THE POST STATION.
The post station was simply a square log building with a stockaded court
yard in front. The first floor was thrown into one room, and when Sandoff
approached the rear window with noiseless tread, and raised his eyes
slowly above the sill, he beheld a scene of cheer and comfort that fairly
made his heart ache. In one corner, near the door, stood a large iron
stove, heated to a fiery redness. In the center of the room was a table
laden with bread, meat, pickles, a bottle of vodka and a steaming samovar
of tea, and around it sat three men, evidently Siberian merchants,
drinking and eating. In the corner of the room opposite the stove lay a
Buriat peasant and a dog, sleeping side by side, and on a bench by the
door sat the _starosta_ or station keeper. The window sash was raised
half a foot, no doubt because of the extreme heat of the room.
While Sandoff was trying to catch the fragments of conversation from
within, the distant tinkle of sleigh bells fell on his ear. The sound
came nearer and nearer, now mingled with the tramp of hoofs. Sandoff
left his position and crept to the angle of the house, reaching it just
in time to see a long covered sledge drawn by a _troika_—three horses
harnessed abreast—come spinning along the post road from the west, and
draw up before the court yard gates.
“Some one bound for the Pacific,” muttered Sandoff. “I wonder who it can
be.”
Curiosity had by this time mastered his hunger, so he crept back to
the window and looked once more into the room. The _starosta_ had gone
out—no doubt to welcome the new arrival—and the three merchants were
looking inquiringly toward the door. The Buriat and the dog still slept
profoundly.
A moment or two later the _starosta_ returned, followed by a short
spare man muffled up in furs. His face was clean shaven, and his black,
bead-like eyes twinkled at sight of the fire and the well spread table.
Sandoff shot one glance at the stranger, and then drew quickly away
from the window and leaned against the end of the house. His hands were
clinched, his face black with passion, and he panted fiercely for breath.
“I know him,” he muttered. “_It is Serge Zamosc!_ What can that scoundrel
be doing here? I would give my chances of escape to put my hands on his
throat for one moment. But this won’t do—I must be calm. I must find out
the meaning of this strange thing. To think that the traitor should turn
up here in Siberia! How easily I could shoot him through the window!”
Repressing the temptation to do so—but not without difficulty—Sandoff
once more put his eyes to the window. Zamosc was standing near the stove,
talking in a low tone to the _starosta_. At that instant the door opened,
and a Russian officer in undress uniform entered the room—evidently the
head official of the village.
He favored Zamosc with a slight bow, and said abruptly. “I beg your
honor’s pardon, but I must trouble you for your passport.”
Zamosc glanced at the other occupants of the room and then led the
officer directly to the window, pausing within two feet of Sandoff, who
drew his head down and turned his ear upward. Zamosc began to speak in a
low voice, but from the fragments that reached him, such as “traveling in
secret,” “Inspector of Police,” “government report,” Sandoff was at no
loss for a clew to the situation. Then the speakers raised their voices
slightly, and the unseen listener heard every word that was spoken.
“Inspector Serge Zamosc and companions,” said the officer, evidently
reading from the passport. “How does it come that you are alone?”
“Why, have you not heard?” asked Zamosc in surprise. “I met with an
unfortunate accident yesterday about twenty miles back. My horses got off
the post road and broke through the ice into the Amur River. I had two
Cossacks with me beside the driver. The latter and one of the Cossacks
were drowned, and the other soldier was so badly kicked by the horses
that I had to leave him at the next station back. I telegraphed on here
for a fresh escort. Did you not get the message?”
“No,” said the officer decidedly. “I received no message.”
“That is unfortunate,” exclaimed Zamosc angrily. “The stupid fellow at
the office shall pay dearly for his negligence. I will see to that later.
But now what am I to do? I am in haste to reach Vladivostok—for I intend
to return to Russia by water—and I can’t go on by myself. The driver whom
I brought along tonight must return in the morning to the station he came
from. Can’t you spare me two of your Cossacks, captain?”
“Impossible, your excellency,” was the quick but courteous reply. “I am
short of men now, or I would gladly oblige you. At the next station,
however, which is thirty miles distant, you can readily obtain Cossacks
and a driver. The latter I could furnish you, but the man I have in view
is really not trustworthy and I dare not recommend him.”
“Then I won’t think of taking him,” said Zamosc. “If the next station is
but thirty miles away I will drive there alone. I have good horses, and
know how to manage them. Bear in mind that I am traveling secretly,” he
added in a lower voice.
“Certainly, your excellency. My lips shall be sealed.”
This ended the discussion. Zamosc turned to the _starosta_ and said in a
loud voice, “Bring us food and drink for two, my worthy man, and see to
it that my sledge is in readiness at three o’clock in the morning. I wish
to make an early start.”
Sandoff remained in his place of concealment for fully five minutes, and
then rising slowly up he made a cautious survey of the room. The three
merchants were spreading rugs on the floor in preparation for going to
sleep. At the table they had recently occupied now sat Zamosc and the
Russian officer, hobnobbing sociably over food and a bottle of vodka.
Sandoff watched them with a half smile on his face. “A passport for
himself and companions!” he whispered. “Traveling on secret service to
Vladivostok! He wants an escort and a driver!—Well, he shall have them,
if I can provide them for him. You and I will settle up old scores, Serge
Zamosc. It is a daring plan—but I will attempt it.”
With this enigmatic self communing Sandoff turned away. Creeping
noiselessly around the angle of the house, he passed on to the courtyard
stockade—first making sure that no one was in sight. What he had hoped to
find was there—a crevice large enough to see through—and putting his eyes
to it he obtained a good view of the station yard, and of Serge Zamosc’s
sledge. This Sandoff examined long and intently. There was just enough
light to reveal its ample dimensions, the huge waterproof hood that
covered it, and the mass of furs, rugs, and straw that peeped out from
the rear.
“Good,” muttered Sandoff. “Nothing could be better suited for the
purpose.”
In the same cautious manner in which he had come he retraced his steps
to the ravine. Once there he started off with great strides, and in ten
minutes appeared, breathless and excited, before his companions, who
had been on the point of starting to look for him, alarmed by his long
absence.
“Your hands are empty,” said Shamarin sadly. “You have brought no food?”
“I have brought something better than food,” was the reply. “I bring good
news. If you will bear me out in the plan I have formed, I can promise
you a quick journey to the Pacific—a journey in a sledge—food in plenty,
and a warm shelter. There will be a certain risk, but we won’t talk of
that now.”
Before Shamarin and Vera could ply him with questions, he told them what
he had just seen and heard. Then he outlined hurriedly the daring plan
which had entered his mind.
“All I ask of you,” he concluded, “is strict obedience, courage, and
constant presence of mind, no matter what may occur. I know you both
well, and I am convinced that you have these qualities.”
His companions were at first stunned with amazement at Sandoff’s daring
proposition, but they soon realized its practicability.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Shamarin. “Truly wonderful! But it can be carried
out—the chances are all in our favor. I am with you, Sandoff, body and
soul. And what a glorious way to turn the tables on that traitorous
Zamosc.”
Vera tried to speak, but, woman-like, broke into tears, and silently
clasped Sandoff’s hand.
Judging from the length of time that had passed since sunset, it was now
very close to midnight. By Sandoff’s directions the baggage was taken off
the hand sled, and the latter was buried deep under the soft snow, in a
hole made by cutting the crust with the axe. Then the fugitives struck
off at a brisk pace through the forest. They turned aside before reaching
the post station, and finally, when the settlement was beyond sight, they
struck boldly out to the great Siberian road, and followed it to the
eastward. No living or moving object was in sight. On the left lay the
frozen Amur, and on the right the sloping foothills. Straight away before
them stretched the white frozen road marked by a vanishing line of low
telegraph poles.
After walking on for two miles they came to just such a spot as Sandoff
hoped to find. A rocky ridge jutted almost to the river, and the road
made a sharp turn around it. The view was thus cut off in one direction,
while in the other the road was open and straight for several miles. Just
beyond the rocky spur a small stream, now ice bound, came down to the
river and passed under a low wooden bridge. Beneath this the fugitives
discovered a dry, snug spot among the rocks. Nothing could have better
suited Sandoff’s plan.
“Wrap yourselves up now and go to sleep,” he said to his companions.
“I intend to go on guard at once. I am not weary, and I want time for
thought and reflection. I will give you early warning when the decisive
moment approaches.”
Shamarin demurred a little, wishing to share his friend’s vigil, but soon
acquiesced in the latter’s decision, and he and his sister disappeared
under the bridge. Sandoff shouldered his rifle and paced rapidly up and
down the strip of road that led from the bridge to the turning place at
the point of rocks, from whence he could see without obstruction far back
toward the post station. The silence was unbroken. Minutes passed into
hours, and hours dragged by until Sandoff was convinced that it was past
three o’clock in the morning.
He had been standing for some time at the point of rocks, gazing
earnestly to the westward, with a deadly fear creeping into his heart—a
fear that something had occurred to spoil the plan on which he and his
companions placed such high hopes. Suddenly a dim black speck appeared in
the distance. It grew blacker and larger, and came rapidly nearer. It was
a sledge beyond doubt, the sledge of Serge Zamosc. Now a tinkle of bells
was heard, and a muffled clatter of hoofs.
In haste Sandoff sped back to the bridge, his heart throbbing with
excitement. A low call brought forth Shamarin and Vera, still drowsy with
sleep. The keen air soon sharpened their senses, and they understood the
situation. Sandoff took Vera in charge and led her down to the point of
rocks.
“There comes the sledge,” he said, pointing along the frozen road. “Now
get in here and crouch down,” pointing to a hollow spot among the rocks.
“Your task is simple. When the sledge has gone past, watch the road
before you, and if anything approaches give us prompt warning.”
With these instructions he hastened back to the bridge, where Shamarin
was waiting. The daring men then took up positions on opposite sides of
the road, crouching behind masses of frozen snow. Sandoff had the rifle,
Shamarin the pistol, and both weapons were loaded.
“There must be no failure,” said Sandoff grimly.
“There _will_ be no failure,” echoed Shamarin from across the way.
Then all was silent—except for the musical tinkle of bells and crunching
of hoofs on the snow. Five minutes later—it may have been less and it
may have been more—the sledge whizzed into view from around the point of
rocks. The three horses, harnessed abreast, were galloping at full speed,
and the only occupant of the sledge was Serge Zamosc, muffled to the nose
in furs and holding the lines with a practiced hand.
On and on it came until the planking of the bridge was less than half a
dozen yards away. The moment had come. Sandoff and Shamarin sprang up,
reaching the center of the road at a bound, and turned their weapons
straight into Serge Zamosc’s eyes.
“Stop, or we fire,” they cried loudly.
Zamosc, for all his treacherous traits, was no coward. His first impulse
was to check his horses, and he acted upon it—partly. Then he turned
to grasp his gun, but finding it out of reach, he struck his horses a
terrific blow with the whip and rolled backward from his seat into the
body of the sledge.
The frightened steeds plunged forward, but Shamarin was on the alert, and
clutched at the lines. He caught them, was dragged along for a few yards,
still holding tight, and then, gaining a foothold, he turned the tide and
brought the triple team to a standstill on the very edge of the bridge.
Meanwhile Sandoff had bounded into the sledge, and was struggling over
the straw, interlocked with Zamosc, who fought with the fury of a madman,
believing that he had fallen into the hands of the Siberian assassins who
frequently ply their calling along the post road. But he was no match for
Sandoff—weakened as the latter was by privation—and soon he was helpless
in the grasp of the convict. The horses were by this time quite subdued,
and having no fear of a runaway Shamarin left them and ran back to help
his companion. There was plenty of strong rope in the sledge, and Zamosc
was soon tightly bound, hand and foot. Then his captors placed him in one
corner, and proceeded to examine the interior of the sledge. It contained
a small iron chest, two trunks, a hamper of provisions, two rifles with
ammunition, and nine splendid fur robes.
Sandoff opened one of the trunks. It held clothes—just what they wanted
most. He and Shamarin quickly took off their prison garments, and
substituted suits of dark material. The coats fitted fairly well, but the
trousers were lamentably short—a defect which their high boots partially
remedied. This exchange was made by the side of the road, out of Zamosc’s
sight. Then Sandoff put on the huge fur cloak, which they had taken
from Zamosc before binding him, and handed the Cossack coat and cap to
his comrade, who found them a good fit. Shamarin took the discarded
garments, wrapped them about a big stone, and dropped them into a black
air hole in the Amur, a short distance from the bank.
Up to this time Zamosc had been perfectly quiet, but now he gave
voice to a loud cry. Sandoff entered the sledge and gagged him with a
handkerchief, performing the operation with as little discomfort as
possible to his prisoner, but with such skill that any outcry was out of
the question.
“I will have my interview with the fellow later,” he said to Shamarin.
“As yet he does not recognize us. The first thing is to get away from
this locality.”
A short whistle brought Vera from her post. She was overjoyed at the
success of Sandoff’s plan, and reported the road to the westward clear.
Five minutes was spent in covering Zamosc up among the rugs in one end
of the sledge, and Vera in the other. Then the hood was dropped over the
rear end and buttoned down, and Sandoff mounted to the seat, drawing the
collar of his fur coat high about his ears, and thrusting his hand into
the inner pocket to make sure that Zamosc’s little packet of valuable
documents was safe. Shamarin mounted beside him, looking every inch a
Cossack with his green uniform, his rifle, and his black, matted beard.
“Remember,” said Sandoff warningly, as he gathered the lines together and
flicked the spirited horses with the whip, “remember that from this time
on I am Inspector Zamosc!”
Then the sledge bounded forward, rumbled across the bridge, and sped over
the frozen road, toward the Pacific, Vladivostok—and freedom.