, along the bottom of which water trickled. Then ducking under a projection of rock, he emerged on the cliff face once more. For a moment he stood there, scanning the rim opposite and the sky; then he looked back to the vantage point from which he had chosen his destination.
Nothing. Nobody in sight. He edged out on the trail, but found he could walk easily. The edge was perilously close, but he had spent much of his boyhood in such places.
When he came to the area he was seeking, just on the chance it would provide what he wanted, he found himself almost cut off by the rushing stream that provided the waterfall he had seen.
Searching, he found a place where he could cross, and soon he was standing in a small hanging valley, its walls covered with stone pine and cedar, its basin half choked with aspen. But there were two little meadows and a small pond, marshy at the near edge. The marshy part was still frozen and covered with scattered snow.
The little valley comprised no more than forty acres and seemed to offer no way out that he could see, yet there was nearly always a way, if one had the patience to look and the skill at climbing.
There were many tracks of both deer and mountain goats, most of them fresh. He killed a ptarmigan at the edge of the pond and began searching for a place to camp. They might find him here, but he doubted it.
Alekhin, if he was around? Well, maybe.
Nowhere could he find any evidence of previous visits. He killed a mountain goat and skinned it out, taking what meat he wanted. Most of all, he wanted the hide, for his vest was sadly worn from the rough treatment, and the pelage of the mountain goat is the softest and warmest of any animal in the north country. When he had the meat and the hide, he went to the farthest end of the hanging valley, around a small bend that offered complete concealment. There he built a fire and roasted some of the meat. Sitting by the fire, he studied his surroundings. He must find a place in which to shelter himself, but he must also find an escape route if one existed. Studying the sides of the valley, heavily forested, he decided he might climb through the forest, pulling himself tree by tree up the forbidding cliff.
The hide of the mountain goat he had taken needed work, and he began it as soon as he had eaten, scraping the inside of the hide clean. The hair was pure white, or so it seemed until matched with snow, and then it took on a creamy-white color. With some of the leather remaining from an earlier kill of an elk, he cut out a pair of moccasins to replace the worn ones he wore.
From where he worked he could see the end of the trail down which he had come. It was partly obscured by aspens growing out of the side of the cliff, trees that had been bent down by a weight of snow, now melted or blown away. He had seen several such places on his way along the cliff face.
Huddling over his small fire, he thought out his plan for those trees, knowing what he must do and thinking how best to do it. He had rigged many snares for wild animals, often using spring pole snares. This would be a variation. He had to fight with what he had.
Where now was Natalya? Did they still live in the makeshift village where he had discovered them? Or had they already begun their trek to Plastun Bay or its vicinity? And how could he ever live up to his promise to get them out?
The buffer zone extended all along that coast, and any plane attempting to penetrate it would be shot down. The Soviets had already shown their readiness to shoot down even an innocent passenger plane if it accidentally invaded their airspace. Yet he would find a way. Somehow he would find a way.
A cold wind blew down the raw-backed ridges, and a faint sifting of blown snow came down, icy particles that stung the skin. He went back into the trees and pulled deadfalls together to make a crude shelter, gathering boughs for a bed. The sky above was amazingly clear; the stars seemed to hang like bright lamps just above the canyon’s edge. Far below, he could hear the roar of the water, but a distant sound.
If he made no tracks he would leave no tracks. He would, if possible, stay right here for several days, but first he must find an escape route, and he must be prepared for planes or helicopters flying over.
These canyons were wild, almost completely unexplored except by a few passing hunters, and since coming to the area he had seen no signs of man, nothing at all.