Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L’Amour
Tags: Usenet
worthwhile.
From an aspen he cut a strip of bark, scraping off the soft tissues between the bark and the wood. He ate the moist, pulpy flesh, as he had often done as a boy, and continued on.
He had no illusions. Zamatev would never give up the search, and he had behind him all the power of the Soviet Union, and all they could muster in men, planes, cars, and helicopters, all linked by radio. The Armed Services would be alerted and civilian agencies mustered, and his description would be broadcast. And winter with its terrible cold would be coming.
His one advantage was that they did not know where he was and hence could not concentrate their search. Once they did know, his chances would be cut in half at the very least.
The air was clear and cool. The sun was bright. Siberia had very little rain and less snow, and in this area at least, clouds were rare. Yet in a mountain range somewhere before him the coldest temperatures outside Antarctica had been recorded.
So far he had traveled slowly, hiding out when he sensed any movement, avoiding all signs left by men. He slept in snatches when the sun was warm, but the weather grew colder. He had to stop soon, as he must trap some animals for their skins. He would need clothing.
The valley of the Kalar narrowed into a canyon, and Joe Mack, staggering and ready to drop from exhaustion, leaned against the trunk of a dead tree and stared down at the river, several miles away. He could occasionally catch a gleam of water, no more.
He should not be tired, but lack of food was sapping even his great strength. He had traveled, he estimated, at least one hundred and fifty miles since breaking out. Most of that time he had been cold and hungry, barely subsisting on the food he could find. He had to stop. He had to recoup his strength. He had to prepare for the winter.
In the past several days he had survived on berries, scrapings from aspen bark, several ptarmigan he had killed, a number of squirrels, a marmot, and fish he had speared.
For a long time he stared wearily down toward the river; then slowly he turned his head to scan his immediate surroundings.
The face of the cliff behind him was obscured by a thick, almost impenetrable thicket of stone pine. Below him, stands of birch and aspen covered the slope, and a trickle of water ran down through the rocks toward the river, far below. He was turning his head away when something caught his attention. Under the stone pine the shadows seemed unusually black. He looked again, then went closer and dropped to his knees. Behind the thicket of stone pine there appeared to be a cave.
Crawling under the lowest branches he found himself in an overhang perhaps ten feet deep and as many wide. Here, for a little while, he would rest.
Outside, several times in the past few hours, he had seen the droppings of either mountain sheep or deer. They looked much the same.
If he could kill a mountain sheep he would have both meat and the hide.
The spear he had fashioned was adequate, but no more. What he needed was a bow and some arrows. Even if he had a rifle it would do him more harm than good to fire it, as the sound would be sure to attract attention. He also could make a sling. Many Indians had used the sling, and he had been expert in its use since childhood.
His grandfather had been both a harsh and a kindly man. “Learn to live off the land,” he had said. “Your ancestors did it, and you can. Learn the roots, the leaves, the nuts, and the seeds. Now you do not have to live so, but who knows what the future may hold?”
The great men of his boyhood days had not been George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, not Jim Thorpe or Babe Ruth, but Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Gall, and a dozen others. From his grandmother he heard the stories of Indian war parties, of raids against the Arikara, the Kiowa, the Crow, and the Shoshone. Throughout his boyhood he had been enchanted by tales of the great warriors of the Sioux nation, of scalps taken, of
From an aspen he cut a strip of bark, scraping off the soft tissues between the bark and the wood. He ate the moist, pulpy flesh, as he had often done as a boy, and continued on.
He had no illusions. Zamatev would never give up the search, and he had behind him all the power of the Soviet Union, and all they could muster in men, planes, cars, and helicopters, all linked by radio. The Armed Services would be alerted and civilian agencies mustered, and his description would be broadcast. And winter with its terrible cold would be coming.
His one advantage was that they did not know where he was and hence could not concentrate their search. Once they did know, his chances would be cut in half at the very least.
The air was clear and cool. The sun was bright. Siberia had very little rain and less snow, and in this area at least, clouds were rare. Yet in a mountain range somewhere before him the coldest temperatures outside Antarctica had been recorded.
So far he had traveled slowly, hiding out when he sensed any movement, avoiding all signs left by men. He slept in snatches when the sun was warm, but the weather grew colder. He had to stop soon, as he must trap some animals for their skins. He would need clothing.
The valley of the Kalar narrowed into a canyon, and Joe Mack, staggering and ready to drop from exhaustion, leaned against the trunk of a dead tree and stared down at the river, several miles away. He could occasionally catch a gleam of water, no more.
He should not be tired, but lack of food was sapping even his great strength. He had traveled, he estimated, at least one hundred and fifty miles since breaking out. Most of that time he had been cold and hungry, barely subsisting on the food he could find. He had to stop. He had to recoup his strength. He had to prepare for the winter.
In the past several days he had survived on berries, scrapings from aspen bark, several ptarmigan he had killed, a number of squirrels, a marmot, and fish he had speared.
For a long time he stared wearily down toward the river; then slowly he turned his head to scan his immediate surroundings.
The face of the cliff behind him was obscured by a thick, almost impenetrable thicket of stone pine. Below him, stands of birch and aspen covered the slope, and a trickle of water ran down through the rocks toward the river, far below. He was turning his head away when something caught his attention. Under the stone pine the shadows seemed unusually black. He looked again, then went closer and dropped to his knees. Behind the thicket of stone pine there appeared to be a cave.
Crawling under the lowest branches he found himself in an overhang perhaps ten feet deep and as many wide. Here, for a little while, he would rest.
Outside, several times in the past few hours, he had seen the droppings of either mountain sheep or deer. They looked much the same.
If he could kill a mountain sheep he would have both meat and the hide.
The spear he had fashioned was adequate, but no more. What he needed was a bow and some arrows. Even if he had a rifle it would do him more harm than good to fire it, as the sound would be sure to attract attention. He also could make a sling. Many Indians had used the sling, and he had been expert in its use since childhood.
His grandfather had been both a harsh and a kindly man. “Learn to live off the land,” he had said. “Your ancestors did it, and you can. Learn the roots, the leaves, the nuts, and the seeds. Now you do not have to live so, but who knows what the future may hold?”
The great men of his boyhood days had not been George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, not Jim Thorpe or Babe Ruth, but Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Gall, and a dozen others. From his grandmother he heard the stories of Indian war parties, of raids against the Arikara, the Kiowa, the Crow, and the Shoshone. Throughout his boyhood he had been enchanted by tales of the great warriors of the Sioux nation, of scalps taken, of
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