In moments Grisha took in his surroundings. They were in deep woods but the glint of moving water could be seen through the far trees. Pravda‚
flashed through his mind but he wouldn’t hold on to the memory.
Two rough cabins sat at the edge of a large clearing where most of the trees still lay after harvest. A coffle of nine emaciated prisoners sat in the dust at roadside. Grisha decided they were being taken back to Tetlin to be strengthened.
“How many were you in the beginning?” Grisha whispered to the closest one.
“Thirty,” the man whispered back without moving his head. “The rest are dead.”
“Move out!” the Cossack sergeant bellowed.
The women shuffled toward the cabins.
Another Cossack screamed, “Not that way! That’s where we live.”
They were halted at a wide trench floored with packed wood rounds. A ladder was the only way down or up. Two of the Cossacks opened the heavy locks on each prisoner’s shackles.
The men were ordered into the trench and the women were led away by the crowing Cossacks. The soldiers who had traveled in the lead truck threw the men some food. They could hear the cries and moans of the women all night.
6
Ten meters above the ground, Slayer-of-Men shifted slightly to take the pressure off his left foot. The tree limb remained motionless as the tall man smoothly transferred weight to his right foot so he could flex the numbness from his sleeping leg.
The Cossacks below went about their wasteful ways, unaware of watchers. Not once had any of the bear-men looked up at the surrounding trees. They believed themselves complete masters on this part of the Tanana River. Soon they would know the truth. The Dená were reclaiming their ancestral homedespite the Czar.
Slayer-of-Men knew the location of all four Cossacks, as well as that of the ten soldiers with the tank who followed their orders, and the twenty slaves who labored for them. One of the Cossacks lay with a slave at the foot of the tree from which the Dená warrior watched. He glanced down with distaste at the couple.
The woman’s head angled away from the Cossack and the Athabascan Indian could easily see a dark bruise pushing her eye shut. If a man treated a free woman of the Dená like that, she would kill him or die trying. But then this woman was a slave.
The sound of hammers and saws echoed through the late summer foliage. A scattering of yellow and gold leaves heralded the imminent change of season; soon the birch trees wouldn’t hide a squirrel, let alone a man.
His long, black hair was tied back from the blotchy face paint matching his camouflaged dungarees. The sleeves of his shirt bulged over well-muscled arms as he braced himself. Slowly, carefully, he continued to flex his leg.
With a grunt the Cossack finished with the slave and pushed her toward the work site. The bear-man glanced around lazily, then lifted his gaze to the trees bordering the clearing. Slayer-of-Men thanked the spirits for his location at the man’s back. The Cossack strutted back toward the construction commotion and began shouting orders at those nearest him.
From his perch, Slayer-of-Men could see for miles over the wide, shallow Tanana River dotted with small islands scattered over the floodplain. The forest on the far bank presented a seemingly impenetrable wall to the uninitiated. Off to the northwest lay the Charley Hills and the great Yukon River.
The Dená warrior visually located every member of the Russian compound one more time before easing down the tree to those who waited for him. He felt certain this action would be like all the rest—completely successful and another victory for his People.
7
Grigoriy Grigorievich ducked his head and pulled down hard on the crosscut saw. Sawdust and chips sprayed across him. He automatically shook his head before he pushed up and watched the man above him pull the long saw back to start the next cut. Four more cuts, he calculated, and the last log would be planked out.
“Pull!” Dimitri said above him, continuing the cadence. “Push. Pull. Push. Pull.”
Halfway through the next downward cut, the last two pieces of the log fell apart into planks.
“Letting go!” Grisha said loudly and released the saw handle. He kneaded the hardening blisters on his hands while stumbling out of the saw pit. He shook himself off and brushed madly at his hair to dislodge as much of the chips and dust as possible.
Without raising his head he glanced around the clearing, locating all four Cossacks. The soldiers would give a man time to catch his breath. But the Cossacks interpreted a prisoner’s lack of motion as a personal affront.
Grisha waved madly until the closest Cossack nodded, then grabbed a handful of leaves and scuttled into the brush toward the malodorous slit trench. He dropped his ragged trousers and balanced narrow buttocks across the birch pole that served as a seat. Carefully he breathed through his mouth while his bowels released their watery load. He allowed himself to dwell on the fact that he was still losing weight before forcing his thoughts elsewhere.
Unbidden, unstoppable, he thought of Pravda and the clean pleasure of running full out down some beautiful channel.
His sphincter clenched and he briskly used the leaves with his left hand. He pushed himself off the pole and bent to pull up his pants. A dizzying blow sent him reeling forward to fall full on his face, his clothing still down around his ankles.
Quickly he rolled onto his back and pulled his knees up over his exposed loins. Vich-something, the Cossack sergeant, towered over him, legs wide, arms akimbo, and his gravel voice ground at Grisha.
“With good fortune you’re blessed, pretty one,” he said in Russian.
“Out of twenty new mares, four of them are actually female. But soon you will know a stallion’s strength, just like all the other animals on our little farm.” He laughed without pretense at humor.
“Quickly return to work, you dung-eater! Or I will geld you now before your strength dissipates.”
Grisha jerked the trousers up as he rolled over, lurching to his feet he ran toward the rapidly rising lodge. He knew he could kill one of them with his bare hands, but not four, especially when all were armed. He hoped to last long enough to kill at least one.
Basil, the wide-shouldered Georgian, grunted as he pried a log end up to secure the rope around it. Grisha skidded to a halt next to him, already on his knees, and pushed the noose over the squared-off tree trunk.
The straw boss, a thick Indian or Creole woman from somewhere to the west, barked a command and four women tightened the rope to take the log’s weight off the pry bar. Grisha jumped up and helped hoist the log high enough to maneuver the end into the corner notch where it belonged.
At the other corner of the ten-meter wall, Basil, the wild-haired woodsman, hacked furiously to cut the place where the log’s lower end would fit. Grisha scrambled up the wall and released the noose. Sallow-faced Andreivich, who had talked less and less as his strength drained, pushed the crude derrick around to position the rope above the back of Samis.
The burly army guard stepped forward and pointed his rifle in their general direction as Samis finished the cut before lowering himself to the ground. His short ax hung by a rope thong looped around his neck. He ignored the guard as he scrambled up onto the next corner. Taking a deep breath and careful aim he hacked out another joint.
As he went through the achingly familiar motions yet again, Grisha’s thoughts drifted to the forest. This might be bad, but out there could be worse. Rumors told of work parties disappearing, Cossacks, guards, and all, never to be heard of again.