He hurriedly exchanged the coat he was wearing for the dark green Cossack cloak—knowing that he would attract less attention if seen in this guise. The muff shaped fur cap he had been wearing constantly, and when Shamarin handed him the rifle he looked a thorough Cossack soldier. The deception was still further assisted by the tangled beard and mustache he had grown since his escape from the mines. Thus equipped he bade farewell to his companions, and struck off at a rapid pace through the forest. He had no definite purpose in view—merely a vague hope that he might in some manner procure a supply of food.
The post station was less than a mile distant. By following a ravine covered with thick bushes, Sandoff came out in the rear of a little cluster of houses bunched together on both sides of the post road—the station itself with the square courtyard in front, the telegraph office and half a dozen tiny cabins across the way. A careful glance showed him that no one was in sight and that only one light was visible—a yellow glimmer shining from the rear window of the post station. Toward this Sandoff directed his steps, moving slowly and cautiously over the snow crust.
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!”