Beyond the Great Snow Mountains (Ss) (1999)

by L'amour, Louis

  Kulan waved a hand at the encampment. How would we live in your country?

  Life is very different there, Kulan, and much easier.

  You might become a fine scholar and lead a good life.

  If that is what you wish. I shall do my best, for both you and my father have taught me obedience. Only sometimes, his voice tightened, sometimes I shall think of Deba and these grasslands, and of Amne Machin, the God Mountain.

  For the first time she felt doubt, but quickly dismissed it. Of course she was doing the right thing. Once he was adjusted to life in civilization, he would be as happy there. True, he was mature for his years, as boys were apt to be among the Go-log. It was natural that he would miss Deba, and he would miss Shambe, as she would. Shambe had been a second father to him, even as Tsan-Po had been. The old lama had taught Kulan much that was beyond her.

  Yet, how long she had dreamed of going home! Of luxuriating in a warm tub, conversing in English for hours on end, and the good, fireside talk of people who were doing things in the larger world of art, science, and scholarship. She longed for a life where she did not have to live with the fear that her son might die from something as silly as a tooth infection or as serious as the bullet from the rifle of a Communist soldier.

  She was thirty-six, soon to be thirty-seven, and if she ever wanted a relationship with another man, it could not be here, where she had once been the wife of a king.

  Nor could she wait for too many years after the rough life on the steppes, a life that had been good to her so far, but was bound to leave her a wind-burned and arthritic old woman.

  What Dr. Schwarzkopf had said was true. Her experience was unique. A book might sell. . . she could make a contribution to anthropology, and even to geographical knowledge. As for Kulan, he would do well in America.

  He was tall and wide-shouldered, and would be a handsome man with his olive skin, his dark, curly hair and truly magnificent dark eyes. There was a touch of the exotic about him that was romantic, and at fourteen he was already stronger than most men.

  As she entered the yurt, she sensed trouble in the air.

  Shambe was beside her, but when had he not been present when she needed him?

  All of the Khang-sar Go-log chieftains were there.

  Tsemba was the chief of two hundred tents and an important man whose opinion counted for much. Beside him were old Kunza, Gelak, and of course, Norba.

  Norba was a towering big man with one muscular shoulder bare, as was the custom, his broad-bladed sword slung in its scabbard between his shoulder blades.

  His coterie of followers was close around him, confident now that Lok-sha was dead.

  Norba had both hated and feared Lok-sha, but had no heart for a fight with the jyabo. Yet had Lok-sha left no heir, Norba would have become chief.

  The impending shift to new grazing grounds promised trouble. A faction of the Khang-sar led by Norba wished to go to Tosun Nor, but Lok-sha had decided, under the present circumstances, it was better to graze far from the caravan trails and let a season go by without raids. The new soldiers from the east were not the undisciplined rabble of old. Something was afoot in China proper, and Lok-sha had thought it best to gather more information before testing fate. Moreover, there had been rumors of serious drought around Tosun Nor, and drought meant losses from the herds.

  She seated herself beside Kulan, with Tsan-Po beside her, and Shambe seated on the other side of her son.

  Norba had moved to take the seat of jyabo, but Kulan was before him. Norba's face flushed angrily when he saw the boy take the seat where he wished to sit.

  Move, boy. Go play with the children.

  Kulan sat very straight. Unless it is decided otherwise, I am jyabo, he replied. Until then, take your place.

  For an instant there was utter stillness, then a mutter from the followers of Norba, but Kulan ignored them. Glancing at her son, Anna Doone was astonished.

  Truly, he looked every inch the young king. There was strength in him, of that there would be no doubt, strength and courage.

  Norba hesitated, then reluctantly took a seat. Anna could see his repressed fury and knew there was trouble to come. It was well that they were leaving. The thought of escape from all this sent a little tremor of excitement through her, excitement tinged with relief.

  The yurt filled and the air was stifling. Anna studied the faces of the chieftains, but they were expressionless.

  Would they follow Kulan, or would they demand an older, more experienced leader?

  Tsan-Po whispered to her that most of those within the tent were supporters of Norba, and Anna Doone felt inside her coat for the pistol she was never without.

  Their very lives might depend on the selection of Kulan as jyabo, for if Norba were able to take power, he would at once seek to rid himself of his rival. It would not be without precedence if Norba attempted to kill Kulan here, now. Her hand on her pistol, Anna suddenly knew that if Norba even moved toward her son, she would kill him.

  She accepted some tea, drinking from a bowl that had come to Tibet from India in the dower of a princess, more than a thousand years before. In those years, Tibet had controlled most of western China, as well as part of India and Kashmir.

  Abruptly, without waiting for the others to assemble, Norba declared himself. Tomorrow, he said, we will move to Tosun Nor to pasture upon the old lands.

  There was silence as he looked around the yurt. That silence held for a slow minute, and then Kulan said one word.

  No.

  The word was definite, the tone clear, the challenge accepted.

  Norba's face flushed with anger, but Kulan spoke before Norba could frame a word.

  There is drought at Tosun Nor. The grass lies yellow and dead, the air is filled with dust. The beds of streams are cracked earth. We must go to the mountains, to the Yur-tse.

  Again Norba prepared to speak, but Kulan interrupted.

  My father is dead, but I am my father's son. We rode upon the high grass together and he taught me what I must do.

  For the first time, he looked at Norba. You are deba of two hundred tents. You may ride with us or go to Tosun Nor. I would advise you to come with us.

  Norba looked around at his followers. We are men, and not to be led by a boy. It is I who shall lead the Khang-sar. When you are of an age to lead, he added slyly, you may lead.

  Tsan-Po spoke. The boy is his father's son. Leadership falls upon him.

  Norba got to his feet. Enough! I say that I shall lead. I say it, and my men say it.

  Kulan arose, and Shambe and Anna arose with him.

  Anna held her gun in her hand. The Ku-ts'a stand without, Shambe said, and they follow Kulan . . . Unless all the chieftains say otherwise.

  Norba's lips flattened against his big teeth, and for an instant Anna thought he would strike Kulan despite the fact that the bodyguards surrounded the tent. The Ku-ts'a numbered fifty-eight chosen men, the hereditary guard of the jyabo. Norba had not expected the Ku-ts'a.

  With the jyabo dead, he had believed they would accept the situation.

  He slammed his sword back into its scabbard. We will go to Tosun Nor, he said. You are fools.

  Go, if you will, Kulan replied, and those who survive are welcome to return. Our herds will be fat upon the long grass of the limestone mountains.

  With a pang, Anna realized that Kulan was no longer a boy. The discipline had been strict and the training harsh, but he was every inch a king. Yet she was impatient, for their time was short, and if the plane were discovered, the fliers would be killed and they would be condemned to more fruitless, wasted years.

  Alone at last, she said to him, What was all that about the drought at Tosun Nor?

  It had been rumored, so while you talked to the old man of your people, I asked the other. He spoke of dense clouds of dust high in the heavens, and of sheep and horses lying dead from starvation and thirst.

  He paused. It is well that Norba goes, for when he returns, if he returns, his powe
r will be broken.

  He glanced at her slyly, his face warming with a smile. My mother taught me to listen, to question when in doubt, and to keep my thoughts until the time for speaking.

  After Kulan was asleep, she went outside the yurt and stood alone under the stars. There was moonlight upon the snows of the God Mountain, reflected moonlight that seemed born from some inner glory within the mountain itself.

  She thought of home, of the quiet college town and the autumn leaves falling. It had been almost twenty years, but tomorrow they would fly over the mountains to India. To a fine hotel, a room of her own, a hot bath, and a real bed ... it was impossible to imagine such things still existed.

  For fifteen years she had been virtually a prisoner.

  True, Lok-sha had treated her well, and she had been respected among the Go-log, but their ways were strange, and her nights had been given up to dreaming of home.

  The thought of Norba returned. If Kulan was gone, he would be in control, and would probably lead the Khang-sar Go-log to disaster. Lok-sha had always said he was a stubborn fool.

  No matter. It was now or never. It was impossible that another opportunity would occur, for travel was restricted.

  No Europeans or Americans would be flying over this country. It was her last chance.

  She looked around at the sleeping encampment. She would miss it. Lok-sha, despite their differences of background, had been a superior man. If he had been slow to appreciate her feelings, there had been no cruelty in him.

  The icy peak was austere in its bath of moonlight; it was taller than Everest, some said, yet it gave an impression of bulk rather than height. It was no wonder the Go-log called it the God Mountain.

  Tsan-Po was walking toward her. Do you go tomorrow?

  She had ceased to be startled by his awareness of things. Yes.

  You have been long away . . . does someone await you there?

  No.

  We will miss you, and we will miss Kulan.

  He goes to a great land. He will do well, I think.

  Here he is a king. Ours is a small king, but even a small king is still a king.

  She felt the reproof of his tone, and together they watched the moonlight on Amne Machin. He will make a strong man, the lama said, a stronger man and a better leader than Lok-sha.

  She was surprised. Do you really believe that?

  You have taught him much, and he has character.

  We Go-log face a trying time, for as the world changes, even we must change.

  Kulan has a sense of the world. You taught him of your land and of Europe, and I have told him of India, where I worked as a young man. He is schooled in the arts of war and statecraft, and I believe it is in him to be a great leader.

  He was silent, then added, Your country could use a friend here.

  Do you believe I am wrong to take him away?

  We need him, Tsan-Po replied simply, and he needs you. For several years yet, he will need you.

  The lama turned away. It is late. He took a step, then paused. Beware of Norba. You have not finished with him.

  When morning dawned, they rode swiftly to the hidden trucks. What Lok-sha planned to do with the trucks, she did not know, but presumably he intended to use them as a trap for Chinese soldiers.

  She started the truck with difficulty for the motor was cold. There was no road, but the turf was solid, and she had driven on the prairie during her childhood in Montana. The old Army six-by-six was no problem.

  Kulan followed, holding off to one side and leading her horse.

  Keeping to low ground and circling to avoid gullies or patches of rock, she needed all of an hour to reach the plane.

  The pilot and Dr. Schwarzkopf rushed to the tailgate and started to unload the cans. As soon as the truck was empty, Anna drove back for a second truck, and by the time she had returned, the cans of the first had been emptied into the tanks of the plane.

  Yet they had scarcely begun on the second load when Shambe came down off the ridge where he had been on watch. Kulan, also watching from a quarter of a mile away, wheeled his mount and raced back at a dead run, drawing his rifle from its scabbard.

  Norba comes, Shambe said, with many men.

  Schwarzkopf dropped his jerry can and started for his rifle, but Anna's gesture stopped him. Finish refueling, she said, and when he hesitated, Doctor, put that gun down and get busy!

  Kulan swung his pony alongside her as she mounted, and Shambe drew up on the other side. They sat together, awaiting the oncoming riders.

  Norba's horse reared as he drew up, a hard pleasure in his eyes. So . . . you are traitors. I shall kill you.

  Anna Doone's heart pounded heavily, yet she kept all emotion from her face. Her son's life, as well as her own, was at stake.

  These men are our friends. We help them on their way, she said.

  And I shall decide who is and is not a traitor, Kulan added.

  From behind them the pilot said, One more can does it.

  Anna's heart lifted. Behind her was the plane that could take her home, the rescue of which she had dreamed for fifteen years. The time was here, the time was now.

  The sky beckoned, and beyond the mountains lay India, the threshold to home.

  Go with them, Mother. Kulan's eyes did not turn from Norba. I cannot, for these are my people.

  Her protest found no words. How often had she taught him that kingship was an obligation rather than a glory?

  Her eyes swung around the semicircle of savage faces, and then for one brief instant the dream remained, shimmering before her eyes: a warm quiet house, a hot bath, meals prepared from food from a market, life without fear of disease or crippling disfigurement, life without war.

  Dr. Schwarzkopf, she said, you will leave your rifles and ammunition, they are in short supply here.

  If you are going, Kulan said, you must go now.

  If these are your people, Kulan, then they are my people also.

  The winding caravan of Norba's people appeared, heading north toward Tosun Nor. She should have remembered they would come this way.

  Dr. Schwarzkopf brought the weapons and the ammunition.

  You will not come with us, then?

  I can't. This is my son.

  You will die, Norba said. His eyes flickered over the three he hated-the wife of Lok-sha, the leader of the Ku-ts'a, and the boy who stood between him and the kingship.

  Norba's rifle started to lift, and Shambe's started up with it, but Kulan put out a hand to stop the movement, then stepped his horse toward Norba and looked into his eyes.

  I amjyabo, he said. I am your king.

  For an instant Norba's rifle held still, then slowly it lowered. With an oath, Norba whirled his horse and dashed away, followed by his men.

  Behind them the motors broke into a roar, and throwing up a vast cloud of dust, the plane rolled off, gathered speed, then soared up and away, toward India, toward home.

  You should have let me kill him, Shambe said.

  No, Shambe, Kulan replied, many go to die, but those who remain will remember that I spoke truth.

  Three abreast, they rode to the crest of the ridge and halted. The caravan of Norba's followers moved north toward the great lake known as Tosun Nor, moved toward drought and death.

  Anna Doone, born in Montana, looked beyond them to a bright fleck that hung in the sky. Sunlight gleamed for an instant on a wing tip ... then it winked out and was gone, leaving only a distant mutter of engines that echoed against the mountains.

  *

  A NOTE ON THE DEDICATION

  By Beau L'Amour.

  Since Louis's death in 1988 there have been no dedications on any of the new L'Amour books. This is as it should be. Louis's work was his to dedicate as he chose.

  In this one particular instance my family and I have felt it was appropriate to step in and change that policy. John Veitch was our family's great friend and his was one of the closest relationships that Louis, a man who had many acquaintances bu
t few true friendships, ever had.

  John was the godfather to both my sister and me and was married to my mother's closest and oldest friend.

  Just after he passed away, Mom told me that losing him was so hard that she felt it was like losing my father again. ... I wasn't surprised since she had known him a decade before she met Louis, and John had lived a decade longer.

  In 1966 Louis dedicated The Broken Gun to the recently deceased Alan Ladd and Bill Bendix, Alan's partner in many movie adventures. Alan and Susie Ladd were John Veitch's good friends, almost like adopted parents. He was a member of their household for many years. He married their eldest daughter and in doing so became like a member of our family, too.

  John was a production executive and ultimately the production executive at Columbia Studios. He was a movie producer and troubleshooter with no peer. To many of us whose lives have touched briefly on the film business (few more briefly than mine) he was a moral compass in a hall of smoke and mirrors.

  John was the master of lengthy holiday toasts, a gentle Irish soul and a brave warrior who had left his war far behind him. We have dedicated this book to John and Louis in order to say: Godspeed old friends, we will not see your like again.

  AFTERWORD

  By Beau L'Amour Beyond the Great Snow Mountains is the first in a series of four collections that will cover a broad spectrum of my father's work. The Gravel Pit? and The Money Punch? recall the late forties and early fifties when Louis had just moved to Los Angeles. Although written in the same period, Sideshow Champion? and Under the Hanging Wall? draw on his earlier experiences as a carnival boxer and miner. Meeting at Falmouth? was an early experiment in the historical genre, when Dad was first attempting to break away from the label of being an author of westerns.

  Both By the Waters of San Tadeo? and Beyond the Great Snow Mountains? are stories that either drew from Louis's mysterious travels in South America and China or sprang from his encyclopedia like knowledge of geography and obscure cultures. Coast Patrol? may also be included in this last group and raises the added question of the character of Turk Madden. As represented in several of Louis L'Amour's early adventure stories, Turk is a fictional character. Some of the inspiration for Louis's writing about this tramp pilot was Jimmy Angel, the bush pilot for whom Venezuela's Angel Falls are named. But Dad claimed to have known an adventurer named Turk Madden in the Far East, and if this is true, then Turk is one of the few times when Dad gave a fictional character the name of one of his friends.