Chapter VII: 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.