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was, but now he had fixed them. And they were gone.
Gone.
The word had an empty sound. He had not liked them, but he hadknown them.
Theirs were familiar faces. He had been comfortable around them even though he
despised them. Now where could he go?
They had all gone away, scattered like blown snow, but if he sat down he could
probably figure out where they had gotten to. Baronas had been no trapper, so
he would not be apt to go into the deeper woods. He had heard they were
talking of going to some warmer place where the climate would be better for
his health.
A warmer place meant the coast of the Sea of Japan. At least, that was the
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closest place and the only place they could go. They would not dare try to go
back into Russia. Anyway, they were not Russians.
Peshkov was a hating man. For the first time in his life he understood that.
There had never been anyone he liked. He had tramped with several men, but
just because it was easier that way. He had gone along with them, deserting
them when the occasion demanded. He was a trapper and a hunter, but a petty
thief as well, taking whatever served his purpose and he could get away with.
Larger and stronger than most men, he usually had no trouble. Few men were
armed and most of them subject to bluff; the others he learned to avoid.
Stephan Baronas had politely ignored him, and Natalya had quietly been in
command at the little settlement, something he had resented from the start. In
the first place, that she was only a woman; in the second, that she was
Lithuanian. Her father had been looked up to among the refugees, but he was
not one to relish command or authority. Little by little it had been Natalya
who had responded to the needs of their little community. Peshkov's efforts to
take control had simply been ignored by everyone, and he had not known how to
cope with that. Several times he had attempted to get her alone, thinking that
when he did he would show her who he was and what she was to him.
Unfortunately, when he finally succeeded, she proved to have a pistol and a
willingness to use it.
Seated beside a fire in what had been the Baronas cabin, he made up his mind.
He would find her and show her who was boss. He would wound her if necessary,
kill her if he decided it was in his best interests.
To find her would be no great problem. He was a tramp and knew others of his
kind. A woman so beautiful would be remembered. He smiled into his empty cup.
Then he arose, put out the fire, and stowed away his gear.
First, for his own satisfaction, he would find where the American had been
hiding. Then he would hunt down Natalya Baronas.
He was chuckling to himself, thinking of her horror when she would see him
again. He would track her down when she was gathering fuel and strike her
down. She would be tied up and helpless before she became conscious. He'd show
her a thing or two.
It took him a good two hours, during which time he became more and more
irritated and impatient. He refused to believe the American could so outwit
him, and it was on his third passing that he suddenly decided to explore that
crack in the rock. He was a heavy man, and it was a tight squeeze, yet he
forced his way through, glimpsing the shelf beyond. Vague sunlight was falling
through the trees, and enough was visible so that he was sure he had found it.
Right over there, within a step or two. He could see the place where a fire
had been, and -
He pushed himself through the last of the crack and stepped out quickly. After
all, he wanted to be away from here before dark. He
In the instant he took his step he heard the water falling far below, but an
instant too late.
He felt himself falling, and wild with panic he dropped his rifle and grabbed
out wildly. His fingers caught the edge and held on, and he hung suspended
above the void.
He was a strong man, but a heavy man wearing a heavy coat. A moment he hung,
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choking with fear, and then he tried to pull himself up.
He couldn't do it. His fingers seemed to slip and he cried out, calling for
help.
There was no one to hear. The village was deserted.
He fought down the panic. He could get up there; he had to get up there. Using
all his strength he pulled himself up and then tried to get an elbow over the
edge.
He made it. His elbow rested on the edge, and he pulled himself up further and
swung a leg to the ledge.
In one awful instant he felt the rock under his elbow crumble, and then he
fell.
He seemed to fall for a long time, and then he struck with a moment of
stabbing agony and then brutal, unendurable pain. He lay on the rocks, half in
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