Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A
Authors: Louis L’Amour
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broken off by frost that had slid down the mountain. Once among them he should have cover, and his clothing blended well with the surroundings. He left the spruce at a run and then slowed to look and listen. He saw and heard nothing.
Were they still at the log house? Had they discovered some sign of his presence that he had failed to eradicate? He trotted on, weaving his way among the rocky debris, and reached the small forest of slabs and took shelter among them. No sound, nothing.
He was about to leave his shelter for another run when he heard the helicopter. It was coming in low through the very pass he had chosen. The slabs of granite had fallen in several places, so they provided crude shelters. He crawled well back under one slab and waited.
The copter came in so low he could feel the wind from the beat of the rotor blades, but it continued on through the pass and turned north to avoid the peak that faced the end of the pass, lying a few miles further east.
Rising, he followed on through the pass. There was little cover, but he knew he must accept the risk. Often, he saw the tracks of animals, and several times, of wolves. He was carrying meat, and even though it had been smoked and dried the wolves would smell it. He camped that night among a patch of stunted birch trees and slept, shivering and cold with no fire and only flimsy cover. Morning was a relief and he started again, his body stiff with cold. It was a long time before he warmed up, and fear rode his shoulders like some monster he could not cast off. He crossed the saddle and by midday had turned south again, leaving the towering peak behind him. His feet were numb and moved awkwardly. There was no shelter from the wind or any place to hide. He stumbled on, cold and tired, for he had slept badly, fighting the cold through the long night.
Desperately, he needed to find some animal that could provide him with a warmer coat or something to wrap around himself when he slept.
Day after day he worked his way southward. Several times he saw planes, and twice there were helicopters. Were they searching for him or involved somehow with the railroad? He had no way of knowing, but it mattered little, for by now all Siberia must be aware of his escape.
He was always cold. He needed better food, and he needed fat, always the hardest thing to find in the wilderness. He had worn out another pair of moccasins, and his feet were sore from walking over rocky terrain. More and more often he was stopping to rest. From time to time he killed a ptarmigan or grouse. Once he caught some fish. Time had ceased to exist; all he thought of now was to move on.
And then he saw the bear.
Chapter 11
----
I T WAS A large brown bear, rolling in fat. Joe Mack squatted down beside a fallen tree and studied the situation. He needed that bear, needed it badly, but could he kill a bear of that size with an arrow? It had been done and no doubt might be done again, but he had never done it.
He glanced around for a tree with low branches. He might need to climb very fast, and it was unlikely a bear of that size would attempt a tree. The larger bears rarely climbed trees, instinctively knowing what their weight could do.
He glanced again at the tree, decided what branches he would take, and looked again at the bear. There was almost no wind. Joe Mack took an arrow from his quiver, put it in position, and then waited an instant. Then, reaching back, he withdrew two more arrows. Once more he lifted the bow, waiting and watching. The distance was about right; the bear was facing away from him, its left side clearly visible. He drew back the bowstring and let the arrow go.
It went true, into the bear’s side right behind his left foreleg.
The bear let out a grunting roar and half raised itself to a standing position; then it fell back, trying to grab at the arrow or to bite it. Joe Mack stood up and too eager, missed his second shot. The arrow barely grazed the bear, which wheeled about and
Were they still at the log house? Had they discovered some sign of his presence that he had failed to eradicate? He trotted on, weaving his way among the rocky debris, and reached the small forest of slabs and took shelter among them. No sound, nothing.
He was about to leave his shelter for another run when he heard the helicopter. It was coming in low through the very pass he had chosen. The slabs of granite had fallen in several places, so they provided crude shelters. He crawled well back under one slab and waited.
The copter came in so low he could feel the wind from the beat of the rotor blades, but it continued on through the pass and turned north to avoid the peak that faced the end of the pass, lying a few miles further east.
Rising, he followed on through the pass. There was little cover, but he knew he must accept the risk. Often, he saw the tracks of animals, and several times, of wolves. He was carrying meat, and even though it had been smoked and dried the wolves would smell it. He camped that night among a patch of stunted birch trees and slept, shivering and cold with no fire and only flimsy cover. Morning was a relief and he started again, his body stiff with cold. It was a long time before he warmed up, and fear rode his shoulders like some monster he could not cast off. He crossed the saddle and by midday had turned south again, leaving the towering peak behind him. His feet were numb and moved awkwardly. There was no shelter from the wind or any place to hide. He stumbled on, cold and tired, for he had slept badly, fighting the cold through the long night.
Desperately, he needed to find some animal that could provide him with a warmer coat or something to wrap around himself when he slept.
Day after day he worked his way southward. Several times he saw planes, and twice there were helicopters. Were they searching for him or involved somehow with the railroad? He had no way of knowing, but it mattered little, for by now all Siberia must be aware of his escape.
He was always cold. He needed better food, and he needed fat, always the hardest thing to find in the wilderness. He had worn out another pair of moccasins, and his feet were sore from walking over rocky terrain. More and more often he was stopping to rest. From time to time he killed a ptarmigan or grouse. Once he caught some fish. Time had ceased to exist; all he thought of now was to move on.
And then he saw the bear.
Chapter 11
----
I T WAS A large brown bear, rolling in fat. Joe Mack squatted down beside a fallen tree and studied the situation. He needed that bear, needed it badly, but could he kill a bear of that size with an arrow? It had been done and no doubt might be done again, but he had never done it.
He glanced around for a tree with low branches. He might need to climb very fast, and it was unlikely a bear of that size would attempt a tree. The larger bears rarely climbed trees, instinctively knowing what their weight could do.
He glanced again at the tree, decided what branches he would take, and looked again at the bear. There was almost no wind. Joe Mack took an arrow from his quiver, put it in position, and then waited an instant. Then, reaching back, he withdrew two more arrows. Once more he lifted the bow, waiting and watching. The distance was about right; the bear was facing away from him, its left side clearly visible. He drew back the bowstring and let the arrow go.
It went true, into the bear’s side right behind his left foreleg.
The bear let out a grunting roar and half raised itself to a standing position; then it fell back, trying to grab at the arrow or to bite it. Joe Mack stood up and too eager, missed his second shot. The arrow barely grazed the bear, which wheeled about and
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