This was the way by which his people had come. He only knew what the scholars said, for his people had no written language, and tales told by a campfire have a way of changing and growing or even lessening in the passage of time. In any event, that over yonder was his land, his home. There lay the mountains of his birth and the soil to which his people had given their blood and their flesh. They had fought well in their time, they had won many battles and lost a few, but they had died well when their time came.
“Do you be the same,” he said. “It is the measure of a man to die well.”
He was walking on the mountain, through the forest, when he saw them. “You have followed me too far,” he said. “I will not be taken again.”
He was within sixty feet of the soldier when he turned and saw him. The soldier did not speak, but with a kind of triumph he lifted his rifle, and he must only have seen the arrow flash in reflected sunlight before it transfixed his throat. He was the last man in line, and he fell, his hands grasping the arrow, his eyes glazing.
At the edge of the woods, Joe Makatozi ran softly on the moss. He ran and then waited, and as the next soldier appeared between the trees, he let go his arrow. The soldier cried out and fell.
The man ahead of him in the single file turned impatiently, then stared in horror at the arrow and died beside him.
There were six men in the patrol and a huge, bearlike man who led them, Joe Mack ran on, and when they stopped at a small stream, he let go another arrow. The target turned and took the arrow in the shoulder instead of the throat.
He cried out and the others turned. Joe Mack dropped his bow and drew a pistol.
He fired once, caught up his bow, and vanished into the trees, not waiting to see the effect of his shot.
It was growing dusk, as dusk as it ever became at this latitude, and he faded back among the trees.
On the soft moss, his moccasins made no sound. He moved among the trees, listening. There was no sound but a subdued murmur from a stream.
Alekhin had survived, then? He was here. “Now, my friend,” Joe Mack said aloud, “we shall meet, you and I, and I am ready for you.”
He circled the camp, but there was no camp, and they had no fire. They waited for him somewhere in the woods.
He crept close and lay still in the brush. How many were Siberians, he wondered, aside from Alekhin? He waited, and feeling about he found a rock and threw it, arching it high. It fell into the brush and he lay still. They would be waiting, and they would be fearful, for three or perhaps four of their mates had died.
Where was he? They did not know.
Did it mean he was there? Or somewhere near? He threw another stone and heard it land.
No sound, and he expected none. Would they remain where they were until morning? Or would one or more of them try to slip away to some further spot? He believed they would think of going but would stay.
He waited, resting easily on the moss, ears tuned to the slightest sound. Then he threw another stone. This time there was a subdued gasp, not too far from where the stone landed. There was vague light, and something stirred in the shadows; something moved. He let go an arrow and heard the thud of its strike and then a rustling in the brush. He let go another arrow. It was a miss, he believed, but a close one.
Gently, ever so gently, he eased back, went down into the hollow behind, and crossed a stream. He climbed into the rocks to a place he had seen earlier. Then he settled down to rest.
When the dawn was yet an hour away, he prepared several traps, and when he went back he left several slight tracks. Not enough to make them suspicious, but several. Then he went down the mountain toward the shore.
Major Joseph Makatozi walked along the shore in the gray morning and looked at the gray seas rolling in to beat against the rocky shore. He looked at the piled roots of great trees and at the little cove where a man worked upon some nets. He walked down to him and stood for a moment, watching.
“I have come far,” he said at last, trying his English, “to see the place where once Olaf Swenson traded. He was an American, I think.”
“And an honest man,” replied the old Chukchi. “I knew him when I was a boy, but he traded with my father and my grandfather. ”
“My grandfather was a Scot. Once long ago he sailed to these shores and traded here with Swenson.”
“That was long ago. Nobody remembers Olaf Swenson anymore. They do not remember the good days of trade, nor do they remember that we Chukchis crossed the narrow seas to Alaska each year, sometimes more than once in the year.”
“You caught salmon there?”
“No more. All that is gone. They will not let us go anymore, but sometimes – sometimes I wish I could go again, but I am old, old.”
“I would go,” Joe Mack said, “if I had a kayak.”
The old man looked up. His brown face was deeply lined under the mane of white hair. He looked at Joe Mack and at his braids. He looked at his face again.
“It would need a man who knew the kayak to do it. Such a trip is not easy.”
“But with a kayak, they might not know he was going. It is a small thing, made of hide only.”
“It might be done. I am an old man and have not tried.”
“But I am a young man, and my home is over there. I want to go home, Grandfather. ”
“I have a kayak, a very good one. For the grandson of a man who sailed with Olaf Swenson — I do not know. Perhaps.”
“I have some rubles. A kayak is not a small thing. It is made with craft not many possess. I would pay.”
“What are rubles to an old man? The sea gives me my living, and I give it my blessing.”
“Once long ago, Grandfather, it is said my people came this way, crossing when there was no water here. I follow in their footsteps.”
“I have heard of this, and I have found arrowheads and bones. Yes, I believe it is true.” The old man looked up from the net. “Those who watch have eyes to look where we cannot see. They have wings to fly over.”
“I shall go at night, Grandfather.”
“Ah? It has been done by day, and long, long ago. One must understand the kayak.”
“We are not strangers. I have used them at sea, and upon rough rivers.”
“When?”
“Tonight, if I live.”
The old man looked at him again. “I have heard some shots fired upon the mountain.”
“Yes, and today I shall go back to find one who looks for me. I do not wish him disappointed.”
“There will be shooting?”
“I hope not. I wish to do it with these.” Joe Mack held up his hands. “My people were warriors once. Am I to be less than they?”
“If you come in the evening when the sun is low, the kayak will be lying by those roots. What you do is your affair. ”
“Speak to the spirits of the sea, Grandfather. My voice is lonely in the night.”
Forty-Seven
He smelled the smoke before he saw the fire, and when Joe Mack walked through the scattered rocks, Alekhin was waiting.
Joe Mack’s eyes swept the little hollow, but the Yakut said, “They have gone to recover the bodies you left.”
“I came for you.”
“I am here.”
Colonel Arkady Zamatev took up the package the soldier had placed on his desk. Slowly, with careful fingers, he began to undo the knots.
The package was very light, and it was wrapped in the skin of some small animal, but there was something inside, part of which felt like bark from a tree.
The last knot came loose, and the package opened. Colonel Arkady Zamatev sat very still, his mouth dry, his heart beating heavily. What lay on the table before him was obviously a human scalp with a small, distinctive blaze of white on one side, white hair growing where an old scar had been.
With it was a narrow strip of birchbark, and on it, printed in neat lettering:
THIS WAS ONCE A CUSTOM OF MY PEOPLE.
IN MY LIFETIME I SHALL TAKE TWO. THIS IS THE FIRST.