Some day death will stand at the tent door and peer through. The storm is howling outside, fire burns in the hearth and silence is broken only by the everlasting prayer “Om mani padme hum.” The dying man reviews his long, laborious, joyless life. He is afraid of the evil spirits, who are waiting for his departure to lead the soul on its dismal wandering into the great unknown. Unless he has appeased them while living, it is now too late. He resigns himself hopelessly to their power and caprice. Bent, wrinkled and gray, the old hunter finishes his course. The hunting ground, where he has lived his days, vanishes back of him and he takes the first step out into the uncertain darkness. His nearest relatives carry the body to a mountain where it is laid, naked and frozen, as food for wolves and birds of prey. In life he had no continuing city and no grave after death. His grandchildren do not know where he was laid. Perhaps that is best, for where dead men’s bones whiten, evil spirits dwell.
When we resumed match, we took the two Nomads along as pilots and I could begin to insert names on my map again. They told us everything they knew about the region, roads and the roaming of their friends. Four days later they informed us that their knowledge of the country was exhausted. I paid them four rupees a day each for the time they had been with us. Kashmir gave each one of them a case knife and an armful of empty cigarette tins. Our generosity amazed them and they declared it beyond belief that such kind people existed.
It was severely cold and the temperature went down to –3°c at night. Our solitary travel would soon be ended. Beyond the threshold of a pass we noticed large herds of sheep, yaks and six black tents. A pack of half-wild dogs barked themselves hoarse and the inhabitants were astonished when we raised our tents near by on the shore of lake Dungtsa-tso.
Lobsang Tsering, the beardless and whether-beaten chief of the tent village, snuffed, laughed and chattered. Evidently he had received no orders from Lhasa. We purchased five yaks of him and once more our twenty-five veterans were given assistance. The useful yaks had come to us a veritable Godsend.
Alternately, I rode the dapper gray horse that I mounted at Leh, or a small, lively white animal from Ladakh. The winter storms had begun. We stiffened in the saddles. Our eyes watered and the tears congealed. Garments became gray from the flying dust. Lips cracked, especially if we laughed but there were few appeals to risibilities in a temperature of –33°c. We wanted to get into our tents and to a fire. The storm whizzed and howled.
Four mules died. Wolves were on the spot almost before we left it.
Mohammed Isa attempted to buy yaks in a tent village. A man approached and roared in an authoritative voice.
“A European is among you. We will sell you no yaks. Turn back, or it will fare you ill.”
In the night of December first the temperature was –31°c. One mule lay dead between the tents and had nearly been devoured by wolves before the place was out of our sight. Camp Number 77 was located in a valley among wild cliffs. Two men in many-colored furs wearing ivory tings and sacred silver caskets around their necks, appeared. They carried guns and swords in silver scabbards, studded with turquoises and corals. They were members of a group of thirty-five pilgrims who, with their herds of one hundred yaks and six hundred sheep, had been at the sacred mountain (Kailas) and the sacred lake (Manasarowar). They had seen me, my Cossacks and Lama, five years ago, when the Governor of Naktsong compelled me to change course to Ladakh.
Early in the dark, rough morning I was awakened by the rattling of guns and swords as they came to sell yaks. They gave us the following information: “Orders to stop you are being circulated south of the next pass.”
Consequently, we were to face the same opposition as formerly! Nearly all of our baggage was borne by eighteen yaks. A new world spread itself in the south from a pass, but it was soon enveloped in a snowstorm. We plodded on through the snow. Three men rode toward us on snorting horses, put a few questions to us, and went over to Mohammed Isa.
The summons were therefore in full action! While we were encamped a few days later on the shore of Bogtsang-tsangpo, a group of Tibetans came to my tent. Their “Gova,” or chief, recognized me from 1901 and must make an immediate report to the Governor of Naktsong. He pleaded in vain with us to remain, and as we continued our journey, he accompanied us down the river for five days. We caught excellent fishes through the wakes. The Tibetans believe that lizards and snakes are equally suitable food. Karma Tamding in Tang-yung, also recognized me from my previous visit, five years ago. At that time the whole country had talked about my journey. All attempts to preserve my incognito were futile. He sold three yaks to us. Another mule died just as the first stars became visible. We now had only two mules and eleven horses. All the veterans were relieved of burden-bearing.
Karma Tamding returned, accompanied by twelve Nomads, with a large quantity of provisions. We bought toasted meal and corn for sixty-eight rupees. Two women were with him, well clothed as a protection against the paralyzing wind. We did not see much of them, but the little we saw was very dirty.
We shortened the days’ marches in order to pitch camp before we were thoroughly frozen. On the morning before Christmas an old mendicant: Lama sat outside of my tent singing and swinging his magic wand which was literally covered with colored pieces of cloth, tassels and gimcracks. He had wandered all over Tibet, begged from tent to tent, danced with his magic wand and sung his incantations for food.
Our Christmas camp was raised on the shore of a small lake, Dumbok-tso. For dinner Tsering offered us a pan of superb sour milk, juicy mutton roasted over the coals, fresh wheat bread and tea. I fancied hearing church bells ringing far away and the jingle of sleigh-bells in the Swedish forests. The tent was illuminated, my Ladakhs sang, and the Tibetans must have thought that we were performing sacrificial rites and singing to unknown gods. Before the last candle had been extinguished I read the Bible texts for the day. The stars of Orion sparkled with incomparable brilliance out yonder in the night. We pitched our camp on the north shore of Lake Ngang-tse-tso, altitude, 15,640 feet. We decided to rest here for a season. I wanted to chart and sound the lake. From this point southward to Tsang-po, the country was unknown. Our tired animals also needed rest. The only anxiety was caused by a possibility that the alert watchmen in Lhasa should anticipate us and prevent us from continuing. We had eight horses and one mule left, and the twenty-one yaks were beginning to be footsore. We simply must give the animals a rest.
I spent nine days on the ice of the lake and sounded through the wakes. The greatest depth was only thirty-three feet. Two Ladakhs pulled me along the ice sixty-six miles on an improved sled. Seven Ladakhs carried provisions. Our camps were pitched on the shore.
The ice of the lake was covered with fine powdered salt. Wrapped in a sheepskin coat, I sat on the sled. We moved rapidly as my two Ladakhs ran from wake to wake. One day a snowstorm raged straight in our faces. The two men were blown over and the sled was swept away by the storm and raced on until it was upset in a crack. That runaway ride was glorious while it lasted, for the wind was not felt. But, after the tumble. I faced it again. We resumed our journey. I could scarcely see the two men ten feet ahead. The powdered salt swept over the smooth ice and gave the illusion that we were moving at a dizzy speed.
We made much better time later with the wind. We rested a day in a ravine on the shore . A messenger from Mohammed Isa arrived , half dead of fatigue. He had been seeking us on the ice fifty-four hours.
He reported that, on January first, six armed horsemen had arrived at our stationery camp and made the usual investigation. They had returned on the following day with reinforcements and a message from the Governor of Naktsong to remain where we were and that I must go back to the camp and personally answer the Governor’s questions so that he could dispatch a report to Lhasa.
Had we not endured enough? Had we not lost almost our entire caravan? I imagined hearing once more the creaking of the copper gates as they closed, shutting us out from the land of sacred books, the forbidden la
nd.
After the messenger had rested, I sent him back with the declaration that if the chief of the patrol wished to talk to me, he and his entire cavalcade would be welcome to do so on the ice.
On the following day stones and stems were white with hoarfrost. The smooth ice had become wavy as watered silk from the powder. We sounded in new wakes. Mohammed Isa and two men found us on January sixth. My competent leader of the caravan reported:
“Sir, we had intended moving the camp today to the shore so as to be nearer to you, when three Tibetans, who were encamped close by, appeared and compelled us to unload the caravan which was ready to start, and prohibited us from taking one step southward. The Governor is expected within three days. Mounted couriers are in constant motion between him and the patrol. They repeatedly ask why you are out on the ice and seem to think that it is of no importance how deep Lake Ngangtse-tso may be. They suspect that you are greeting gold from the bottom through the wakes and have just sent patrols along the shores.”
Mohammed Isa returned and we continued our soundings and camped on the shore, which was already occupied by a herd of wild assets and a wolf.
Early the following morning a courier was sent to the stationary camp for my mount. When I arrived at the tent city the Tibetans sat in the doors of their tents, looking out like so many marmouts in their burrows. The chiefs were eventually informed that I would receive them in Mohammed Isa’s tent. They came, humbly saluting and with congress hanging out of their mouths. The leader, dressed in a red band around his head, dark blue fur coat and with a sword in his belt, had been a member of Hlaje Tsering’s suite in 1901, when we tented together on the shore of Chargut-tso.
A long conversation ensued and the chieftains confirmed that it was my old friend Hlaje Tsering, who personally would be here in a few days to pass judgment upon me and my caravan.
“Will he be accompanied by five hundred horsemen, as upon the former occasion?” I queried.
“No, Bombo Chimbo, he noticed that troops of horsemen did not frighten you. He now hopes that you will comply with his wishes.”
“I have neither time nor disposition to remain here and wait for Hlaje Tsering,” I answered.
“Bombo Chimbo, if the Governor does not arrive within three days, you may cut our throats.”
Towards evening on the eleventh of January a body of horsemen was outlined on the hills in the east and new tents were erected around us. One of them was more ornamental than the others, made of white and blue canvas. A new troop of horsemen came shortly thereafter. The foremost man was old, bent and was wrapped in fluffy expensive furs and wore a red fur-lined bashlik on his head. After dismounting they laid their guns on the ground and crawled into the tents.
The old man was really Hlaje Tsering! I realized the weakness of my present position. I knew how hopeless it was to persuade a Tibetan Governor, either by a friendly attitude, or by intimidation, to open the roads to the sacred cities.
Bitter regret tortured me because I had not followed the original plan of proceeding to Dangra-yum-tso! It grieved me to contemplate that the large white space on the map began immediately south of Ngangtse-tso and that I must turn back from its very threshold.
True, we had traversed the unknown land to the north, discovered several lakes and mountains, sounded and charted Ngangtse-tso. But all these things were insignificant in comparison with the objective of this expedition, the exploration of the unknown land to the south and discovery of the source of the Indus.
A WOLF-HUNT IN WISCONSIN
J. E. CHAMBERLIN
OH, yes, I suppose you can go if you want to! A boy only fourteen years old, and small of his age like you, traveling from morning till night, and like as not getting shot by some of those green-horns banging round with rifles after a wolf that’s more likely to be Lon Gaylor’s great grey dog than any wolf! I don’t see what your father’s thinking about!”
“But, mother—”
“Oh, I say you can go, and I’ll do the washing all alone, of course, and bring in all the water and run the machine and turn the wringer without any help.”
“But you aren’t going to wash to-day, mother?”
“Yes, I am going to wash to-day! I tell you that washing’s got to be done just the same. All the men-folk in the country can go off to that ridiculous wolfhunt, but the washin’s got to be done!”
That settled the matter of going to the wolf-hunt for Joe Crosby. He was his mother’s especial and only assistant, particularly on wash-days. His mother had ordinarily no help about the housework except such as he gave her; and as the regular farm work went on very well with his father, his older brother and the hired man, Joe, had been left much about the house to take care of the vegetable garden and help his mother.
How he did hate to move the handle of that monotonous washing-machine back and forth, back and forth, in the murky, sudsy atmosphere of the slippery kitchen-shed! But he was an extremely conscientious boy. The thought of his mother, grown prematurely old in a woman’s hard work on a large Wisconsin farm, doing all that laborious washing alone was too much for him.
With a deep sigh and an aching heart Joe placed the tin boiler on the back part of the kitchen stove with a little water in the bottom of it, and went out to pump enough more to fill it up.
He saw the Ordway boys drive by, with guns resting between their knees. They laughed at him as they saw him at the pump.
“That’s right, Joe! Bill shouted. “Keep it up; no washerwomen allowed on this hunt!”
The others laughed, and the indignant tears welled to Joe’s eyes, but did not come out. He kept on almost desperately at his preparations for the washing. His father and brother, armed with rifles, and the hired man, Gus, carrying his, Joe’s own special shot-gun, drove away through the gate. His father had seen how the land lay, and said nothing more to Joe about going.
The splendid June morning advanced. In the intervals of his dreary rubbing of the clothes in the washing-machine, Joe glanced across the little prairie toward the Big Woods, thinking of all the splendid things that he was missing. There really was a wolf; he knew that well enough, for he and Henry Armory had been the first to see the animal, two months before it, as it was crossing the schoolhouse pasture at a rapid run into the Big Woods.
It was a shaggy, crazy-looking grey timber wolf of the largest size; it had been separated from all others of its kind in their wanderings toward the wilder north, and had strayed into this comparatively well-settled country. For several weeks it had preyed upon flocks of sheep, flitting wildly and in hunted fashion from one track of woodland to another.
There was something particularly fascinating to Joe’s romantic imagination about this vagrant relic of savage days slinking about thus, a lone outlaw of the woods, in the midst of a country that had been thickly planted with farms for more than twenty years. Now that he was not in the hunt, Joe’s sympathies were decidedly with the wolf, and he hoped that it would get away.
But it was not likely that it would. The farmers had lost so many sheep that they were thoroughly aroused. Two or three persons besides Joe and Henry Amory had caught glimpses of the animal making for the Big Woods—a long, crescent-shaped remnant of the original forest, which extended for a dozen miles along a ridge which crossed as many farms.
The hunt, composed of fifty or sixty men and boys, were to rendezvous at one end of the Big Woods and, forming in the shape of horseshoe, march through the track from one end to the other, sweeping every part of it. Several men who were particularly good shots were to skirt the edge of the woods somewhat in advance of the main body, to shout the wolf if he took to the open; and several more were in hiding at the farthest extremity, to head him off there.
Joe knew all these arrangements, but it did them little good to know them. He went back to the house and rubbed desperately at the washing-machine. Byand-by his mother called him to the wringer, and he turned the crank nervously while she fed the dripping clothes into the machine’s jaws from t
he cold, blue water in the rinsing tub.
“Don’t turn so fast!” she exclaimed. “Goodness, Joe! I should think you were crazy! Wanted to go to the wolf-hunt pretty bad, didn’t you?”
She spoke very gently—so gently that Joe thought he might safely refrain from answering the question. He moderated the energy of his wringing. He heard the kitchen clock strike nine, and it occurred to him that the washing was unusually well along for the hour. He reflected then that his mother had been working with almost as much nervous energy he had himself.
“There now!” she said, presently, when the clothes-basket had been filled up and packed down with well-wrung clothes; “Joe, I’m almost sorry I kept you. I really didn’t think you were going to stay at home, but I might have known you would. You’re an awful good boy to your mother.”
Joe said nothing.
“Now,” his mother went on, “we’ve got along first-rate with the washing, and I can do the rest easily enough. They haven’t got any further than Weeks’s by this time—they couldn’t have. You can cut through the schoolhouse pasture and strike them there.
You go and get your gun and start—”
“But Gus has got my gun!” cried Joe, desperately, his jaw falling.
“So—he—has! Well, never mind; you go and tell your father that I said you could go, and he’ll make Gus give you your gun. I guess there are firearms enough in that crowd to kill all the wolves they’ll find! Come, get your jacket and run along now!”
In five minutes more Joe was running across fields and pastures in hot anxiety to intercept the hunt at Weeks’s farm house, which stood near the edge of the woods about four miles from the starting-place.
He walked, out of breath, up the lane that led past Weeks’s house into the woods. No one was in sight there. He went on to the edge of the woods and sat down on the top of the rail fence. No one was to be seen there, and nothing to be heard but the barking of a fox-squirrel farther on down the fence, and the loud singing of a meadow-lark in the field.
The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told Page 36