He saw them at last, the tail of a great caravan, and fell fainting into the arms of tall, curious Kirghiz camel-drivers.
They carried him in a litter until he woke and could eat, for nothing was so important or unexpected that it could be allowed to break the schedule of the march. Colt opened his eyes to grunts of satisfaction from his bearers. He accepted the hunks of dried meat and bottle of warm tea they gave him, trying to catch enough of the language to offer thanks.
Coming down the line of the caravan at a slow trot was a large Hindu on one of the small Mongolian ponies. He reined beside Colt and asked in French: "How are you? They passed me word. Can you march with us?"
"But yes! It's like life out of death to find you people here. What can I do to help?"
The Hindu dismounted to walk the pony beside him. "Keep up spirits. Our few Europeans are tired of each other's company. In case of bandit raiding—highly improbable, of course—you'll fight. I'm Raisuli Batar, merchant of the Punjab. I'm caravan master, whose word is law. Not that it's necessary—the boys are well behaved and we have enough food."
"Where are we headed?" asked Colt, gnawing on the hunk of meat.
"We started for Bokhara. Come up the line to meet the better sort with me. They're agog with excitement, of course, don't dare break line without my permission, which I don't choose to grant. By way of payload we have crates of soap on the camels and drums of flavoring essence on the ponies."
Colt sniffed, finding winter-green and peppermint on the air. "May you find a good price," he said respectfully.
Raisuli smiled and the American was pleased. The caravan master was big and solid, with a grim, handsome face. It was good to please a man like that, Colt thought.
They quickened their pace, overtaking a hundred plodding bearers and a herd of sheep. Colt was introduced to a pale, thoughtful man named McNaughton, a reader in history at the University of Glasgow, who said he had been doing field work in Asia for three years.
Farther on were Lodz and wife, two young Poles from Galicia who were hoping for government work in Bokhara. The man was quiet, his English heavily accented. The wife spoke French only, but with the vivid dash of a Parisienne. Her lips were touched with scarlet; here in the wilderness of the High Pamir she wore a freshly-pressed riding habit. Colt was enchanted.
Raisuli cast a glance at the sky. "Bedding down," he snapped. "Excuse me—c'est l'heure."
He left Colt with the Poles, mounting his pony again to gallop down the line barking orders to the various Hindus, Tajiks, Chinese, Abyssinians, Kirghiz and Kroomen who made up the crew. It took no more than a quarter-hour to bring the unwieldy line to a halt; in another quarter hour a thousand felt tents were pitched and pegged, fires lighted and animals staked out.
"He times well, that one," smiled Mme. Lodz. Colt looked up and saw the sky already deepening into black. He shuddered a little and drew nearer to the fire.
"I think," said McNaughton absently, "that I could take a little refreshment." Lodz looked up from under his brows, then clapped his hands. A native boy came running.
"Bring food—some of that cold joint, wallah."
"Yes, sahib."
"Such a night this will be, perhaps," said Mme. Lodz softly, "as it was in August."
"Just such a night," said McNaughton. "Will you join us, Mr. Colt?"
"Not I," said the American with a sense of guilt. "I was fed when I came to after fainting. Is it safe—may I look about?"
He got no answer. The boy had returned with a great haunch of meat; silently the Occidentals gathered about it, taking out knives. Colt watched in amazement as the dainty Frenchwoman hacked out a great slab of beef and tore at it, crammed it down her throat. Before it was swallowed she was cutting away again.
"Ah—I asked if I ought to look about. . ."
Lodz shot him a sidewise glance, his mouth crammed with meat, jaws working busily. Then, as though Colt had never spoken he returned to the serious business of feeding, with the same animal quality as his wife and McNaughton showed.
"I'll look about then," said Colt forlornly. He wandered away from the fire in the direction of a yellow felt tent. There he was delighted to catch words of Cantonese.
"Greetings, son of Han," he said to the venerable speaker.
The fine old Mongol head turned; Colt felt himself subjected to a piercing, kindly scrutiny by two twinkling little black eyes. The ruddy little mouth smiled: "Sit down, son. It's a long time between new friends."
Colt squatted by the fire obediently; the venerable one took a long pull from a bottle of suntori, a vile synthetic Japanese whisky. Wiping his mouth with the back of a wrinkled, yellow hand he announced: "I'm Grandfather T'ang. This is my son, T'ang Gaw Yat. If you let him he'll talk you deaf about the time he was 'on the Long March with the Eighth Route Army. He claims General Chuh Teh once ate rice with him."
T'ang Gaw Yat smiled obediently and a little tolerantly at his father's whimsy. He was a fine-looking Chinese, big-headed and straight-faced, with little wrinkles of laughter playing about his mouth. "What my
