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eating something 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,
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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 coups, of men who would die rather than
yield.
Each summer when school was over he went into the woods with several
companions, where they lived as Indians once had, where they hunted, trapped,
and lived off the country as they had been taught.
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He slept, shivering and cold, beside a small fire in his cave, and when dawn
broke he knew he must remain here until he had killed animals to provide him
with food and clothing. He must make a bow and arrows. In the meanwhile, he
made a sling and gathered stones with which to arm it.
He teased his fire to life with bits of bark and then added larger sticks.
Then, armed with spear and sling, he went out on the mountainside.
First he listened long and carefully for any sounds other than those of the
taiga, as the forest was called in Siberia. He went to a vantage point and
watched the river, but saw nothing. He sat very still, every sense alert. He
needed meat and he needed clothing. He also needed sinews to make a bowstring.
In the old days these had been made from sinews taken from a buffalo's
shoulder or just below it. Now he must make do. There were wild reindeer in
the valleys and along the slopes. So far he had seen two, but had been without
a weapon to kill them. The spear would do if he could get close enough, or
even the sling if the distance were right and if he could throw with
sufficient accuracy.
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