"Soft," the Mink repeated.
"The war is over. We can afford to be generous."
The Mink was not so sure. "If he gives us any trouble, I will cut off his khuy for him."
Barkov laughed. "Cheer up, my friend. We are on a hunt! What could be better?"
Barkov was in an ebullient mood. There was nothing that was so much sport as chasing a prisoner. His only concern was that this hunt would be over all too soon. He doubted that the Americans or Inna had gotten very far. In fact, he was surprised that they were not visible somewhere on the horizon. He put his German-made binoculars — a prize from the sack of Berlin — to his eyes. Nothing but trees, rough open ground, and more trees.
He turned to Bunin, whose trio of dogs sniffed halfheartedly at the ground. No trail yet. They had expected to pick up the trail near the gate, but that had not been the case. The frozen ground was inscrutable. Not so much as a footprint to give them a clue.
"Those dogs of yours are worthless," Barkov said. "Don't expect me to pay to feed them."
Bunin grunted. He was a big man — as tall as Barkov, but not as heavy through the shoulders. From a distance, it would be easy to mistake one for the other. But size was where the similarity ended. Though Bunin had a fierce face, weathered by sun and wind, he was soft and gentle at heart, known to prefer the company of his beloved dogs to that of people.
"There is no scent," he said simply.
Barkov had given him the scarf that Inna had tied to the gate, and Bunin had made sure that his dogs got a snout full of her smell. The dogs had followed the scent toward the village, then lost it.
"The village?" the Mink wondered. "Do you think they are hiding there?"
Barkov shook his head. "Who would be foolish enough to hide them? Besides, the Americans wish to escape. It would be like a fish hiding in a net. No, there is nothing for them in the village."
What Barkov did not admit, even to the Mink, was that he was reluctant to search the village. The Gulag compound relied on the village much more than the village relied on the compound. Some of the prison guards, right up to the commandant, had taken "outpost wives" there. No one would take kindly to a disruptive search. Barkov knew better than to kick a hornet's nest.
"No, they are on the run. Let us give chase! Ha, ha!"
He called Bunin over and had him work his dogs between the prison gate and the village on the eastern side. First, they moved a couple hundred feet off the road that connected the Gulag camp and village so that they could pick up a fresh trail away from the well-traveled road. Then the dogs worked back and forth, back and forth, moving in expanding circles as Bunin nudged them along with low, gentle words. Barkov was no expert on dogs, but he had to admit that it was fascinating to watch them work. Grudgingly, he thought that perhaps Bunin did know what he was doing, after all.
Barkov looked up at the leaden sky. "We haven't got all day, Bunin!" he called.
"You cannot make bread bake faster," Bunin said.
The Mink laughed. He was simple that way, Barkov thought.
Instead of laughing, Barkov cursed. They were losing precious daylight hours to Bunin's lazy dogs while the prisoners increased their lead.
The nights were getting colder. He sent Dmitri back for rations and blankets in case they had to spend the night on the taiga, telling him to run all the way.
Finally, one of the useless dogs had a hit. The dog yelped with a new, excited tone. Bunin raised an arm aloft with the scarf, as if to mark the spot.
The other dogs joined in. At first, they followed the road toward the village, which confounded Barkov and the Mink. Had the prisoners escaped into the village, after all?
But the trail did not go as far as the houses. Bunin called the dogs back to where they had first caught the scent.
"Clever," Barkov admitted, seeing what the prisoners had done. They had muddled their trail by backtracking to the village, partially circling it, and then striking out at a random point. It created a confusing trail to follow. They had anticipated the dogs and bought themselves more time with that simple maneuver. Barkov had the niggling thought that perhaps he had underestimated his quarry. Where did an American pilot learn to outsmart hunting dogs?
No matter — Bunin had found the trail. Now they had to wait until Dmitri returned with supplies.
“What took you so long?" Barkov demanded in frustration, once the young soldier returned. Barkov took out his whip and beat him a few times for good measure.
Then he shouted to Bunin, his voice like a starting gun at a race: “After them!"
CHAPTER 22
By mid-morning of the following day, the wind had picked up, with a wet edge that promised snow. None of them had slept well. Above the incessant wind in their ears they could now hear barking in the distance.
"Dogs," Honaker said. "The Ruskies have dogs. Goddamnit. How the hell did they catch up to us?"
“They must have stayed on the move last night," Cole said. “They ain’t lazy, that’s for damn sure.”
"Barkov," Vaska said. "That is just what he would do."
Cole had new respect for Barkov. If he’d been in Barkov’s shoes, it’s just what he would have done.
Inna looked up at the mention of Barkov's name. To Cole's surprise, she shuddered — and not from the cold. "Maybe this was a mistake," she said. "Maybe we should not have escaped. What have I gotten us into?"
"Are you kidding?" Harry touched her shoulder. "Don't let yourself think that for a minute. Nobody should be at that Gulag. Not me, not Ramsey. And definitely not you."
"But Barkov—"
Cole spoke up. "You let me worry about Barkov."
"He is the devil," Inna said. "No one can stand up to him."
"I reckon we'll see about that," Cole said. He shouldered his rifle. "Them dogs are gonna be on top of us before long, but I ain't too worried about dogs. This Barkov is gonna be right behind them. From everything I’ve heard, he sounds like the problem. Let me see if I can slow him up. Miss Inna, maybe you can help."
"Me?"
"Give me that scarf you're wearing."
Inna had left a scarf at the Gulag gate, but had worn an extra one against the cold. Cole took it, pulled his knife, and cut the woven scarf in half. He returned what was left of the scarf to Inna. "I just need half, darlin'. You can use the other half to stay warm."
Next, Cole asked Whitlock and Ramsey for their scarves. They looked puzzled, but handed them over. He cut pieces off and handed them back.
Vaccaro spoke up, "You're not doing this alone, Hillbilly. I'm coming with you."
“To hell you are."
“To hell I ain’t,” Vaccaro said, in a fair imitation of Cole.
Cole grinned. “All right, then.”
Honaker was having none of it. "Cole, you can't just march back there and pick a fight with the Ruskies."
"Why the hell not? If nothin' else, it will buy you some time. Now go on, you need to make tracks. Vaccaro and I can handle this."
Without another word, Cole walked off in the direction they had come from, with Vaccaro trailing behind.
The sound of barking dogs was growing stronger.
"He is such a son of a bitch," Honaker said, fuming.
"Maybe, but he's our son of a bitch," Whitlock said. "Let's get a move on before those dogs get here. Cole is doing us a favor, so let’s not waste it."
Just two miles away, Barkov and the Mink walked at the front of the squad, with Bunin and his dogs leading the way. Now that the dogs had a scent to follow, their random barking had taken on a more musical note.