Stalks in the Himalaya
of yesterday, with the local shikari (so called). Grunts greeted our appearance, and the three forms got up and moved down the path, each enveloped in a thick blanket worn over the head and shoulders, one end being pulled across the neck and thrown over, so as to hang down the back. None of us were in a talkative mood, for the wind off the snow, so close above, was keen and bitter. I could hear the Gurkha orderly cursing and grumbling to himself at having been made to turn out so early. He would be keen enough as soon as we drew near the scene of the fray. Just now he was better left alone.
We went down the path, the same one we had toiled up in such distress so shortly before, for a mile in silence, and then the leader turned and began to drop straight down the khud in the direction of the stream, whose murmur arose to us faintly from its bed some 1500 feet below. Our way led us through terraced, cultivated lands, and it was from them I understood that Messrs. Bruin took their nightly toll. The ravine still lay in darkness, but the crests far above us had lightened and were turning yellow and orange in the rays of the sun, which they had already caught. After we had dropped down about 500 feet or so, the men halted and we had a parley. About here, apparently, we were to have been met by another man, who was to have given us information as to the whereabouts of our quarry. But no
112
