CHAPTER XXX
THE PASSING OF THE CARAVAN
It was high midday when a tired American gentleman clad in a long black coat, riding breeches, and a flapping sombrero pushed his horse up the valleys toward the height where a mounted guide conducted him, followed by a string of impatient Garhwalis of whom only those with the best horses were able to keep near them.
Beside him Major Fraser-Carnie was unnaturally cheerful, keeping at the same time an eye upon a faint column of smoke that rose through the trees in front of them and inwardly cursing the reticence of the native guide who had joined them that morning and whose vocabulary, whether by linguistic limitations or personal inclination, was confined to the words:
"Dono-van Khan sent me," and "Missy khanum."
Even the optimism and doggedness of the worthy major that had enabled them to journey from Kashmir to Kashgar on Monsey's heels suffered when the guide disappeared as if by magic, swallowed up in the underbrush. He glanced back at the half dozen mounted riflemen in their green tunics who were lashing wearied beasts in the dread of being left behind the sahibs should the fighting—for which they had come expectantly half a thousand miles—be near at hand.
"Damn your ambuscades!" swore Arthur Rand.
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