in Katerin. “Though he seems to be a menace, he may in fact be so
twisted to our use that he will be our salvation.”
“A man who is an enemy! Protect us? Are you talking madness, my
daughter, or have my wits become addled by age? I shall not allow a man
who is my enemy to save me even if he would or could. No, no, I say
it—this American—this Russian who calls himself an American—must die.
And no time lost in the matter, let me say!”
“But I say you are wrong, father,” insisted Katerin, putting her hands
on his knees. “If he does not know who we are, what difference does it
make to us or him if he is an enemy. The thing for us to do is to make
friends with him—and fool him into the belief——”
“But he will know me!” protested Michael. “You expect him to talk with
me—even see me—and not know who I am? That would only be putting our
heads into the maw of the lion! I can tell you this, my daughter—I shall
strike first, while the advantage lies with me!”
“Truth!” exclaimed Wassili excitedly. “The master speaks truth! And I am
the one to attend to the task!”
“But he will not know you,” pleaded Katerin. “He thinks of you as you
were years ago, in the days when you were Governor, while now you are an
old man in the rags of a peasant, with——”
“Ah, he will know, he will know! We must not trust to ice so thin! I
shall not turn my horse loose too soon when danger is over the hill. I
may be old, but I have not lost my cunning with my enemies, I hope.”
“You forget that our lives depend upon our deceiving this Peter
Petrovitch, my father.”
“I think our lives depend upon his not seeing me till I am ready to
strike,” argued Michael. “What would our lives be worth if he were to
come in here now and see me? A beggar’s kopeck—the turn of a hand, the
call of a quail in the brush! P-fooh! I know!”
“But we have no time to spare. The Ataman’s men may be at the door at
any minute. Before that we must win this stranger to our side, and
before he can discover who we are, slip away with him to Vladivostok—to
Harbin—to——”
“Vladivostok! You expect an enemy to take us to Vladivostok? To Harbin?
Why, I would sooner, than that——”
“He wants to find you. What if I tell him you may be found in Harbin? Or
Vladivostok?”
Michael thrust aside a cloud of smoke that had gathered before him, and
squinted his eyes at his daughter, as if he really doubted her sanity
now.
“And how could you find me in Vladivostok, when I am here in this
rat-hole in Chita? Truly, my ears hear strange words. They are not worth
a last year’s egg.”
“You do not understand. If this stranger looks to me to help him find
Michael Kirsakoff, and he does not know you for Michael Kirsakoff, what
is to prevent our telling him that we can take him to some other city—to
find you?”
Michael cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips. Then a smile
broke over his face as he began to comprehend.
“We have no time to spare,” pressed Katerin. “It must be done before he
can learn by any mischance who we are. Once we are free of the city, his
chances of discovering our ruse diminish.”
“But how can he take us away, even if what you say is true? The Ataman
would prevent us—he would betray us. There would be some slip—and we
would be in the hands of our enemy, or delivered into the hands of the
Ataman. We double our danger and gain nothing,” objected Michael.
“The Ataman would not dare stop an American officer. We must chance
that. This stranger would give his eyes to find you. Very good, then! We
shall fall in with his desires and turn them to our advantage. We must
take him away under the pretext that he is to find you, then in reality
he will be aiding our escape from the city.”
“Oh, but he would get to know me in time. My voice, my looks, my way of
speaking. If he has ever seen me at all, he will know me. He may have my
description—do not be trapped by him. The wolf knows the color of the
hare he pursues.”
“I told him how you looked——”
“What!” cried Michael. “You told him how I looked and you expect him not
to know me?”
“How you looked twenty years ago, my father. And he did not know the
difference.”
“That was to blind your eyes to his purpose,” said Michael.
“And I shall blind his,” said Katerin, with sudden resolution. “Wassili!
Fetch me the cover of the pillow from the bed! And a knife—with a sharp
edge!”
Wassili, with a puzzled look upon his face, turned away to obey her.
“And what is all this?” demanded Michael. “Am I to be wrapped like a
mummy and put into a bundle? Am I to be carried about with a rope to my
middle like a handle?”
“I shall make sure that the stranger does not recognize you—leave it to
me, and we shall outwit this stranger and come to safety.”
“Then you had better take good pains with it,” said Michael, “for if he
gives the glimmer of an eye that he so much as thinks I look like
myself, I shall kill him!”
“If that must be done, then it must,” admitted Katerin, as she cut the
edges of the pillow and began ripping it into long strips. “But your
face must be hidden from him, for he might see something in you that
would remind him of you in the old days. We must take care against such
betrayal.”
“And what are these rags for?” demanded Michael.
“A bandage about your face to conceal you further.”
“Oh, p-fooh!” said Michael disgustedly. “What nonsense is this, that I
should be wrapped up like a Turk? How the devil am I to talk or breathe
or eat my soup? I’ll have none of it—I, who was a general of majesty!”
“You have had a bullet through both cheeks,” said Katerin. “Come,
please! Hold up your head—these cloths will only keep your teeth warm
against the cold. That is my dear father—and remember, it is to save us.
Better this chance than to sit here and wait till the Ataman sends
Shimilin for us again. Come!” She held up a strip of the cloth.
“Are you going to tie up my face as if I were an old beggar with boils?”
demanded Michael.
“Trust to me, my father. When the lion is stricken he must still roar,
that his enemies will be misled. You have said that to me many times.
Trust to my wits—and we shall see.”
He puzzled over it for a minute, and then threw back his head in
submission. “I shall not stand in the way of your safety,” he said. “I
leave it in your hands. My heart is brave, but the years have put chains
upon my body,” and he sighed wearily.
Without more ado, Katerin wrapped the grizzled old face with the strips
of cotton. They passed over the top of his head and down under his chin.
His eyes, nose, and mouth were clear of the cloths, and his ears stuck
out oddly behind the wrappings. The white hair on his chin gave him a
more aggressive look than usual for his beard was thrust forward by the
bandage. The scant hair on the top of his head stuck up, and wavered as
he moved, like the crest of a bird.
Katerin leaned back and studied him with critical eye when she had
finished.
“It will serve well enough,” she said finally. “If he knows you now, he
would know you in spite of anything we could do. And now listen to my
plan. You have been a political here for the past ten years—and you
hated General Kirsakoff, who was a cruel Governor and——”
Michael gave a snort of wrath and wrested the bandage off over his head
and threw it upon the floor.
“I will have nothing more to do with this madness! I was not cruel—I was
but just! And I shall not blacken my own character! Not an inch shall I
give to my enemies on that score—I, who was a general in the army of
majesty!”
Katerin laughed heartily, and picked up the bandage. She knew better
than to take her father seriously when he was in such temper, and she
also knew that she should gain her end if she were patient with him.
“I only say what the American thinks,” she explained. “If he already
thinks that of you, you do not damage yourself. And what a joke! A joke
that will save us! General Kirsakoff telling how cruel Governor
Kirsakoff was! Would you not fool this stranger now, to laugh at him
after we have lost him in Harbin where we are safe?”
Wassili sneaked away into a corner to laugh discreetly, his shoulders
heaving with suppressed merriment over the wrath of Michael.
“Be still, you, Wassili,” growled the old man, turning to look after the
_moujik_. “By the Saints!” he cried to Katerin. “You see how it is? Am I
to be made into a buffoon for my servants in my old age? Am I to be
turned into an actor in a play, a silly clown of a fellow to make the
country folk giggle into their drink? Am I to forget what figure of a
man I was——”
“You forget my danger,” she chided gently.
“I forget nothing!” he retorted. “It is I who am remembering that I once
was Governor here!”
“Do you remember the Ataman Zorogoff?” she asked, with sober face.
“Yes, and I’ll dance on his grave—but I’ll not have my head wrapped up
like an old woman doing a penance.”
“Very well, then we shall do nothing more, but wait till the Ataman
comes. Then we can take the poison of honor.”
Katerin sat down by the table and threw the loops of the bandage from
her.
Michael looked at her, and an expression of infinite tenderness and love
came over his face. His lips quivered, and he struck several matches
violently without getting a flame. He threw the last one to the floor,
and held out his hands to her.
“Forgive me, Katerin Stephanovna—I did forget. But now I remember, and I
see what you are striving to do. It is true, what you say, and we must
play with this American. And if we take good care, it may all come out
as you say—it will be a way out of our danger and our troubles. Come,
please! Put on the rags, and I shall be the best old exile ever was
seen, one who is fleeing from the wicked Governor—from Kirsakoff!
Please! Again the bandage, and I’ll be good.”
“Ah, little father, there is another way to fight without using swords
and guns. There is a way to gain your ends without your enemy’s
suspecting that he is pushing your cart.”
She gave her attention to putting the bandage back.
“I grant the truth of what you say,” said Michael. “But what will
Slipitsky say to this? He is a shrewd fox, and there is many a twist in
a game of this sort that he knows—he has helped many a man to escape
from me, for all his friendship for me in the old days. Never did I
dream that we should have to resort to his cleverness—but the fox takes
his wisdom where he finds it, and that is why we say that he is wise.”
“It does not matter what Slipitsky thinks of it. We cannot leave all the
tricks to our enemies. And you must have faith in me, if I am to work
this out so that good will come of it, and we get away from the soldiers
of the Ataman.”
“I’ll trust you, my daughter. By the Saints! You should have been a man,
Katerin Stephanovna!”
“And perhaps if I were a man, we should both be dead by now,” said
Katerin. “This is a war of wits, and we women have had to use our wits
for many years. And if those in the high places had heeded the women,
Russia might not have come to what she has.”
“It is good that there are wits between the two of us, for mine are
gone, my daughter. I am a hindrance. I am but a millstone about your
neck, else you would have escaped from Chita long before this.”
“You won’t be a millstone if you will obey what I advise in this affair
with the American officer. If we cannot go through with this thing, it
is better not to try our hands at it.”
“Have no fear—I’ll say black is white if it does you any good,” said
Michael, now once more with his face trussed in the bandages.
“Listen well to what I say,” cautioned Katerin. “And you, too, Wassili.
For if we fail, we have not one enemy, but two—this stranger as well as
the Ataman. And if we succeed, we have none, for one will save us from
the other. What better can we ask than that a man who is an enemy should
deliver us from danger?”
“Give me two enemies, if that can be done,” said Michael.
“Mind what must be done. Our name shall be Natsavaloff. You were
banished for plotting against the government of the Czar. First, we must
learn why the American seeks Kirsakoff—for he may not be alone in his
reasons, but have others who are equally dangerous. We must get to the
bottom of why he seeks you, though the reason does not matter for our
purpose. We shall have Slipitsky’s advice, too, before we bring the
American to this room to learn where Kirsakoff may be found. And we are
not to tell the American where Kirsakoff may be found unless he takes us
to the city where we shall say Kirsakoff is hidden—anywhere, it does not
matter, so long as we get away from Chita.”
“And how is Wassili to help in all this?” asked Michael. “Where lies his
task?”
“When we bring the American here, Wassili shall stand behind his chair.
We must be on our guard against the stranger every second, and if the
American should recognize—or make a move to draw a weapon——”
Wassili finished the sentence for her in pantomime with a quick and
eloquent gesture—a short thrust, done quickly, and an explanatory grunt.
“And you, my father, shall have your little pistol in your hand, and the
blanket thrown over your knees to hide it—so that you shall be able to
defend yourself. But do nothing rashly—unless he should know you, we
must not do him harm.”
Wassili was sent for Slipitsky, and the Jew came. The four of them went
over the whole plan of escape in case Peter should not recognize
Michael. They spent the afternoon in taking up every possible angle of
the situation. And on one thing they agreed—if Peter really proved to be
a deadly enemy, and should recognize Michael—then the American officer
must die.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVIII
THE TRAIL GROWS HOT
PETER spent the afternoon walking the floor of his room, his whole being
in a glow from the fever of revenge which had flamed up brightly within
him while he listened to “Vashka”—the name by which he knew Katerin.
And Peter’s inner fury was directed against his own mental image of
Kirsakoff—a picture revivified and given new clarity in Peter’s brain by
Katerin’s description of her father as he had been in the old days.
Peter killed that man over and over again in imagination. He knew that
it might take weeks before he could so shuffle the combination of
circumstances that Kirsakoff might be slain with the greatest margin of
safety for himself.
Through the years, Peter’s hope for vengeance had become to him a holy
mission. There had been times during his life in the United States when
he realized that he might never return to Siberia in time to carry out
his dream of vengeance. But the old hatred had smoldered. Now it was
burning at white heat.
What had been his own selfish desire was now transformed into a
patriotic fervor to help his own people. The old tribal spirit of the
Slav had come to life again within him when he encountered the mad
ecstasy of liberty among the people in Vladivostok. He longed to have
some hand in the great emancipation which had been brought about by
those of his race. He was determined to join the orgy of destruction.
And now he saw his own personal revenge coupled with the troubles of the
old exile and his daughter. Not only would Peter become the savior of
the beautiful Vashka and strike a blow to thwart the new tyranny of
Zorogoff, but his own father would be avenged. Katerin personified for
him the Russia which must be saved, just as Kirsakoff personified the
Russia which must be destroyed. For Kirsakoff, a survivor of the old
autocracy, was plotting with the Mongol, Zorogoff, to defeat the
purposes of the revolution and once more bind the people to the wheel of
slavery. The old system was evil, and no vestige of it must remain. That
was the aim of the people, and Peter believed in it. His mind had never
grasped the thought that in the background of events there might be a
new autocracy throwing sand in the eyes of the people to enslave them
with new fetters which were not yet visible. “Destroy! Destroy all who
do not work!” was the cry. And as work was defined for the mass of the
people, it meant common labor—and the laborer lacked the ability to
think about the consequences of killing all who might be able to divine
the purpose behind the cry for destruction. And Peter was trapped into
thinking only of the past and its evils, without looking into the future
of a race which allowed only its serfs to live.
He thought only of the fact that he had been rescued from Siberia and
sent back with the power of avenging his own wrongs. And as he prayed
for success, he crossed himself with both hands, in the way of the
people of old. The deep well of mysticism and emotionalism which so
often had swept the Slav into action without the cooler previsions of
those races which had gained the beginning of their freedom in the Dark
Ages, now shook Peter’s soul. He was living again in the stark horrors
of his boyhood—living over again the bitter morning when his father had
been struck down in the street. These memories he hoped to blot out by
slaying with his own hand one dragon of the old autocracy—Michael
Alexandrovitch Kirsakoff.
Michael would be well guarded, and wary. But his vigilance might be
relaxed by artifice. Peter had not yet formulated his plan, but there
would be many pretexts for getting closely in touch with Kirsakoff.
Peter might even represent that he had come to enter into secret
negotiations with Kirsakoff on behalf of the American government. That
was one of the many possible plans which flitted through Peter’s brain.
But the business would require care in preparation and good judgment in
its execution. All impulses toward prompt decision must be put aside—it
would be a patient waiting for the minute which promised success without
attaching the slightest suspicion to Lieutenant Peter Gordon of the
American army.
That could be done only after a period of slowly acquiring the
confidence of Michael. Peter would have to build up a pretended sympathy
with the old régime and its adherents, and show a willingness to aid
Zorogoff and Kirsakoff in gaining the friendship of the American
forces—even plan to aid in betraying the people of Russia in their
aspirations for freedom.
Peter saw himself dining with Kirsakoff as a guest of the general; he
built in his imagination a succession of secret conferences with
Kirsakoff, and then, perhaps during an evening over wine and cigarettes,
a whisper to Michael, “Do you know who I am in truth? Peter Petrovitch,
son of Gorekin the bootmaker——!” and then the bullet and the escape.
Peter could see Michael turn his horrified eyes upon the smiling
American officer who was really the son of an exile. Gorekin the
bootmaker! Michael might not remember at first. How could a Governor be
expected to carry in his memory a poor unfortunate, and a boy of twenty
years before? But Peter would make Michael remember. There must be time
for that so that Michael should know by whose hand he died. That would
be necessary if Peter was to have his complete joy in his vengeance.
When the sun had dropped over the crest of the hills, and the frost was
gradually creeping upward on the panes, etching a thick tropical foliage
upon the glass, Peter went to the window and looked out over the Valley
of Despair. The little hut of his boyhood was merging slowly into the
shadows of the taller buildings about it. Tiny sparks appeared in the
white smoke rising from the hut’s stone chimney—Rimsky was evidently
feeding the fire-pit for the night.
Peter stood by the window musing on the bitter days and nights of the
exiles long dead and forgotten—on the staggering columns coming in afoot
over the Czar’s road to a living death, on the clanking of chains and
fetters, on the screams in the nights as some cabal of exiles “roofed”
one who had betrayed some breaking of the rules to the guards, on the
barking of rifles as fugitives were hunted out of the hills.
Chita had become a city. It was built of the tears and anguish, of
bodies destroyed and minds wrecked, of hates and cruelties, all mixed
with the bricks and logs of its walls. And limitless legions of human
beings had been poured into the wilderness and their bodies used as
fertilizer to build up a new empire for the rulers of Russia.
“Oh, you cry for justice!” he said to the spirits of those who had
suffered. “The time has come for justice—you have waited long, but
to-morrow will not be as yesterday!”
He turned from the window and took his belt and pistol from the writing
table and strapped them about him. Then he turned on the shaded
droplight. It threw down upon the cloth of the writing table a yellow
cone of radiance. It was now five by his watch. He rang the bell
thrice—the signal for Vashka, as Katerin called herself.
He sat down by the table and waited. The sound of people walking about
in the hall furtively, came to his ears, with the careful opening and
closing of doors and snatches of conversation. He heard the strains of
an old Russian air played on a violin by some one on the floor above,
and the regular pounding of feet as if the steps of a Cossack dance were
being tried intermittently.
It was the hour of the evening when the people in the hotel began to
bestir themselves for the gay times of the night. They kept hidden
during the day, and went abroad under cover of darkness to the
restaurants of the city, to return to their rooms in the early morning.
The men who lived in the hotel were mostly officers who were attached to
the Ataman’s army, judging from those Peter had seen about the halls.
The women were a flashy lot—women who had drifted up the railroad from
Vladivostok or Harbin, and women of the sort that has the best of
everything in times of famine and disorder. They were the parasites who
seem to thrive best in times of disaster, and who get the most out of
life when there are no laws of restraint. When they have acquired some
amount of treasure, they are robbed and abandoned.
Katerin was at the door in response to the signal by bell with amazing
promptitude. She entered without knocking, and closed the door behind
her softly. She stood for a minute, a vague shadow in the gloom outside
the zone of the shaded lamp.
Peter rose and moved toward her. “Thank you for coming,” he said in a
low voice in keeping with her secretive entrance. “Have you persuaded
your father to tell me what I wish to know? Will he help me in my
quest?”
“If you still wish it,” she replied. “Please! Take the shade from the
lamp—the darkness is not pleasant.”
Peter caught a note of melancholy in her voice. She seemed to be
discouraged, and his own hopeful attitude was somewhat chilled.
“Has anything gone wrong?” he asked.
“No, not unless it is wrong for us to involve you in the same dangers
which face us. My father appears reluctant to put you into a situation
the full danger of which may not be apparent to you, a stranger.”
Peter laughed merrily to cover the sudden fear which he had felt that
she might recede from her promise to help him find Michael Kirsakoff.
“I have no fear,” he said. “There may be danger, but I am glad to help
you. I shall attempt to find Kirsakoff in any event—and may well run
into more danger than if your father should tell me how to go about the
job. So when it comes to that, my danger is only increased if you do not
help.”
“Perhaps you are right,” she said.
He went and lifted the shade off the lamp, and stood revealed in his
uniform in the flood of light. The silver bars on his shoulders
glittered as he leaned over the lamp, but Katerin’s eyes rested upon the
brown boxlike holster at his hip.
He swung round upon her, smiling. Now he saw that her gay mood of her
former visit had vanished—her eyes seemed sadder and the light revealed
the pinched pallor of her face. She was suffering from strain long
endured, he saw, and a twinge of pity tugged at his heart.
He went and pulled down the decrepit window shades, and then slapped his
pistol. “Here we have the power of America!” he said. “Behind me is an
army. Come! It is not a time to be sad! America is here, and that means
justice to the oppressed!”
She sat down in a chair, and smiled at him, in a brave attempt to be
merry with him.
“America must be a wonderful land,” she said. “I have heard much about
it, and read much about it. But there are many who say it is no better
than our own Russia.”
“What!” cried Peter. “You must not be misled. America is a land of
magic! Look at me, a poor Russian boy who was the son of an unfortunate
here in the Valley of Despair, and in a few years it transformed me into
an officer, and sent me back to help my own people—and to help you,
Vashka.”