CHAPTER IV

DESERTS AND OASES OF TURKESTAN

From Ayalik we dropped rapidly to more comfortable heights. Though none of us had really suffered from mountain-sickness, we were glad to be able to take in our quota of oxygen without the labor that had been entailed at the higher altitudes. The principal Mohammedan festival, Muharram, fell upon the second of July, the day after our arrival at Ayalik. All our followers, with the exception of the Ladakhi pony men, were Moslems, so we felt it only just to give them a day to rest and celebrate. This feast corresponds to our Christmas. It happened to be a peculiarly raw and blustering day, so next morning the change was doubly welcome when we dropped down 3,500 feet and camped near two poplars, the first trees we had seen for eighteen days.

There now came up one of the customary debates regarding the trail. The direct route continued to follow the course of the Sanju River, but it was held by some that the waters were too high for the fording involved, and that the alternate road taking two days longer and necessitating the crossing of a fair-sized pass offered the only logical route. We decided on the shorter and more watery trail, and in the way of fords it left nothing to be desired. There were sixteen; all were rapid and rocky and almost all were very deep. At the second, we nearly lost a pony, for one went under and seemed to prefer to stay there, poor beast. He was salvaged against his will, however. Thereafter our lucky star shone forth, for a caravan of twenty unladen camels put in an appearance, and to them we transferred as much weight as they could handle. The camels with their long legs easily crossed fords that would have proved serious obstacles to our heavily laden ponies. With their reduced burdens, the ponies successfully negotiated the remaining fourteen passages and landed us in Sanju amid a lovely grove of willow-trees.

I have always taken particular delight in trees, especially in the old patriarchs of the forest, but to thoroughly appreciate them, one must have spent some weeks in as barren and inhospitable a country as the high Himalayas. It seemed impossible to sufficiently feast our eyes upon the first shady groves at Kivas and Sanju Bazaar.

The day of many fords happened to be the Fourth of July, so that evening in honor of us Jemal Shah called forth his undoubted culinary talents and we feasted and celebrated in orthodox fashion, calling to mind those boyhood Fourths when armed with a plentiful supply of firecrackers we would slip out in the dark hours to disturb the sleep of long-suffering neighbors.

Next day, on entering the wide-spread Sanju Bazaar oasis, we were met by a committee of leading citizens—old men with long flowing beards. Greeting our followers, they took both hands of the individual between their own, and then loosing them, each man stroked his own beard, muttering the appropriate formulas of welcome. We were led to a dais covered with carpets and felt numdahs, where food was spread before us; roast lamb and chicken in wooden platters, bowls of curds, plates of nuts and raisins, and basins of apricots and mulberries. Having only recently finished a substantial breakfast, we were not able to do justice to the meat courses, but our treatment of the fruit more than made up for the scant courtesy shown the meat. The camp that night was pitched in a garden of apricot-trees, out of which we shook the fruit. We trooped down to the river to bathe and found the water warm, a pleasant change from the frozen dips with which we had hitherto satisfied our craving for a modified form of cleanliness.

We now abandoned the river and struck across country toward Karghalik. Once out of the oasis, the sun was blistering. For sixteen miles there was no drop of water. We gave the contents of our canteens to the two dogs that were with us, but, in spite of all, we paid toll to the sun in the dog we could least spare, old Foxie. The sudden drop from the freezing altitudes to the blazing lowlands had severely taxed all of the dogs, and Foxie, being the oldest, had suffered more than the others. Every one had become fond of the gallant old fellow, and there was a very genuine mourning in the camp at his death. We buried him in a little garden near the caravansary at Koshtagh, 12,000 miles from his Montana home.

In three days we covered more than eighty miles on our march across to Karghalik. At each oasis we were welcomed with apricots and curds and great flaps of unleavened bread. On our departure, a group of notables would escort us a mile or so on our way. Their mounts were usually stallions, and they formed a vicious, squealing, kicking cavalcade. There was once the start of a fair fight, but none of this appeared to disturb a whit the serenity of the riders.

One morning when we were leaving our night’s stopping-place under just such an escort, a big mare that I was riding reached the bridge over an irrigation ditch at the same time as a diminutive pack-pony. Neither wished to yield precedence, but the laden pony was the more adroit, and before I knew what had happened, I was in the ditch. Both the mare and I plunged head under, for the water was deep. No damage was done, although for a moment I was afraid the zeal of the escort in their efforts at rescue might prove my undoing. I had on me my kodak and my Sept, and was much concerned as to their condition. Fortunately, both responded to prompt drying.

At Bora, the last halt before Karghalik, there were two handsome golden eagles in large wooden cages. The townsfolk use them for coursing jeron, the so-called goitred gazelle. They are said to be fairly common on the plains near by during the winter months, but with the advent of summer they retreat into the foot-hills.

Our guides from Bora to Karghalik were four old men mounted upon diminutive donkeys. They rode along in a row, their long beards waggling as they chatted and joked. Sometimes one would ride with his arm on another’s shoulder—old cronies evidently.

The Amban of Karghalik had not expected us so soon, and we were thrust upon him in the midst of a levee of local Begs. He was short and squat and cheerful, but language was a distinct barrier and interpreting complicated. He did not speak even Turki, so all sentiments had to be transmitted through Hindustanee, then into Turki and Chinese. Doubtless their outlines became somewhat hazy in the process. We had hoped to avoid stopping over a day, but this proved to be impossible, for the Amban had set his heart upon giving us a tamasha—an entertainment.

In preparation for this affair, we wended down to the rushing yellow river that ran near the garden in which we were camped. A large and intent audience of both sexes watched us bathe. Three of us in our modesty kept on our clothes—they badly needed a wash—but one paid no more attention to the audience than if it had not existed, and has probably joined the galaxy of country deities. Thoroughly washed, we proceeded to dig out tuxedoes and opera-hats, much to the delight of our men, for in Leh they had felt crestfallen at our wearing only workaday clothes.

The Amban arrived early to call for us. We were not ready, so he, his two sons, and entire retinue joined our own men in watching us dress. They were all greatly impressed—so much so that next morning the Amban sent his tailor armed with bundles of black-and-white striped silk. He squatted under a big tree near by busily copying the tuxedoes, while the Amban’s carpenter copied our roorkee chairs. The collapsible opera-hats were, alas, quite beyond emulation.

The Amban’s dinner was a great success. We had brought with us a small supply of brandy and different sorts of liqueurs to be used as gifts. On such occasions as this we mixed up a palatable cocktail with fruit-juice, brandy, sloe gin, and cherry brandy. On the dinner-table there were two bottles, one held a red liquid, the other a yellow. On the labels were Chinese girls, and beneath were written “Girl Brand Orange Champagne” and “Girl Brand Rose Champagne.” It is not so easy to describe the taste. The Amban’s two sons were at the dinner—pleasant fellows both. In spite of the lack of a common language, everything went off smoothly, and the Amban seemed

## particularly to enjoy Cutting’s songs. They spoke an international

language.

We had decided that we could make better time by travelling at night, so we arranged for several mapas and arabas to be ready after dinner. A mapa is what is known in northern China as a Pekin cart. It is a two-wheeled covered vehicle. An awning stretches out in front to protect the horse. An araba is larger and more primitive. If it has a cover at all, it is only a length of reed matting arched across it. Both have an entire absence of springs. We each crawled into a mapa and stretched out as nearly at full length as possible. A swarm of bobbing Chinese lanterns accompanied us through the darkened bazaar. They never failed to remind me of a Japanese print as they flitted along in the dark. Just outside of town we found the Amban. He had his rugs spread out in the courtyard of a little house at the roadside, and here we alighted for a parting cup of tea with the inevitable accompanying dishes of nuts, raisins, watermelon-seeds, and variegated colored candies. It is a pretty Chinese custom to speed the parting guest on his way by installing oneself at the wayside where the road leaves town, and bidding him alight for a farewell cup of tea.

[Illustration: C. S. C., T. R., K. R., AND ABDUL HAMID GO TO CALL ON THE AMBAN OF YARKAND]

To sleep soundly in a mapa calls for more than an easy conscience. The ponies are festooned with bells, the ill-fitting wooden joints creak and groan, there is no semblance of a spring, and, to add to all, the driver sings or rather shouts out endless monotonous epics. These he checks from time to time to warn his ponies of some peculiarly bad spot in the road. This warning soon assumed a fateful ring in our ears, and we would grab at any available portion of the wagon’s anatomy to mitigate the force of the shocks which inevitably followed.

Up to now, there had been but little travel on the roads we traversed. Occasionally a small caravan had passed us on its way to Ayalik, where the traders were massing preparatory to the first push across the passes. We had come over far in advance of the legitimately open season, and the only caravan which we met en route was the small and sadly decimated one which we passed on the Shyok River. Now, however, we constantly met little groups of men trudging along with laden donkeys or well-fed pack-ponies in tow. From Karghalik on, we never passed out of sight of cultivation of some sort.

We reached Yarkand after marching two nights and part of one day. We were met by the present Amban, two former Ambans, and the Chinese general in command of the troops. All showed us every courtesy. We made our formal calls upon them that afternoon, riding from residence to residence dressed in our state uniform of tuxedo and opera-hat, which always lent a cheerful note. The Aksakal we knew well by name, for he was Abdul Hamid, brother of our friend Abdullah Shah at Leh. We were quartered a couple of miles from town in a large house set in the midst of a most attractive garden. Here we saw our first goitred gazelle, a handsome buck. In his neck he had a swelling that pulsated as he breathed, and reminded one of a well-developed Adam’s apple. He was bad-tempered, and when Cherrie in his anxiety to get a good picture motioned the man who was holding him to loose him, he charged straight at the camera with a savage grunt. We came on another pet gazelle later on at a village named Ak-Dong on the Yarkand-Maralbashi road, but this second gazelle had a most pleasant and friendly disposition.

A little while before reaching Karghalik, we had begun to notice cases of goitre, and these increased steadily in frequency until in Yarkand it seemed as if every other person was afflicted. Even small children of four and five had pronounced goitres, and some of their elders had them fearfully developed. It is said to come from the filthy water that the townsfolk drink. A few days out on the Maralbashi road put us beyond the goitre belt, and at Maralbashi I saw only one case. Any one wishing to study the disease would find an unsurpassed field in Yarkand.

We were surprised at the small number of Chinamen we met. A few of the larger stores were run by them, and they seemed to have a monopoly on the pawn-shops, but numerically they were only a small part of the community. It is a land of exile for them. The Amban told us that Pekin was distant six months’ travel. The private soldiers were all Yarkandis; occasionally the corporals were Chinese. The natives varied greatly in color; some were as white as we, and others very dark. We saw no negroes nor could we make out any trace of negro blood. The features were not Mongol; as a whole perhaps more Semitic in caste than anything else. The men were better-looking than the women.

We spent three days in Yarkand, making the bundobust for the next stretch of our journey—that to Aksu. I wandered all through the bazaars. There were three separate ones, all extensive. I saw little of European manufacture. Matches and cigarettes were of Chinese make—the cutlery was mostly made upon the spot. I picked up an old pair of Chinese glasses for a friend, and a plate and some other small objects of jade from Khotan, which is a great jade mart. Bazaar life is always interesting and I could watch indefinitely the silversmith, the blacksmith, or the shoemaker at work, or the

## activities of the bakeshop. In one of the bazaars there was a

shrine to some very holy man, with a centrepiece composed of the largest pair of ovis poli horns that I have ever seen. I had no measuring-tape with me, but they must have been almost sixty inches in length measured round the curves.

At Yarkand the expedition split. Suydam went with Feroze to Kashgar to look after our arrangements there, while Cherrie planned to come slowly on to Maralbashi, stopping a week or more whenever he found a locality where the opportunity for collecting seemed good. Suydam was to join him when he finished at Kashgar, and both were to meet us in the Tekkes around the middle of September.

Ted and I hired six arabas, and shortly after midnight on the 14th of July we piled ourselves and our belongings in them and set out with all the speed feasible for Aksu. We loaded the carts lightly, and hoped to make long marches. Besides Rahima Loon and Khalil, we took with us the second cook, Rooslia, with Loosa and Sultana. Sultana had received sad news at Yarkand. In a letter to Rahima from Bandipar he heard of the death of one of his children, a boy of fourteen. The ravages of cholera had been frightful—more than 700 of the villagers had died. Our Kashmiris reminded me of the crew on a New Bedford whaler in the old days, when almost every member was related by marriage or blood. This of course made it sadder still for the Kashmiris, as each one had a relative or close friend to mourn.

We had become much attached to our followers. Ahmed Shah, who was to take charge of Cherrie’s caravan, had proved himself most efficient on the trail across the passes. Feroze was an excellent little fellow; he had a keen sense of humor, and was a merry companion.

Our Kashmiris were a patriarchal group, well led by Rahima Loon. To his many other qualities, he superadded that of diplomacy. A born diplomat, he managed to be ever smoothing our way, and yet getting us along with amazing speed, for which he fully realized the necessity. He watched over the finances with an eagle eye, and time and again saved us many rupees. Not only did he cut down the larger expenditures, but he also kept well under control the small daily sums that have such a tendency to mount.

Jemal Shah, the veteran cook, we left with Cherrie. He had come through everything smiling, and had conjured up the most magnificent meals from nowhere, when confronted by what seemed a hopeless insufficiency of time and materials. Just as the arabas were about to start into the black night, he ran up and presented us each with a box of matches as a final precaution for our comfort.

The Kashmiris were adepts in the art of massage. All Asiatics are firm believers in it. In the bazaar at Maralbashi I came on a Darby and Joan picture—an old woman massaging the feet of her white-bearded husband. I was once much indebted to this massage on the way across the passes. While running to adjust a load, I slipped on a stone and threw my knee out so severely that I was for some time unable to put the slightest weight on it. Rahima massaged it night and morning for several days with ghee—rancid native butter—and I was back in walking trim much sooner than I had dared to believe possible. All our followers were most concerned and considerate, and at odd moments would take a turn at massaging the knee. Kadi, the Yarkandi, also tried his hand. They practised both massage and osteopathy upon each other for every ailment from a headache to a stomachache. To cure this latter, Suydam saw one of the men lying face down on the ground while the others beat his arms and legs in a truly alarming fashion.

At Yarkand we parted with Kadi and his two partners, who had come with us from Leh. All three wished to continue on to the Tian Shan, but Rahima felt that they would be out of their bailiwick and of little use. We had become genuinely attached to Kadi, he was so everlastingly cheerful and hard-working. Short but beautifully proportioned, he had in his walk that resiliency you so often see in a well-conditioned hunting-dog. All day long he would be hurrying from one end of the column to the other, adjusting the loads here and there, helping a fallen pony to regain his footing, and yet coming into camp at night after the longest day’s march his step would be as springy as if he were but setting out. He was invaluable at the fords, always the first across, returning time after time to help the others over.

[Illustration: THE FAIR AT YARKAND]

[Illustration: FERRYING ACROSS THE YARKAND RIVER]

The stretch from Yarkand to Maralbashi we made in six days, averaging better than twenty-two miles. At the start we tried night marching, but as there was no moon, the combination of bad roads and evening rain-storms made us feel it preferable to put up with the heat of the sun. The Amban of Yarkand had been most efficient in sending ahead word to the villagers to help us along. He was a keen-faced, slightly built man, evidently accustomed to act quickly and be obeyed. He warned us that much of the road was under water and that we might find ourselves in difficulties, but promised to give us all assistance possible.

We crossed to the right bank of the river at Toghraghe, fifteen or sixteen miles from Yarkand. This was a slow performance, for the river was very broad, with two deep channels, separated by a mud flat, where the carts had to be unloaded and hauled across by the horses. Next day we began to get out of the cultivated districts, and passed through a jungle of dwarfed poplar-trees. It looked as if there should be game about, but the natives insisted that there was none. It had rained, as usual, during the night, and at sun-up the air was delightfully clear. We had a brief glimpse of the Kuen Lun mountains behind us, bounding with their glorious snowy peaks the southern horizon. It is only on rare occasions that you can see any distance, for the fine desert dust that has been whirled about by the wind remains suspended in the air and effectively restricts one’s vision.

On the third day after starting from Merket Bazaar we crossed back to the left bank of the river, following a jungle trail which had been widened and vastly improved for us at the command of the Amban. We had with us two Yarkandi soldiers, one of them an efficient picturesque fellow, a local prototype of Dugald Dalgetty. Somewhere he had acquired a black slouch-hat, and in a bickering had lost a good part of one ear. He was death on straggling, and after one or two fruitless attempts at apathetic resistance, our araba drivers spruced up and kept in close formation. Our soldier was no believer in Gandhiism.

We had with us both Cumberland’s and Church’s accounts of their hunting trips in Turkestan. We found Major Cumberland’s the best reading of any of the books on the country. There is no question but that there is far less game now along the trail from Yarkand to Aksu than there was when he was here in 1889; less, too, than when Church was through, ten years later. The local shikaries told us that it was too hot and dry at this season, July, but that in another two months the game would return. Such is, without doubt, the case. Still, where Cumberland mentioned not once but many times running across the fresh trail of tiger, we could not even hear from the natives of there being tigers in the neighborhood. They would have been only too glad to enlarge upon any such information had there been the slightest foundation on which to build.

On the Yarkand side of Maralbashi the villages of Aksakmaral and Shamal are supposed to be the best centres from which to hunt. Beyond Maralbashi on the Aksu road, Yakka Kudak is regarded as the most likely place for shikar. We were going through with all possible speed, but whenever the local oracles gave us the slightest encouragement, we took ponies and got in an early morning’s hunt, catching the arabas at noon. We separated, one taking Rahima and the other Khalil, with, of course, a local so-called shikarry (save the mark!) in addition. Each time that we went out, either one or both of us caught a fleeting glimpse of gazelles. There was never a chance for a shot, however, for they were wild as hawks. We saw but very little recent sign, so the place or time was wrong, probably both.

Of other wild life there was not a great deal. During a morning’s hunt I counted over a dozen hares. Aside from that day, we never saw more than one or two. Duck and geese were plentiful in some of the lagoons and often amazingly tame. Of the pheasants about which Cumberland and Church wrote, we saw not one. The sole contribution we made to our collection was a brown snake about eighteen inches long which a native brought in. This was the only snake, dead or alive, which we had seen on the whole expedition up to date.

As a rule, we had been sleeping in the dirty battered caravansaries of the villages where we halted, when we came in late this was a necessity. Whenever it was possible to find a garden near by, we either had our tent up or laid our sleeping-bags on the ground uncovered, if the night gave promise of being fine.

Rough and uncertain as was the road, we were travelling along what has been a trade route through countless generations. Marco Polo may well have put up in more than one of the serais in which we stopped. These serais are big courtyards lined on either side with stalls for cattle, having a number of large rooms in the rear for use of travellers. Outside of these rooms are earthen daises on which we unrolled our sleeping-bags. Sometimes there would be other travellers in our serai, and the different groups would squat over their cooking-pots, plunging their hands into the communal dish. The evening meal over, they would sing spirited ballad songs with a swinging lilt to them or lugubrious dirges and indescribably monotonous chants.

After dark there was much of the glamor of the East to be enjoyed in the serai and its assemblage, which by daylight was obscured by raw ugliness and filth. The night-watches were not always peaceful, for more often than not the fleas bit shrewdly. Once we were set upon by some peculiarly large and savage bug whose attack became only the fiercer the more Keating’s powder was strewn about “and him as big as a donkey,” at least so it seemed from the wounds inflicted. Suydam on that occasion fared the worst, for his bites swelled and started to fester. It may be understood, therefore, why we preferred our unromantic tents to the age-old serai.

It was always difficult, however, to persuade our men to go on beyond the well-known halting-places. The drivers and our guides were very conventional, and to go past a regulation stage never seemed to them possible. It was not that wood and water and other necessities were not available at any number of places. It was just that these definite places have been the stages time out of mind, and custom ordains that there be no deviation. Then, too, for some reason the men regarded the serai as more fitting and dignified.

The village musicians usually gathered in the serai. An average band consisted of a stringed instrument with a body no larger than a mandolin’s but the stem a good six feet long, a couple more stringed instruments only half as large, and one or two tambourines. Sometimes the musicians sang, sometimes not—and often a man would jump up and dance. Music is a profession not much more highly considered in Yarkand than in Ladakh, where the musician ranks lower than the blacksmith or tinsmith—indeed, he is almost the lowest class of all.

The best dancing that I saw was in Karghalik. The men having performed at the Amban’s levee were afterward gathered in a secluded spot in the garden under some apricot-trees. They started again for their own amusement and there I found them, and enjoyed their dancing more than I had at the tamasha. One man would dance for a while, and then he would select another from the surrounding circle, and hale him out. They covered their hands with their long sleeves just as one sees in the jade statue of a Kien Lung dancing-girl. Occasionally an onlooker would step forward with some money in his hand, pass it a couple of times around the dancer’s head, and then put it in an idle tambourine that lay beside the musicians.

At Maralbashi, which we reached on July 19, we again unearthed our worn and weary tuxedoes, and, topped off with opera-hats, returned the Amban’s call, mounted on two ambitious ponies. We succeeded in hurrying through without waiting over the usual day. We left on the afternoon following our arrival, first having lunch with the Amban and two other Chinese officials. If we had been able to speak Chinese, these luncheons would have been both pleasant and interesting, but as it was, the only thing we could do without the aid of an interpreter was to pledge each other in Chinese brandy. In some way a pint of champagne had found its way here, and it was produced in our honor. It had been flat for many years and we drank it as a liqueur.

The Amban was courtesy itself, and sent on two soldiers to take the place of those that came with us from Yarkand, also two local Begs to see that we had our wants supplied in the villages through which we passed. We had brought with us some brandy and various kinds of liqueurs to be sent as presents to the Ambans. We greatly regretted that we had not also thought of wrist-watches, for they would have served admirably as gifts.

The bazaar of Maralbashi is one long street, lined with the usual bake-shops, butcher-shops, and all the other shops with their display of gimcracks of every kind. There were many birds in cages, seemingly more than in any bazaar through which we had yet passed. The red-legged chukor appeared a favorite. There were also quail, desert larks, and finches. One morning on the road we met a troupe of six donkeys. On one was a man with a fat small boy perched in front of him, on another was his wife, while strapped on each of the other four were bobbing along four birds in their cages.

The donkey is much used as a conveyance. The rider has stirrups but no bridle, and guides his charger by hitting him on one side or other of the neck, uttering inimitable guttural sounds. It is surprising what heavy loads of grain a donkey will carry. When you see them coming along under a load of brush it looks as if “Birnam wood had come to Dunsinane.”

Our araba drivers had needed urging on the road to Maralbashi, when they often wished to stop short of our proposed day’s march. They had also tried to persuade us to stay over there on the plea of sick horses. Now they had apparently made up their minds that the best thing to do was to hurry through to Aksu and get rid of us, for they made amazingly good time of their own accord. We were only six days on the road, averaging twenty-four miles a day. When a driver wishes to shorten a stage, he will plead that there is no grass nor wood on the road ahead, or that there is too much water—sometimes all three. Then if you have halted in response to his petition, you will probably next morning find that there were a dozen good places farther on to have camped, and no lack of wood or fodder, nor superfluity of water. The driver will be entirely unabashed when you point this out with some acerbity, and with a childlike faith he will offer the same time-honored reasons when next the occasion warrants.

Our horses were excellent, all of them stallions, and in fine shape. They did not seem to lose condition on the road, but of course they had an abundance to eat. An araba is drawn by from one to four horses, according to the load or the fancy of the driver. We had two with one horse only, three with one horse in the shafts and another in front, tandem fashion, and one with three horses. The wheel-horses were most intelligent. They would back into place between the shafts merely at the spoken word, and they would shift to right or left on the road at their driver’s command. There were no reins. A single rope was attached to the bit of each horse, but it was rarely used.

Although an araba is not a comfortable conveyance for man, we unquestionably made better time and at far less expense than we could have done with a pack-train. Our six arabas took us nearly 300 miles for about eighty-five dollars. We would have needed fifteen pack-ponies. We had one araba for the dogs—they could never have got through the long hot marches on foot, and we particularly wished to fatten them up for the hunting. They had, of course, got very thin during the trek across the passes, but soon began to put on weight and cover their ribs. In the arabas we either lay on our bedding-rolls or sat tailor fashion upon them. When the road was sandy we read for a while, but our eyes tired and an ear had to be kept open for the “Oowah! Oowah!” with which the drivers encouraged their teams across the particularly rough spots in the road. Then we clutched any part of the araba and held on, while the cart bucketed and swayed its way along. Ted put in most of his time on the Bible and Shakespeare, while I had a more varied diet—three plays of Molière, Lever’s “Handy Andy,” and “Westward Ho!”

There was more waste land on the Aksu road. For two days in the neighborhood of Yakka Kudak we passed through almost continuous desert. Once for several miles the whole surface of the land to a depth of eight feet had been bodily removed and deposited elsewhere by the wind. Numerous hummocks, held together by roots of the dead trees perched on the summit, attested to the former earth level and gave the place an eerie and ghostlike appearance—seemingly an abode of the dead.

Whenever we had the slightest encouragement from the natives, we went off in search of gazelle, but without success. When planning the expedition, we had felt that to bring any shotgun other than Cherrie’s collecting guns would involve too serious an addition of weight. For a while, we thought of a .22 rifle, but decided against it as not being worth the trouble. We would have been glad of the .22 many times when we could have used it on chukor, duck, or rabbit. What we really should have taken along was a .410 pump-gun. The shells are light and it would have been powerful enough to serve our wants. On an expedition of this sort all you require is weapons to shoot specimens and provide for variation in the diet. We had no desire for sporting wing-shooting, but wished to bag our game with the least expenditure of powder. Sixteen or twelve gauge shells weighed so much as to be out of the question for us.

Five or six miles before reaching Yangi Shahr, we crossed the Aksu River. Here we halted to wash off the dust of travel—and looking at the water it seemed doubtful whether we would wash more off or on. After our swim we dressed as usual in evening clothes and opera-hats. We sent the arabas on and arranged for riding-ponies. We always felt like waiters in a very second-class restaurant, but unquestionably these clothes served a good purpose, for the officials felt that, dirty or not, the intention to do honor was there. A business suit would not have meant the same thing, but the military uniforms that we had for a time considered would have done admirably.

During the ride in, we realized that we were once more in the goitre belt. In Aksu it was not as prevalent as in Yarkand, but it seemed to be more virulent, and the cases more advanced. The little babies were a sad sight.

A lovely garden had been prepared for us, the best-kept one which we had yet come upon. Carpets and numdahs were spread, and on tables were fresh and dried fruits, together with the usual nuts, raisins, and sugar candy. The muskmelons were delicious, and here we first were given watermelons. The apricot season was over. There were peaches, small but good, and a glossy red fruit, a cross between apricot and peach, which didn’t appear to be ripe, although every one ate it. There were grapes of different varieties, but all were green as yet.

Yangi Shahr is the Chinese city of Aksu—lying about five miles from the native city. In Yangi Shahr the Dotai, or Governor, of the province resides, as well as the Lieutenant-Governor and the local Amban. Each had some species of European carriage, ranging from a fiacre to a Russian troika on wheels. The latter was sent to convey us to the Dotai’s residence, where we sat through an innumerable coursed dinner, while some itinerant Chinese players shouted and sang and danced near by. There appeared to be no plot, but part of the buffoonery was easily understood and appreciated.

The Dotai was a big, jovial man. Had we had a common language we should have thoroughly enjoyed the time with him, but he was a “brother hedged by alien speech and lacking all interpreter.” Our men spoke a very halting Turki, therefore we had another added temporarily to the string of interpreters—a man who fancied he was able to understand our men’s Turki and translate it to his fellows. Ted compared the whole arrangement to the game of gossip that we used to play as children. One child would whisper a sentence to another, he to still another, and so on, until it rounded the circle and came back to its originator, who shouted out what he had first said, and in what form it had returned to him. The comparison enabled us to form some idea of how much of what we said seeped through to the Dotai. The Dotai was an efficient executive, he made up his mind quickly, and acted immediately. When he told us arrangements for our march into the Tekkes would be completed without delay, we felt there was no question but that such would be the case, and we had nothing to worry about.

After a night in Yangi Shahr, we moved on to Aksu to complete the arrangements for pushing on across the Muzart Pass into the valley of the Tekkes, for we were eager to reach the promised land of big game.

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