Bear Crepov slid Claw back into its sheath, put his rifle on safety, and eased out of the old wolf den. That had been too close. His heart still pounded nearly as much as it had when they came within a meter of where he lay.
He had been prepared to go down fighting. Two close calls in the space of ten minutes. Perhaps he was getting too old to be hunting traitors and DSM mercenaries. These are well-trained people, he decided.
He walked over to where the cossack lay frowning at the sky. Surprisingly, the rabble hadn't shot this fool as soon as they saw him. Three holes in the sergeant's chest testified to a quick death.
Crepov searched the corpse, found identity papers, six wadded rubles, and some coins. One coin was French-Canadian. He shoved everything into his pockets. After pulling the bandoleer off the cossack, he slipped it over his shoulder and went off to find his other dead.
Birds broke into song. Good, no more strangers around. Wolverine White grinned at the foliage with twin smiles. White's own knife still protruded from his throat.
Bear felt a shiver run through him. This wiry English turncoat had been his best friend. They'd done it all together.
He pulled the insulting knife out of the death wound, wiped it absently on his dirty cotton pants, and dropped it in his small pouch.
"I'll gut every one of 'em for you, Wolverine!" he said with a lump in his throat. "I promise."
He ambled back down the trail toward the construction site. For a moment he entertained the thought of seeking out the third casualty, but decided not to waste the time. Bukowski had just been a Pole anyway.
"Well, I got one ear for the Czar," he said to the trail. The Indian at dawn. Too bad he couldn't get the scum to talk. In a way the Indian had outsmarted him.
As soon as Bear had begun to skin him to loosen his tongue, the Indian had screamed defiantly in their face and thrown himself on the blade. "You have to admire a man like that," he muttered, lengthening his stride.