Collection 1999 - Beyond The Great Snow Mountains (v5.0) (23 page)

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 power 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 am
jyabo
,” 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

S
INCE
L
OUIS’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 but 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.