“How do you know that?”
“Because the Bombo Chimbo was friendly last time, and did not refuse to march westwards when he was required to do so.”
“Which way will they ask us to take this time?”
“Probably the same as before, to Ladak.”
The silver money rattled in the tin boxes as they mounted and disappeared down the valley, while we, now owners of eighteen fine yaks, struggled laboriously up the small steep pass overlooking camp No. 77. We had a wide view southwards over side ranges separated from one another by broad valleys. But it was not long before heavy snow drove us away. Numbed with cold, we rode down to the level country.
From the plain the Hajji pointed back to the pass, where three riders showed black against the snow; they rode down at a smart trot and soon overtook us. Their black, snorting horses steamed, they carried guns at their shoulder-belts, and sabres in their girdles. Their reddish-purple mantles were rolled up on the saddle behind them, and they rode in sheepskins, black and greasy from the soot of camp-fires, and the blood and fat of slaughtered game, which in the course of years had hardened into a smooth crust intersected with cracks. As we were the object of their ride, they followed at our heels, slackened their pace, and rode up to my side. A coarse fellow asked shortly and boldly (Illustration 89):
“What are you?”
“Pilgrims.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Ladak.”