Project Gutenberg's Across Mongolian Plains, by Roy Chapman Andrews

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Across Mongolian Plains
       A Naturalist's Account of China's 'Great Northwest'

Author: Roy Chapman Andrews

Illustrator: Yvette Borup Andrews

Release Date: June 3, 2009 [EBook #29024]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS ***




Produced by Joseph Eros. This file was produced from
material generously made available by Google Books.





[Produced by Joseph Eros. This file was produced from material
generously made available by Google Books.]



[Frontispiece: A Nomad of the Mongolian Plains]


ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS

A Naturalist's Account of China's "Great Northwest"

BY

ROY CHAPMAN ANDREWS

ASSOCIATE CURATOR OF MAMMALS IN THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL
HISTORY, AND LEADER OF THE MUSEUM'S SECOND ASIATIC EXPEDITION.
AUTHOR OF "WHALE HUNTING WITH GUN AND CAMERA," "CAMPS AND TRAILS IN
CHINA," ETC.



PHOTOGRAPHS BY YVETTE BORUP ANDREWS

Photographer of the Second Asiatic Expedition



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK: LONDON: MCMXXI



COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO

DR. J. A. ALLEN

WHO, THROUGH HIS PROFOUND KNOWLEDGE, UNSELFISH DEVOTION TO SCIENCE,
AND NEVER-FAILING SYMPATHY WITH YOUNGER STUDENTS OF ZOLOGY HAS BEEN
AN EXAMPLE AND AN INSPIRATION DURING THE YEARS I HAVE WORKED AT HIS
SIDE.



PREFACE

During 1916-1917 the First Asiatic Expedition of the American Museum
of Natural History carried on zological explorations along the
frontiers of Tibet and Burma in the little known province of
Yn-nan, China. The narrative of that expedition has already been
given to the public in the first book of this series "Camps and Trails
in China." It was always the intention of the American Museum to
continue the Asiatic investigations, and my presence in China on
other work in 1918 gave the desired opportunity at the conclusion of
the war.

Having made extensive collections along the southeastern edge of the
great central Asian plateau, it was especially desirable to obtain a
representation of the fauna from the northeastern part in
preparation for the great expedition which, I am glad to say, is now
in course of preparation, and which will conduct work in various
other branches of science. Consequently, my wife and I spent one of
the most delightful years of our lives in Mongolia and North China
on the Second Asiatic Expedition of the American Museum of Natural
History.

The present book is the narrative of our work and travels. As in
"Camps and Trails" I have written it entirely from the sportsman's
standpoint and have purposely avoided scientific details which would
prove uninteresting or wearisome to the general public. Full reports
of the expedition's results will appear in due course in the
Museum's scientific publications and to them I would refer those
readers who wish further details of the Mongolian fauna.

Asia is the most fascinating hunting ground in all the world, not
because of the _quantity_ of game to be found there but because of
its _quality_, and scientific importance. Central Asia was the point
of origin and distribution for many mammals which inhabit other
parts of the earth to-day and the habits and relationships of some
of its big game animals are almost unknown. Because of unceasing
native persecution, lack of protection, the continued destruction of
forests and the ever increasing facilities for transportation to the
remote districts of the interior, many of China's most interesting
and important forms of wild life are doomed to extermination in the
very near future.

Fortunately world museums are awakening to the necessity of
obtaining representative series of Asiatic mammals before it is too
late, and to the broad vision of the President and Board of Trustees
of the American Museum of Natural History my wife and I owe the
exceptional opportunities which have been given us to carry on
zological explorations in Asia.

We are especially grateful to President Henry Fairfield Osborn, who
is ready, always, to support enthusiastically any plans which tend
to increase knowledge of China or to strengthen cordial relations
between the United States and the Chinese Republic.

Director F. A. Lucas and Assistant Secretary George H. Sherwood have
never failed in their attention to the needs of our expeditions when
in the field and to them I extend our best thanks.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. Bernheimer, who have contributed to every
expedition in which I have taken part, generously rendered financial
aid for the Mongolian work.

My wife, who is ever my best assistant in the field, was responsible
for all the photographic work of the expedition and I have drawn
much upon her daily "Journals" in the preparation of this book.

I wish to acknowledge the kindness of the Editors of _Harper's
Magazine_, _Natural History_, _Asia Magazine_ and the _Trans-Pacific
Magazine_ in whose publications parts of this book have already
appeared.

We are indebted to a host of friends who gave assistance to the
expedition and to us personally in the field:

The Wai Chiao Pu (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) freely granted
permits for the expedition to travel throughout China and extended
other courtesies for which I wish to express appreciation on behalf
of the President and Board of Trustees of the American Museum of
Natural History.

In Peking, His Excellency Paul S. Reinsch, formerly American
Minister to China, Dr. C. D. Tenney, Mr. Willys Peck, Mr. Ernest B.
Price and other members of the Legation staff obtained import
permits and attended to many details connected with the Chinese
Government.

Mr. A. M. Guptil acted as our Peking representative while we were in
the field and assumed much annoying detail in forwarding and
receiving shipments of supplies and equipment. Other gentlemen in
Peking who rendered us courtesies in various ways are Commanders I.
V. Gillis and C. T. Hutchins, Dr. George D. Wilder, Dr. J. G.
Anderson and Messrs. H. C. Faxon, E. G. Smith, C. R. Bennett, M. E.
Weatherall and J. Kenrick.

In Kalgan, Mr. Charles L. Coltman arranged for the transportation of
the expedition to Mongolia and not only gratuitously acted as our
agent but was always ready to devote his own time and the use of his
motor cars to further the work of the party.

In Urga, Mr. F. A. Larsen of Anderson, Meyer & Company, was of
invaluable assistance in obtaining horses, carts and other equipment
for the expedition as well as in giving us the benefit of his long
and unique experience in Mongolia.

Mr. E. V. Olufsen of Anderson, Meyer & Company, put himself, his
house, and his servants at our disposal whenever we were in Urga and
aided us in innumerable ways.

Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Mamen often entertained us in their home. Mr. and
Mrs. E. L. MacCallie, who accompanied us on one trip across Mongolia
and later resided temporarily in Urga, brought equipment for us
across Mongolia and entertained us while we were preparing to return
to Peking.

Monsieur A. Orlow, Russian Diplomatic Agent in Urga, obtained
permits from the Mongolian Government for our work in the Urga
region and gave us much valuable advice.

In south China, Reverend H. Castle of Tunglu, and Reverend Lacy
Moffet planned a delightful hunting trip for us in Che-kiang
Province.

In Shanghai the Hon. E. S. Cunningham, American Consul-General,
materially aided the expedition in the shipment of specimens. To Mr.
G. M. Jackson, General Passenger Agent of the Canadian Pacific Ocean
Services, thanks are due for arranging for rapid transportation to
America of our valuable collections.

ROY CHAPMAN ANDREWS
AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY,
NEW YORK CITY, U. S. A.



CONTENTS

PREFACE

Early conquests of the Mongols--Why their power was lost--Independence
of Outer Mongolia--China's opportunity to obtain her former power in
Mongolia--General Hsu Shu-tseng--Memorial to President of
China--Cancellation of Outer Mongolia's autonomy

CHAPTER I

ENTERING THE LAND OF MYSTERY

Arrival in Kalgan--The Hutukhtu's motor car--Start for the great
plateau--Camel caravans--The pass--A motor car on the Mongolian
plains--Start from Hei-ma-hou--Chinese cultivation--The Mongol not a
farmer--The grass-lands of Inner Mongolia--The first Mongol
village--Construction of a _yurt_--Bird life--The telegraph line

CHAPTER II

SPEED MARVELS OF THE GOBI DESERT

Wells in the desert--Panj-kiang--A lama monastery--A great herd of
antelope--A wild chase--Long range shooting--Amazing speed--An
exhibition of high-class running--Difficulties in
traveling--Description of the northern Mongols--Love of
sport--Ude--Bustards--Great monastery at Turin--The rolling plains of
Outer Mongolia--Urga during the World War

CHAPTER III

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

Return trip--The "agony box"--The first accident--My Czech and Cossack
passengers--The "agony box" breaks a wheel--A dry camp--More motor
trouble--Meeting with Langdon Warner--Our game of hide-and-seek in the
Orient--An accident near Panj-kiang--We use mutton fat for oil--Arrival
at Hei-ma-hou--A wet ride to Kalgan--Trouble at the gate

CHAPTER IV

NEW TRAVELS ON AN OLD TRAIL

Winter in Peking--We leave for Mongolia--Inner Mongolia in
spring--Race with a camel--Geese and cranes--Gophers--An electric light
in the desert--Chinese motor companies--An antelope buck--A great
herd--Brilliant atmosphere of Mongolia--Notes on antelope speed

CHAPTER V

ANTELOPE MOVIE STARS

Moving pictures under difficulties--A lost opportunity--A zological
garden in the desert--Killing a wolf--Speed of a wolf--Antelope steak
and _parfum de chameau_--A caravan--A wild wolf-hunt--Sulphuric
acid--The Turin Plains

CHAPTER VI

THE SACRED CITY OF THE LIVING BUDDHA

A city of contrasts--The Chinese quarter like frontier America--A
hamlet of modern Russia--An indescribable mixture of Mongolia, Russia
and China in West Urga--Description of a Mongol woman--Urga like a
pageant on the stage of a theater--The sacred mountain--The palace of
the "Living God"--Love for western inventions--A strange scene at the
Hutukhtu's palace--A bed for the Living Buddha--Lamaism--The Lama
City--Ceremony in the temple--Prayer wheels--Burial customs--Corpses
eaten by dogs--The dogs of
Mongolia--Cleanliness--Food--Morality--"H. C. L." in Urga--A horrible
prison--Mr. F. A. Larsen

CHAPTER VII

THE LONG TRAIL TO SAIN NOIN KHAN

Beginning work--Carts--Ponies--Our interpreter--Mongol tent--Native
clothes best for work--Supplies--How to keep "fit" in the
field--Accidents--Sain Noin Khan--The first day--A night in a
_yurt_--Cranes--We trade horses--Horse stealing--No
mammals--Birds--Breaking a cart horse--Mongol ponies

CHAPTER VIII

THE LURE OF THE PLAINS

Trapping marmots--Skins valuable as furs--Native methods of hunting--A
marmot dance--Habits--The first hunting-camp--Our Mongol
neighbors--After antelope on horseback--The first buck--A pole-cat--The
second day's hunt--The vastness of the plains--Development of a "land
sense"--Another antelope

CHAPTER IX

HUNTING ON THE TURIN PLAINS

Mongol hospitality--Camping on the Turin Plains--An enormous herd of
antelope--A wonderful ride--Three gazelle--A dry camp--My pony, Kublai
Khan--Plains life about a well--Antelope babies--A wonderful provision
of nature--Habits--Species in Mongolia--The "goitre"--Speed--Work in
camp--Small mammals

CHAPTER X

AN ADVENTURE IN THE LAMA CITY

An unexpected meeting with a river--Our new camp in Urga--"God's
Brother's House"--Photographing in the Lama City--A critical
moment--Help from Mr. Olufsen--The motion picture camera an instrument
of magic--Floods in Urga--Duke Loobtseng Yangsen--The
Duchess--Vegetables in Urga

CHAPTER XI

MONGOLS AT HOME

The forests of Mongolia--A bad day's work--The Terelche River--Tserin
Dorchy's family--A wild-wood romance--Evening in the valley--Doctoring
the natives--A clever lama--A popular magazine--Return of Tserin
Dorchy--Independence--His hunt on the Sacred
Mountain--Punishment--Hunting with the Mongols--_Tsamba_ and "buttered
tea"--A splendid roebuck--The fortune of a naturalist--Eating the deer's
viscera--The field meet of the Terelche Valley--Horse races--Wrestling

CHAPTER XII

NOMADS OF THE FOREST

An ideal camp--The first wapiti--A roebuck--Currants and
berries--Catching fish--Enormous trout--A rainy day in camp--A wapiti
seen from camp--Mongolian weather--Flowers--Beautiful country--A musk
deer--Habits and commercial value--A wild boar--Success and failure in
hunting--We kill two wapiti--Return to Urga--Mr. and Mrs.
MacCallie--Packing the collections--Across the plains to Peking

CHAPTER XIII

THE PASSING OF MONGOLIAN MYSTERY

Importance of Far East--Desert, plain, and water in Mongolia--The Gobi
Desert--Agriculture--Pastoral products--Treatment of wool and camel
hair--Marmots as a valuable asset--Urga a growing fur market--Chinese
merchants--Labor--Gold mines--Transportation--Motor trucks--Passenger
motor service--Forests--Aeroplanes--Wireless telegraph

CHAPTER XIV

THE GREAT RAM OF THE SHANSI MOUNTAINS

Brigands, Chinese soldiers and "battles"--The Mongolian sheep--Harry
Caldwell--Difference between North and South China--The "dust age" in
China--Inns--Brigand scouts--The Tai Hai Lake--Splendid shooting--The
sheep mountains--An awe-inspiring gorge--An introduction to the
_argali_--Caldwell's big ram--A herd of sheep--My first ram--A second
sheep--The end of a perfect day

CHAPTER XV

MONGOLIAN "ARGALI"

A long climb--Roebuck--An unsuspecting ram--My Mongol hunter--Donkeys
instead of sheep--Two fine rams--The big one lost--A lecture on
hunting--A night walk in the caon--Commander Hutchins and Major
Barker--Tom and I get a ram--The end of the sheep hunt

CHAPTER XVI

THE HORSE-DEER OF SHANSI

Wu Tai Hai--The "American Legation"--Interior of a North Shansi
house--North China villages--The people--"Horse-deer"--The names
"wapiti" and "elk"--A great gorge--A rock temple--The hunting grounds
furnish a surprise--A huge bull wapiti

CHAPTER XVII

WAPITI, ROEBUCK AND GORAL

Our camp in a new village--Game at our door--Concentration of animal
life--Chinese roebuck--A splendid hunt--Goral--Difficult
climbing--"Hide and seek" with a goral--The second wapiti--A happy
ending to a cold day

CHAPTER XVIII

WILD PIGS--ANIMAL AND HUMAN

Shansi Province famous for wild boar--Flesh delicious--When to
hunt--Where to go--Inns and coal gas--Kao-chia-chuang--A long
shot--Our camp at Tziloa--Native hunters--A young pig--A hard
chase--Pheasants--Another pig--Smith runs down a big sow--Chinese
steal our game--A wounded boar

CHAPTER XIX

THE HUNTING PARK OF THE EASTERN TOMBS

A visit to Duke Tsai Tse--A "personality"--The _Tung Ling_--The road
to the tombs--A country inn--The front view of the _Tung Ling_--The
tombs of the Empress Dowager and Ch'ien Lung--The "hinterland"--An
area of desolation--Our camp in the forest--Reeves's pheasant--The
most beautiful Chinese deer--"Blood horns" as medicine--Goral--Animals
and birds of the _Tung Ling_--A new method of catching trout--A forest
fire--Native stupidity--Wanton destruction--China's great opportunity

INDEX

ILLUSTRATIONS

A Nomad of the Mongolian Plains (Frontispiece)

Roy Chapman Andrews on "Kublai Khan"

Yvette Borup Andrews, Photographer of the Expedition

At the End of the Long Trail from Outer Mongolia

Women of Southern Mongolia

The Middle Ages and the Twentieth Century

A Mongolian Antelope Killed from Our Motor Car

Watering Camels at a Well in the Gobi Desert

The Water Carrier for a Caravan

A Thirty-five Pound Bustard

Young Mongolia

Mongol Horsemen on the Streets of Urga

The Prison at Urga

A Criminal in a Coffin with Hands Manacled

The Great Temple at Urga

A Prayer Wheel and a Mongol Lama

Lamas Calling the Gods at a Temple in Urga

Mongol Praying at a Shrine in Urga

Mongol Women Beside a _Yurt_

The Headdress of a Mongol Married Woman

The Framework of a _Yurt_

Mongol Women and a Lama

The Traffic Policeman on Urga's "Broadway"

A Mongol Lama

The Grasslands of Outer Mongolia

Mongol Herdsmen Carrying Lassos

A Lone Camp on the Desert

Tibetan Yaks

Our Caravan Crossing the Terelche River

Our Base Camp at the Edge of the Forest

The Mongol Village of the Terelche Valley

Wrestlers at Terelche Valley Field Meet

Women Spectators at the Field Meet

Cave Dwellings in North Shansi Province

An Asiatic Wapiti

Harry R. Caldwell and a Mongolian Bighorn

Where the Bighorn Sheep Are Found

A Mongolian Roebuck

The Head of the Record Ram

Map of Mongolia and China, Showing Route of Second Asiatic
Expedition in Broken Lines



INTRODUCTION

The romantic story of the Mongols and their achievements has been
written so completely that it is unnecessary to repeat it here even
though it is as fascinating as a tale from the _Arabian Nights_. The
present status of the country, however, is but little known to the
western world. In a few words I will endeavor to sketch the recent
political developments, some of which occurred while we were in
Mongolia.

In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the great Genghiz Khan and
his illustrious successor Kublai Khan "almost in a night" erected
the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Not only did they
conquer all of Asia, but they advanced in Europe as far as the
Dnieper leaving behind a trail of blood and slaughter.

All Europe rose against them, but what could not be accomplished by
force of arms was wrought in the Mongols themselves by an excess of
luxury. In their victorious advance great stores of treasure fell
into their hands and they gave themselves to a life of ease and
indulgence.

By nature the Mongols were hard riding, hard living warriors,
accustomed to privation and fatigue. The poison of luxury ate into
the very fibers of their being and gradually they lost the
characteristics which had made them great. The ruin of the race was
completed by the introduction of Lamaism, a religion which carries
only moral destruction where it enters, and eventually the Mongols
passed under the rule of the once conquered Chinese and then under
the Manchus.

Until the overthrow of the Manchu regime in China in 1911, and the
establishment of the present republic, there were no particularly
significant events in Mongolian history. But at that time the
Russians, wishing to create a buffer state between themselves and
China as well as to obtain special commercial privileges in
Mongolia, aided the Mongols in rebellion, furnished them with arms
and ammunition and with officers to train their men.

A somewhat tentative proclamation of independence for Outer Mongolia
was issued in December, 1911, by the Hutukhtu and nobles of Urga,
and the Chinese were driven out of the country with little
difficulty. Beset with internal troubles, the Chinese paid but scant
attention to Mongolian affairs until news was received in Peking in
October, 1912, that M. Korostovetz, formerly Russian Minister to
China, had arrived secretly in Urga and on November 3, 1912, had
recognized the independence of Outer Mongolia on behalf of his
Government.

It then became incumbent upon China to take official note of the
situation, especially as foreign complications could not be faced in
view of her domestic embarrassments.

Consequently on November 5, 1913, there was concluded a
Russo-Chinese agreement wherein Russia recognized that Outer Mongolia
was under the suzerainty of China, and China, on her part, admitted
the autonomy of Outer Mongolia. The essential element in the
situation was the fact that Russia stood behind the Mongols with money
and arms and China's hand was forced at a time when she was powerless
to resist.

Quite naturally, Mongolia's political status has been a sore point
with China and it is hardly surprising that she should have awaited
an opportunity to reclaim what she considered to be her own.

This opportunity arrived with the collapse of Russia and the spread
of Bolshevism, for the Mongols were dependent upon Russia for
material assistance in anything resembling military operations,
although, as early as 1914, they had begun to realize that they were
cultivating a dangerous friend. The Mongolian army, at the most,
numbered only two or three thousand poorly equipped and
undisciplined troops who would require money and organization before
they could become an effective fighting force.

The Chinese were not slow to appreciate these conditions and General
Hsu Shu-tseng, popularly known as "Little Hsu," by a clever bit of
Oriental intrigue sent four thousand soldiers to Urga with the
excuse of protecting the Mongols from a so-called threatened
invasion of Buriats and brigands. A little later he himself arrived
in a motor car and, when the stage was set, brought such pressure to
bear upon the Hutukhtu and his Cabinet that they had no recourse
except to cancel Mongolia's autonomy and ask to return to their
former place under Chinese rule.

This they did on November 17, 1919, in a formal Memorial addressed
to the President of the Chinese Republic, which is quoted below as
it appeared in the Peking press, under date of November 24, 1919:

"We, the Ministers and Vice-Ministers [here follow their names and
ranks] of all the departments of the autonomous Government of Outer
Mongolia, and all the princes, dukes, hutukhtus and lamas and others
resident at Urga, hereby jointly and severally submit the following
petition for the esteemed perusal of His Excellency the President of
the Republic of China:--

"Outer Mongolia has been a dependency of China since the reign of
the Emperor Kang Hsi, remaining loyal for over two hundred years,
the entire population, from princes and dukes down to the common
people having enjoyed the blessings of peace. During the reign of
the Emperor Tao Kwang changes in the established institutions, which
were opposed to Mongolian sentiment, caused dissatisfaction which
was aggravated by the corruption of the administration during the
last days of the Manchu Dynasty. Taking advantage of this Mongolian
dissatisfaction, foreigners instigated and assisted the independence
movement. Upon the Kiakhta Convention, being signed the autonomy of
Outer Mongolia was held a _fait accompli_, China retaining an empty
suzerainty while the officials and people of Outer Mongolia lost
many of their old rights and privileges. Since the establishment of
this autonomous government no progress whatsoever has been
chronicled, the affairs of government being indeed plunged in a
state of chaos, causing deep pessimism.

"Lately, chaotic conditions have also reigned supreme in Russia,
reports of revolutionary elements threatening our frontiers having
been frequently received. Moreover, since the Russians have no
united government it is only natural that they are powerless to
carry out the provisions of the treaties, and now that they have no
control over their subjects the Buriat tribes have constantly
conspired and cooperated with bandits, and repeatedly sent delegates
to Urga urging our Government to join with them and form a
Pan-Mongolian nation. That this propaganda work, so varied and so
persistent, which aims at usurping Chinese suzerainty and
undermining the autonomy of Outer Mongolia, does more harm than good
to Outer Mongolia, our Government is well aware. The Buriats, with
their bandit Allies, now considering us unwilling to espouse their
cause, contemplate dispatching troops to violate our frontiers and
to compel our submission. Furthermore, forces from the so-called
White Army have forcibly occupied Tanu Ulianghai, an old possession
of Outer Mongolia, and attacked both Chinese and Mongolian troops,
this being followed by the entry of the Red Army, thus making the
situation impossible.

"Now that both our internal and external affairs have reached such a
climax, we, the members of the Government, in view of the present
situation, have assembled all the princes, dukes, lamas and others
and have held frequent meetings to discuss the question of our
future welfare. Those present have been unanimously of the opinion
that the old bonds of friendship having been restored our autonomy
should be canceled, since Chinese and Mongolians are filled with a
common purpose and ideal.

"The result of our decision has been duly reported to His Holiness
the Bogdo Jetsun Dampa Hutukhtu Khan and has received his approval
and support. Such being the position we now unanimously petition His
Excellency the President that the old order of affairs be restored."

(Signed)

"Premier and Acting Minister of the Interior, Prince Lama Batma
Torgoo.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Tarkhan Puntzuk Cheilin.

"Vice-Minister, Great Lama of Beliktu, Prince Puntzuk Torgoo.

"Minister of Foreign Affairs, Duke Cheilin Torgoo.

"Vice-Minister, Dalai Prince Cheitantnun Lomour.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Ochi, Kaotzuktanba.

"Minister of War, Prince of Eltoni Jamuyen Torgoo.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Eltoni Selunto Chihloh.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Elteni Punktzu Laptan.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Itkemur Chitu Wachir.

"Minister of Finance, Prince Lama Loobitsan Paletan.

"Vice-Minister, Prince Torgee Cheilin.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Suchuketu Tehmutgu Kejwan.

"Minister of Justice, Dalai of Chiechenkhan Wananin.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Daichinchihlun Chackehbatehorhu.

"Vice-Minister, Prince of Cholikota Lama Dashtunyupu."

Naturally, the President of China graciously consented to allow the
prodigal to return and "killed the fatted calf" by conferring high
honors and titles upon the Hutukhtu. Moreover, he appointed the
Living Buddha's good friend (?) "Little Hsu" to convey them to him.

Thus, Mongolia again has become a part of China. Who knows what the
future has in store for her? But events are moving rapidly and by
the time this book is published the curtain may have risen upon a
new act of Mongolia's tragedy.



CHAPTER I

ENTERING THE LAND OF MYSTERY

Careering madly in a motor car behind a herd of antelope fleeing
like wind-blown ribbons across a desert which isn't a desert, past
caravans of camels led by picturesque Mongol horsemen, the Twentieth
Century suddenly and violently interjected into the Middle Ages,
should be contrast and paradox enough for even the most _blas_
sportsman. I am a naturalist who has wandered into many of the far
corners of the earth. I have seen strange men and things, but what I
saw on the great Mongolian plateau fairly took my breath away and
left me dazed, utterly unable to adjust my mental perspective.

When leaving Peking in late August, 1918, to cross the Gobi Desert
in Mongolia, I knew that I was to go by motor car. But somehow the
very names "Mongolia" and "Gobi Desert" brought such a vivid picture
of the days of Kublai Khan and ancient Cathay that my clouded mind
refused to admit the thought of automobiles. It was enough that I
was going to the land of which I had so often dreamed.

Not even in the railway, when I was being borne toward Kalgan and
saw lines of laden camels plodding silently along the paved road
beside the train, or when we puffed slowly through the famous Nankou
Pass and I saw that wonder of the world, the Great Wall, winding
like a gray serpent over ridge after ridge of the mountains, was my
dream-picture of mysterious Mongolia dispelled. I had seen all this
before, and had accepted it as one accepts the motor cars beside the
splendid walls of old Peking. It was too near, and the railroad had
made it commonplace.

But Mongolia! That was different. One could not go there in a
roaring train. I had beside me the same old rifle and sleeping bag
that had been carried across the mountains of far Yn-nan, along the
Tibetan frontier, and through the fever-stricken jungles of Burma.
Somehow, these companions of forest and mountain trails, and my
reception at Kalgan by two khaki-clad young men, each with a belt of
cartridges and a six-shooter strapped about his waist, did much to
keep me in a blissful state of unpreparedness for the destruction of
my dream-castles.

That night as we sat in Mr. Charles Coltman's home, with his
charming wife, a real woman of the great outdoors, presiding at the
dinner table, the talk was all of shooting, horses, and the vast,
lone spaces of the Gobi Desert--but not much of motor cars. Perhaps
they vaguely realized that I was still asleep in an unreal world and
knew that the awakening would come all too soon.

Yet I was dining that night with one of the men who had destroyed
the mystery of Mongolia. In 1916, Coltman and his former partner,
Oscar Mamen, had driven across the plains to Urga, the historic
capital of Mongolia. But most unromantic and incongruous, most
disheartening to a dreamer of Oriental dreams, was what I learned a
few days later when the awakening had really come--that among the
first cars ever to cross the desert was one purchased by the
Hutukhtu, the Living Buddha, the God of all the Mongols.

When the Hutukhtu learned of the first motor car in Mongolia he
forthwith demanded one for himself. So his automobile was brought
safely through the rocky pass at Kalgan and across the seven hundred
miles of plain to Urga by way of the same old caravan trail over
which, centuries ago, Genghis Khan had sent his wild Mongol raiders
to conquer China.

We arose long before daylight on the morning of August 29. In the
courtyard lanterns flashed and disappeared like giant fireflies as
the _mafus_ (muleteers) packed the baggage and saddled the ponies.
The cars had been left on the plateau at a mission station called
Hei-ma-hou to avoid the rough going in the pass, and we were to ride
there on horseback while the food and bed-rolls went by cart. There
were five of us in the party--Mr. and Mrs. Coltman, Mr. and Mrs.
Lucander, and myself. I was on a reconnoissance and Mr. Coltman's
object was to visit his trading station in Urga, where the Lucanders
were to remain for the winter.

The sun was an hour high when we clattered over the slippery paving
stones to the north gate of the city. Kalgan is built hard against
the Great Wall of China--the first line of defense, the outermost
rampart in the colossal structure which for so many centuries
protected China from Tartar invasion. Beyond it there was nothing
between us and the great plateau.

After our passports had been examined we rode through the gloomy
chasm-like gate, turned sharply to the left, and found ourselves
standing on the edge of a half-dry river bed. Below us stretched
line after line of double-humped camels, some crowded in
yellow-brown masses which seemed all heads and curving necks, and
some kneeling quietly on the sand. From around a shoulder of rock
came other camels, hundreds of them, treading slowly and sedately,
nose to tail, toward the gate in the Great Wall. They had come from
the far country whither we were bound. To me there is something
fascinating about a camel. Perhaps it is because he seems to typify
the great waste spaces which I love, that I never tire of watching
him swing silently, and seemingly with resistless power, across the
desert.

Our way to Hei-ma-hou led up the dry river bed, with the Great Wall
on the left stretching its serpentine length across the hills, and
on the right picturesque cliffs two hundred feet in height. At their
bases nestle mud-roofed cottages and Chinese inns, but farther up
the river the low hills are all of _loess_--brown, wind-blown dust,
packed hard, which can be cut like cheese. Deserted though they seem
from a distance, they really teem with human life. Whole villages
are half dug, half built, into the hillsides, but are well-nigh
invisible, for every wall and roof is of the same brown earth.

Ten miles or so from Kalgan we began on foot the long climb up the
pass which gives entrance to the great plateau. I kept my eyes
steadily on the pony's heels until we reached a broad, flat terrace
halfway up the pass. Then I swung about that I might have, all at
once, the view which lay below us. It justified my greatest hopes,
for miles and miles of rolling hills stretched away to where the far
horizon met the Shansi Mountains.

It was a desolate country which I saw, for every wave in this vast
land-sea was cut and slashed by the knives of wind and frost and
rain, and lay in a chaotic mass of gaping wounds--caons, ravines,
and gullies, painted in rainbow colors, crossing and cutting one
another at fantastic angles as far as the eye could see.

When, a few moments later, we reached the very summit of the pass, I
felt that no spot I had ever visited satisfied my preconceived
conceptions quite so thoroughly. Behind and below us lay that
stupendous relief map of ravines and gorges; in front was a
limitless stretch of undulating plain. I knew then that I really
stood upon the edge of the greatest plateau in all the world and
that it could be only Mongolia.

We had tiffin at a tiny Chinese inn beside the road, and trotted on
toward Hei-ma-hou between waving fields of wheat, buckwheat, millet,
and oats--oats as thick and "meaty" as any horse could wish to eat.

After tiffin Coltman and Lucander rode rapidly ahead while I trotted
my pony along more slowly in the rear. It was nearly seven o'clock,
and the trees about the mission station had been visible for half an
hour. I was enjoying a gorgeous sunset which splashed the western
sky with gold and red, and lazily watching the black silhouettes of
a camel caravan swinging along the summit of a ridge a mile away. On
the road beside me a train of laden mules and bullock-carts rested
for a moment--the drivers half asleep. Over all the plain there lay
the peace of a perfect autumn evening.

Suddenly, from behind a little rise, I heard the whir of a motor
engine and the raucous voice of a Klaxon horn. Before I realized
what it meant, I was in the midst of a mass of plunging, snorting
animals, shouting carters, and kicking mules. In a moment the
caravan scattered wildly across the plain and the road was clear
save for the author of the turmoil--a black automobile.

I wish I could make those who spend their lives within a city know
how strange and out of place that motor seemed, alone there upon the
open plain on the borders of Mongolia. Imagine a camel or an
elephant with all its Oriental trappings suddenly appearing on Fifth
Avenue! You would think at once that it had escaped from a circus or
a zoo and would be mainly curious as to what the traffic policeman
would do when it did not obey his signals.

But all the incongruity and the fact that the automobile was a
glaring anachronism did not prevent my abandoning my horse to the
_mafu_ and stretching out comfortably on the cushions of the rear
seat. There I had nothing to do but collect the remains of my
shattered dream-castles as we bounced over the ruts and stones. It
was a rude awakening, and I felt half ashamed to admit to myself as
the miles sped by that the springy seat was more comfortable than
the saddle on my Mongol pony.

But that night when I strolled about the mission courtyard, under
the spell of the starry, desert sky, I drifted back again in thought
to the glorious days of Kublai Khan. My heart was hot with
resentment that this thing had come. I realized then that, for
better or for worse, the sanctity of the desert was gone forever.
Camels will still plod their silent way across the age-old plains,
but the mystery is lost. The secrets which were yielded up to but a
chosen few are open now to all, and the world and his wife will
speed their noisy course across the miles of rolling prairie,
hearing nothing, feeling nothing, knowing nothing of that resistless
desert charm which led men out into the Great Unknown.

At daylight we packed the cars. Bed-rolls and cans of gasoline were
tied on the running boards and every corner was filled with food.
Our rifles were ready for use, however, for Coltman had promised a
kind of shooting such as I had never seen before. The stories he
told of wild rides in the car after strings of antelope which
traveled at fifty or sixty miles an hour had left me mildly
skeptical. But then, you know, I had never seen a Mongolian antelope
run.

For twenty or thirty miles after leaving Hei-ma-hou we bounced along
over a road which would have been splendid except for the deep ruts
cut by mule- and oxcarts. These carts are the despair of any one who
hopes some time to see good roads in China. The spike-studded wheels
cut into the hardest ground and leave a chaos of ridges and chasms
which grows worse with every year.

We were seldom out of sight of mud-walled huts or tiny Chinese
villages, and Chinese peddlers passed our cars, carrying baskets of
fruit or trinkets for the women. Chinese farmers stopped to gaze at
us as we bounded over the ruts--in fact it was all Chinese, although
we were really in Mongolia. I was very eager to see Mongols, to
register first impressions of a people of whom I had dreamed so
much; but the blue-clad Chinaman was ubiquitous.

For seventy miles from Kalgan it was all the same--Chinese
everywhere. The Great Wall was built to keep the Mongols out, and by
the same token it should have kept the Chinese in. But the rolling,
grassy sea of the vast plateau was too strong a temptation for the
Chinese farmer. Encouraged by his own government, which knows the
value of just such peaceful penetration, he pushes forward the line
of cultivation a dozen miles or so every year. As a result the
grassy hills have given place to fields of wheat, oats, millet,
buckwheat, and potatoes.

The Mongol, above all things, is not a farmer; possibly because,
many years ago, the Manchus forbade him to till the soil. Moreover,
on the ground he is as awkward as a duck out of water and he is
never comfortable. The back of a pony is his real home, and he will
do wonderfully well any work which keeps him in the saddle. As Mr.
F. A. Larsen in Urga once said, "A Mongol would make a splendid cook
if you could give him a horse to ride about on in the kitchen." So
he leaves to the plodding Chinaman the cultivation of his boundless
plains, while he herds his fat-tailed sheep and goats and cattle.

[Illustration: Roy Chapman Andrews on "Kublai Khan"]

[Illustration: Yvette Borup Andrews, Photographer of the Expedition]

About two hours after leaving the mission station we passed the
limit of cultivation and were riding toward the Tabool hills. There
Mr. Larsen, the best known foreigner in all Mongolia, has a home,
and as we swung past the trail which leads to his house we saw one
of his great herds of horses grazing in the distance.

All the land in this region has long, rich grass in summer, and
water is by no means scarce. There are frequent wells and streams
along the road, and in the distance we often caught a glint of
silver from the surface of a pond or lake. Flocks of goats and
fat-tailed sheep drifted up the valley, and now and then a herd of
cattle massed themselves in moving patches on the hillsides. But
they are only a fraction of the numbers which this land could easily
support.

Not far from Tabool is a Mongol village. I jumped out of the car to
take a photograph but scrambled in again almost as quickly, for as
soon as the motor had stopped a dozen dogs dashed from the houses
snarling and barking like a pack of wolves. They are huge brutes,
these Mongol dogs, and as fierce as they are big. Every family and
every caravan owns one or more, and we learned very soon never to
approach a native encampment on foot.

The village was as unlike a Chinese settlement as it well could be,
for instead of closely packed mud houses there were circular,
latticed frameworks covered with felt and cone-shaped in the upper
half. The _yurt_, as it is called, is perfectly adapted to the
Mongols and their life. In the winter a stove is placed in the
center, and the house is dry and warm. In the summer the felt
covering is sometimes replaced by canvas which can be lifted on any
side to allow free passage of air. When it is time for the
semiannual migration to new grazing grounds the _yurt_ can be
quickly dismantled, the framework collapsed, and the house packed on
camels or carts.

The Mongols of the village were rather disappointing, for many of
them show a strong element of Chinese blood. This seems to have
developed an unfortunate combination of the worst characteristics of
both races. Even where there is no real mixture, their contact with
the Chinese has been demoralizing, and they will rob and steal at
every opportunity. The headdresses of the southern women are by no
means as elaborate as those in the north.

When the hills of Tabool had begun to sink on the horizon behind us,
we entered upon a vast rolling plain, where there was but little
water and not a sign of human life. It resembled nothing so much as
the prairies of Nebraska or Dakota, and amid the short grass
larkspur and purple thistles glowed in the sunlight like tongues of
flame.

There was no lack of birds. In the ponds which we passed earlier in
the day we saw hundreds of mallard ducks and teal. The car often
frightened golden plover from their dust baths in the road, and
crested lapwings flashed across the prairie like sudden storms of
autumn leaves. Huge, golden eagles and enormous ravens made tempting
targets on the telegraph poles, and in the morning before we left
the cultivated area we saw demoiselle cranes in thousands.

In this land where wood is absent and everything that will make a
fire is of value, I wondered how it happened that the telegraph
poles remained untouched, for every one was smooth and round without
a splinter gone. The method of protection is simple and entirely
Oriental. When the line was first erected, the Mongolian government
stated in an edict that any man who touched a pole with knife or ax
would lose his head. Even on the plains the enforcement of such a
law is not so difficult as it might seem, and after a few heads had
been taken by way of example the safety of the line was assured.

Our camp the first night was on a hill slope about one hundred miles
from Hei-ma-hou. As soon as the cars had stopped, one man was left
to untie the sleeping bags while the rest of us scattered over the
plain to hunt material for a fire. _Argul_ (dried dung) forms the
only desert fuel and, although it does not blaze like wood, it will
"boil a pot" almost as quickly as charcoal. I was elected to be the
cook--a position with distinct advantages, for in the freezing cold
of early morning I could linger about the fire with a good excuse.

It was a perfect autumn night. Every star in the world of space
seemed to have been crowded into our own particular expanse of sky,
and each one glowed like a tiny lantern. When I had found a patch of
sand and had dug a trench for my hip and shoulder, I crawled into
the sleeping bag and lay for half an hour looking up at the
bespangled canopy above my head. Again the magic of the desert night
was in my blood, and I blessed the fate which had carried me away
from the roar and rush of New York with its hurrying crowds. But I
felt a pang of envy when, far away in the distance, there came the
mellow notes of a camel-bell. _Dong_, _dong_, _dong_ it sounded,
clear and sweet as cathedral chimes. With surging blood I listened
until I caught the measured tread of padded feet, and saw the black
silhouettes of rounded bodies and curving necks. Oh, to be with
them, to travel as Marco Polo traveled, and to learn to know the
heart of the desert in the long night marches! Before I closed my
eyes that night I vowed that when the war was done and I was free to
travel where I willed, I would come again to the desert as the great
Venetian came.



CHAPTER II

SPEED MARVELS OF THE GOBI DESERT

The next morning, ten miles from camp, we passed a party of Russians
en route to Kalgan. They were sitting disconsolately beside two huge
cars, patching tires and tightening bolts. Their way had been marked
by a succession of motor troubles and they were almost discouraged.
Woe to the men who venture into the desert with an untried car and
without a skilled mechanic! There are no garages just around the
corner--and there are no corners. Lucander's Chinese boy expressed
it with laconic completeness when some one asked him how he liked
the country.

"Well," said he, "there's plenty of _room_ here."

A short distance farther on we found the caravan which had passed us
early in the night. They were camped beside a well and the thirsty
camels were gorging themselves with water. Except for these wells,
the march across the desert would be impossible. They are four or
five feet wide, walled with timbers, and partly roofed. In some the
water is rather brackish but always cool, for it is seldom less than
ten feet below the surface. It is useless to speculate as to who dug
the wells or when, for this trail has been used for centuries. In
some regions they are fifty or even sixty miles apart, but usually
less than that.

The camel caravans travel mostly at night. For all his size and
apparent strength, a camel is a delicate animal and needs careful
handling. He cannot stand the heat of the midday sun and he will not
graze at night. So the Gobi caravans start about three or four
o'clock in the afternoon and march until one or two the next
morning. Then the men pitch a light tent and the camels sleep or
wander over the plain.

At noon on the second day we reached Panj-kiang, the first telegraph
station on the line. Its single mud house was visible miles away and
we were glad to see it, for our gasoline was getting low. Coltman
had sent a plentiful supply by caravan to await us here, and every
available inch of space was filled with cans, for we were only
one-quarter of the way to Urga.

Not far beyond Panj-kiang, a lama monastery has been built beside
the road. Its white-walled temple bordered with red and the compound
enclosing the living quarters of the lamas show with startling
distinctness on the open plain. We stopped for water at a well a few
hundred yards away, and in five minutes the cars were surrounded by
a picturesque group of lamas who streamed across the plain on foot
and on horseback, their yellow and red robes flaming in the sun.
They were amiable enough--in fact, too friendly--and their curiosity
was hardly welcome, for we found one of them testing his knife on
the tires and another about to punch a hole in one of the gasoline
cans; he hoped it held something to drink that was better than
water.

Thus far the trail had not been bad, as roads go in the Gobi, but I
was assured that the next hundred miles would be a different story,
for we were about to enter the most arid part of the desert between
Kalgan and Urga. We were prepared for the only real work of the
trip, however, by a taste of the exciting shooting which Coltman had
promised me.

I had been told that we should see antelope in thousands, but all
day I had vainly searched the plains for a sign of game. Ten miles
from Panj-kiang we were rolling comfortably along on a stretch of
good road when Mrs. Coltman, whose eyes are as keen as those of a
hawk, excitedly pointed to a knoll on the right, not a hundred yards
from the trail. At first I saw nothing but yellow grass; then the
whole hillside seemed to be in motion. A moment later I began to
distinguish heads and legs and realized that I was looking at an
enormous herd of antelope, closely packed together, restlessly
watching us.

Our rifles were out in an instant and Coltman opened the throttle.
The antelope were five or six hundred yards away, and as the car
leaped forward they ranged themselves in single file and strung out
across the plain. We left the road at once and headed diagonally
toward them. For some strange reason, when a horse or car runs
parallel with a herd of antelope, the animals will swing in a
complete semicircle and cross in front of the pursuer. This is also
true of some African species, whether they think they are being cut
off from some more desirable means of escape I cannot say, but the
fact remains that with the open plain on every side they always try
to "cross your bows."

I shall never forget the sight of those magnificent animals
streaming across the desert! There were at least a thousand of them,
and their yellow bodies seemed fairly to skim the earth. I was
shouting in excitement, but Coltman said:

"They're not running yet. Wait till we begin to shoot."

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the speedometer trembling
at thirty-five miles, for we were making a poor showing with the
antelope. But then the fatal attraction began to assert itself and
the long column bent gradually in our direction. Coltman widened the
arc of the circle and held the throttle up as far as it would go.
Our speed increased to forty miles and the car began to gain because
the antelope were running almost across our course.

They were about two hundred yards away when Coltman shut off the gas
and jammed both brakes, but before the car had stopped they had
gained another hundred. I leaped over a pile of bedding and came
into action with the .250 Savage high-power as soon as my feet were
on the ground. Coltman's .30 Mauser was already spitting fire from
the front seat across the windshield, and at his second shot an
antelope dropped like lead. My first two bullets struck the dirt far
behind the rearmost animal, but the third caught a full-grown female
in the side and she plunged forward into the grass.

I realized then what Coltman meant when he said that the antelope
had not begun to run. At the first shot every animal in the herd
seemed to flatten itself and settle to its work. They did not
run--they simply _flew_ across the ground, their legs showing only
as a blur. The one I killed was four hundred yards away, and I held
four feet ahead when I pulled the trigger. They could not have been
traveling less than fifty-five or sixty miles an hour, for they were
running in a semicircle about the car while we were moving at forty
miles in a straight line.

Those are the facts in the case. I can see my readers raise their
brows incredulously, for that is exactly what I would have done
before this demonstration. Well, there is one way to prove it and
that is to come and try it for yourselves. Moreover, I can see some
sportsmen smile for another reason. I mentioned that the antelope I
killed was four hundred yards away. I know how far it was, for I
paced it off. I may say, in passing, that I had never before killed
a running animal at that range. Ninety per cent of my shooting had
been well within one hundred and fifty yards, but in Mongolia
conditions are most extraordinary.

In the brilliant atmosphere an antelope at four hundred yards
appears as large as it would at one hundred in most other parts of
the world; and on the flat plains, where there is not a bush or a
shrub to obscure the view, a tiny stone stands out like a golf ball
on the putting green. Because of these conditions there is strong
temptation to shoot at impossible ranges and to keep on shooting
when the game is beyond anything except a lucky chance. Therefore,
if any of you go to Mongolia to hunt antelope take plenty of
ammunition, and when you return you will never tell how many
cartridges you used. Our antelope were tied on the running board of
the car and we went back to the road where Lucander was waiting.
Half the herd had crossed in front of him, but he had failed to
bring down an animal.

When the excitement was over I began to understand the significance
of what we had seen. It was slowly borne in upon me that our car had
been going, by the speedometer, at forty miles an hour and that the
_antelope were actually beating us_. It was an amazing discovery,
for I had never dreamed that any living animal could run so fast. It
was a discovery, too, which would have important results, for
Professor Henry Fairfield Osborn, president of the American Museum
of Natural History, even then was carrying on investigations as to
the relation of speed to limb structure in various groups of
animals. I determined, with Mr. Coltman's help, to get some real
facts in the case--data upon which we could rely.

There was an opportunity only to begin the study on the first trip,
but we carried it further the following year. Time after time, as we
tore madly after antelope, singly or in herds, I kept my eyes upon
the speedometer, and I feel confident that our observations can be
relied upon. We demonstrated beyond a doubt that the Mongolian
antelope can reach a speed of from fifty-five to sixty miles an
hour. This is probably the maximum _which is attained only in the
initial sprint_ and after a very short distance the animals must
slow down to about forty miles; a short distance more and they drop
to twenty-five or thirty miles, and at this pace they seem able to
continue almost indefinitely. They never ran faster than was
necessary to keep well away from us. As we opened the throttle of
the car they, too, increased their speed. It was only when we began
to shoot and they became thoroughly frightened that they showed what
they could do.

I remember especially one fine buck which gave us an exhibition of
really high-class running. He started almost opposite to us when we
were on a stretch of splendid road and jogged comfortably along at
thirty-five miles an hour. Our car was running at the same speed,
but he decided to cross in front and pressed his accelerator a
little. Coltman also touched ours, and the motor jumped to forty
miles. The antelope seemed very much surprised and gave his
accelerator another push. Coltman did likewise, and the speedometer
registered forty-five miles. That was about enough for us, and we
held our speed. The animal drew ahead on a long curve swinging
across in front of the car. He had beaten us by a hundred yards!

But we had a surprise in store for him, for Coltman suddenly shut
off the gas and threw on both brakes. Before the motor had fully
stopped we opened fire. The first two bullets struck just behind the
antelope and a third kicked the dust between his legs. The shock
turned him half over, but he righted himself and ran to his very
limit. The bullets spattering all about kept him at it for six
hundred yards. He put up a desert hare on the way, but that hare
didn't have a chance with the antelope. It reminded me of the story
of the negro who had seen a ghost. He ran until he dropped beside
the road, but the ghost was right beside him. "Well," said the
ghost, "that was _some_ race we had." "Yes," answered the negro,
"but it ain't nothin' to what we're goin' to have soon's ever I git
my breath. And then," said the negro, "we ran agin. And I come to a
rabbit leggin' it up the road, and I said, 'Git out of the way,
rabbit, and let some one run what can run!'" The last we saw of the
antelope was a cloud of yellow dust disappearing over a low rise.

The excitement of the chase had been an excellent preparation for
the hard work which awaited us not far ahead. The going had been
getting heavier with every mile, and at last we reached a long
stretch of sandy road which the motors could not pull through. With
every one except the driver out of the car, and the engine racing,
we pushed and lifted, gaining a few feet each time, until the
shifting sand was passed. It meant two hours of violent strain, and
we were well-nigh exhausted; a few miles farther, however, it had
all to be done again. Where the ground was hard, there was such a
chaos of ruts and holes that our arms were almost wrenched from
their sockets by the twisting wheels.

This area more nearly approaches a desert than any other part of the
road to Urga. The soil is mainly sandy, but the Gobi sagebrush and
short bunch grass, although sparse and dry, still give a covering of
vegetation, so that in the distance the plain appears like a rolling
meadowland.

[Illustration: At the End of the Long Trail from Outer Mongolia]

[Illustration: Women of Southern Mongolia]

When we saw our first northern Mongol I was delighted. Every one is
a study for an artist. He dresses in a long, loose robe of plum
color, one corner of which is usually tucked into a gorgeous sash.
On his head is perched an extraordinary hat which looks like a
saucer, with upturned edges of black velvet and a narrow cone-shaped
crown of brilliant yellow. Two streamers of red ribbon are usually
fastened to the rim at the back, or a plume of peacock feathers if
he be of higher rank.

On his feet he wears a pair of enormous leather boots with pointed
toes. These are always many sizes too large, for as the weather
grows colder he pads them out with heavy socks of wool or fur. It is
nearly impossible for him to walk in this ungainly footgear, and he
waddles along exactly like a duck. He is manifestly uncomfortable
and ill at ease, but put him on a horse and you have a different
picture. The high-peaked saddle and the horse itself become a part
of his anatomy and he will stay there happily fifteen hours of the
day.

The Mongols ride with short stirrups and, standing nearly upright,
lean far over the horse's neck like our western cowboys. As they
tear along at full gallop in their brilliant robes they seem to
embody the very spirit of the plains. They are such genial,
accommodating fellows, always ready with a pleasant smile, and
willing to take a sporting chance on anything under the sun, that
they won my heart at once.

Above all things they love a race, and often one of them would range
up beside the car and, with a radiant smile, make signs that he
wished to test our speed. Then off he would go like mad, flogging
his horse and yelling with delight. We would let him gain at first,
and the expression of joy and triumph on his face was worth going
far to see. Sometimes, if the road was heavy, it would need every
ounce of gas the car could take to forge ahead, for the ponies are
splendid animals. The Mongols ride only the best and ride them hard,
since horses are cheap in Mongolia, and when one is a little worn
another is always ready.

Not only does the Mongol inspire you with admiration for his
full-blooded, virile manhood, but also you like him because he likes
you. He doesn't try to disguise the fact. There is a frank openness
about his attitude which is wonderfully appealing, and I believe that
the average white man can get on terms of easy familiarity, and even
intimacy, with Mongols more rapidly than with any other Orientals.

Ude is the second telegraph station on the road to Urga. It has the
honor of appearing on most maps of Mongolia and yet it is even less
impressive than Panj-kiang. There are only two mud houses and half a
dozen _yurts_ which seem to have been dropped carelessly behind a
ragged hill.

After leaving Ude, we slipped rapidly up and down a succession of
low hills and entered upon a plain so vast and flat that we appeared
to be looking across an ocean. Not the smallest hill or rise of
ground broke the line where earth and sky met in a faint blue haze.
Our cars seemed like tiny boats in a limitless, grassy sea. It was
sixty miles across, and for three hours the steady hum of the motor
hardly ceased, for the road was smooth and hard. Halfway over we saw
another great herd of antelope and several groups of ten or twelve.
These were a different species from those we had killed, and I got a
fine young buck. Twice wolves trotted across the plain, and at one,
which was very inquisitive, I did some shooting which I vainly try
to forget.

But most interesting to me among the wild life along our way was the
bustard. It is a huge bird, weighing from fifteen to forty pounds,
with flesh of such delicate flavor that it rivals our best turkey. I
had always wanted to kill a bustard and my first one was neatly
eviscerated at two hundred yards by a Savage bullet. I was more
pleased than if I had shot an antelope, perhaps because it did much
to revive my spirits after the episode of the wolf.

Sand grouse, beautiful little gray birds, with wings like pigeons
and remarkable, padded feet, whistled over us as we rolled along the
road, and my heart was sick with the thought of the excellent
shooting we were missing. But there was no time to stop, except for
such game as actually crossed our path, else we should never have
arrived at Urga, the City of the Living God.

Speaking of gods, I must not forget to mention the great lamasery at
Turin, about one hundred and seventy miles from Urga. For hours
before we reached it we saw the ragged hills standing sharp and
clear against the sky line. The peaks themselves are not more than
two hundred feet in height, but they rise from a rocky plateau some
distance above the level of the plain. It is a wild spot where some
mighty internal force has burst the surface of the earth and pushed
up a ragged core of rocks which have been carved by the knives of
weather into weird, fantastic shapes. This elemental battle ground
is a fit setting for the most remarkable group of human habitations
that I have ever seen.

Three temples lie in a bowl-shaped hollow, surrounded by hundreds
upon hundreds of tiny pill-box dwellings painted red and white.
There must be a thousand of them and probably twice as many lamas.
On the outskirts of the "city" to the south enormous piles of
_argul_ have been collected by the priests and bestowed as votive
offerings by devout travelers. Vast as the supply seemed, it would
take all this, and more, to warm the houses of the lamas during the
bitter winter months when the ground is covered with snow. On the
north the hills throw protecting arms about the homes of these
half-wild men, who have chosen to spend their lives in this lonely
desert stronghold. The houses are built of sawn boards, the first
indication we had seen that we were nearing a forest country.

The remaining one hundred and seventy miles to Urga are a delight,
even to the motorist who loves the paved roads of cities. They are
like a boulevard amid glorious, rolling hills luxuriant with long,
sweet grass. In the distance herds of horses and cattle grouped
themselves into moving patches, and fat-tailed sheep dotted the
plain like drifts of snow. I have seldom seen a better grazing
country. It needed but little imagination to picture what it will be
a few years hence when the inevitable railroad claims the desert as
its own, for this rich land cannot long remain untenanted. It was
here that we saw the first marmots, an unfailing indication that we
were in a northern country.

The thick blackness of a rainy night had enveloped us long before we
swung into the Urga Valley and groped our way along the Tola River
bank toward the glimmering lights of the sacred city. It seemed that
we would never reach them, for twice we took the wrong turn and
found ourselves in a maze of sandy bottoms and half-grown trees. But
at ten o'clock we plowed through the mud of a narrow street and into
the courtyard of the Mongolian Trading Company's home.

Oscar Mamen, Coltman's former partner, and Mrs. Mamen had spent
several years there, and for six weeks they had had as guests
Messrs. A. M. Guptil and E. B. Price, of Peking. Mr. Guptil was
representing the American Military Attache, and Mr. Price, Assistant
Chinese Secretary of the American Legation, had come to Urga to
establish communication with our consul at Irkutsk who had not been
heard from for more than a month.

Urga recently had been pregnant with war possibilities. In the Lake
Baikal region of Siberia there were several thousand Magyars and
many Bolsheviki. It was known that Czechs expected to attack them,
and that they would certainly be driven across the borders into
Mongolia if defeated. In that event what would be the attitude of
the Mongolian government? Would it intern the belligerents, or allow
them to use the Urga district as a base of operations?

As a matter of fact, the question had been settled just before my
arrival. The Czechs had made the expected attack with about five
hundred men; all the Magyars, to the number of several thousand, had
surrendered, and the Bolsheviki had disappeared like mists before
the sun. The front of operations had moved in a single night almost
two thousand miles away to the Omsk district, and it was certain
that Mongolia would be left in peace. Mr. Price's work also was
done, for the telegraph from Urga to Irkutsk was again in operation
and thus communication was established with Peking.

The morning after my arrival Mr. Guptil and I rode out to see the
town. Never have I visited such a city of contrasts, or one to which
I was so eager to return. As we did come back, I shall tell, in a
future chapter, of what we found there.



CHAPTER III

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

This is a "hard luck" chapter. Stories of ill-fortune are not always
interesting, but I am writing this one to show what _can_ happen to
an automobile in the Gobi. We had gone to Urga without even a
puncture and I began to feel that motoring in Mongolia was as simple
as riding on Fifth Avenue--more so, in fact, for we did not have to
watch traffic policemen or worry about "right of way." There is no
crowding on the Gobi Desert. When we passed a camel caravan or a
train of oxcarts we were sure to have plenty of room, for the
landscape was usually spotted in every direction with fleeing
animals.

Our motors had "purred" so steadily that accidents and repair shops
seemed very far away and not of much importance. On the return trip,
however, the reverse of the picture was presented and I learned that
to be alone in the desert when something is wrong with the digestion
of your automobile can have its serious aspects. Unless you are an
expert mechanic and have an assortment of "spare parts," you may
have to walk thirty or forty miles to the nearest water and spend
many days of waiting until help arrives.

Fortunately for us, there are few things which either Coltman or
Guptil do not know about the "insides" of a motor and, moreover,
after a diagnosis, they both have the ingenuity to remedy almost any
trouble with a hammer and a screw driver.

Four days after our arrival in Urga we left on the return trip. As
occupants of his car Charles Coltman had Mr. Price, Mrs. Coltman,
and Mrs. Mamen. With the spiritual and physical assistance of Mr.
Guptil I drove the second automobile, carrying in the rear seat a
wounded Russian Cossack and a French-Czech, both couriers. The third
car was a Ford _chassis_ to which a wooden body had been affixed. It
was designed to give increased carrying space, but it looked like a
half-grown hayrack and was appropriately called the "agony box."
This was driven by a chauffeur named Wang and carried Mamen's
Chinese house boy and an _amah_ besides a miscellaneous assortment
of baggage.

It was a cold, gray morning when we started, with a cutting wind
sweeping down from the north, giving a hint of the bitter winter
which in another month would hold all Mongolia in an icy grasp. We
made our way eastward up the valley to the Russian bridge across the
Tola River and pointed the cars southward on the caravan trail to
Kalgan.

Just as we reached the summit of the second long hill, across which
the wind was sweeping in a glacial blast, there came a rasping crash
somewhere in the motor of my car, followed by a steady _knock_,
_knock_, _knock_. "That's a connecting rod as sure as fate," said
"Gup." "We'll have to stop." When he had crawled under the car and
found that his diagnosis was correct, he said a few other things
which ought to have relieved his mind considerably.

There was nothing to be done except to replace the broken part with
a spare rod. For three freezing hours Gup and Coltman lay upon their
backs under the car, while the rest of us gave what help we could.
To add to the difficulties a shower of hail swept down upon us with
all the fury of a Mongolian storm. It was three o'clock in the
afternoon before we were ready to go on, and our camp that night was
only sixty miles from Urga.

The next day as we passed Turin the Czech pointed out the spot where
he had lain for three days and nights with a broken collar bone and
a dislocated shoulder. He had come from Irkutsk carrying important
dispatches and had taken passage in an automobile belonging to a
Chinese company which with difficulty was maintaining a passenger
service between Urga and Kalgan. As usual, the native chauffeur was
dashing along at thirty-five miles an hour when he should not have
driven faster than twenty at the most. One of the front wheels slid
into a deep rut, the car turned completely over and the resulting
casualties numbered one man dead and our Czech seriously injured. It
was three days before another car carried him back to Urga, where
the broken bones were badly set by a drunken Russian doctor. The
Cossack, too, had been shot twice in the heavy fighting on the
Russian front, and, although his wounds were barely healed, he had
just ridden three hundred miles on horseback with dispatches for
Peking.

Both my passengers were delighted to have escaped the Chinese
motors, for in them accidents had been the rule rather than the
exception. During one year nineteen cars had been smashed and lay in
masses of twisted metal beside the road. The difficulty had been
largely due to the native chauffeurs. Although these men can drive a
car, they have no mechanical training and danger signals from the
motor are entirely disregarded. Moreover, all Chinese dearly love
"show" and the chauffeurs delight in driving at tremendous speed
over roads where they should exercise the greatest care. The deep
cart ruts are a continual menace, for between them the road is often
smooth and fine. But a stone or a tuft of grass may send one of the
front wheels into a rut and capsize the car. Even with the greatest
care accidents will happen, and motoring in Mongolia is by no means
devoid of danger and excitement.

About three o'clock in the afternoon of the second day we saw
frantic signals from the agony box which had been lumbering along
behind us. It appeared that the right rear wheel was broken and the
car could go no farther. There was nothing for it but to camp right
where we were while Charles repaired the wheel. Gup and I ran twenty
miles down the road to look for a well, but without success. The
remaining water was divided equally among us but next morning we
discovered that the Chinese had secreted two extra bottles for
themselves, while we had been saving ours to the last drop. It
taught me a lesson by which I profited the following summer.

On the third day the agony box limped along until noon, but when we
reached a well in the midst of the great plain south of Turin it had
to be abandoned, while we went on to Ude, the telegraph station in
the middle of the desert, and wired Mamen to bring a spare wheel
from Urga.

The fourth day there was more trouble with the connecting rod on my
car and we sat for two hours at a well while the motor was
eviscerated and reassembled. It had ceased to be a joke, especially
to Coltman and Guptil, for all the work fell upon them. By this time
they were almost unrecognizable because of dirt and grease and their
hands were cut and blistered. But they stood it manfully, and at
each new accident Gup rose to greater and greater heights of
oratory.

We were halfway between Ude and Panj-kiang when we saw two
automobiles approaching from the south. Their occupants were
foreigners we were sure, and as they stopped beside us a tall young
man came up to my car. "I am Langdon Warner," he said. We shook
hands and looked at each other curiously. Warner is an archaeologist
and Director of the Pennsylvania Museum. For ten years we had played
a game of hide and seek through half the countries of the Orient and
it seemed that we were destined never to meet each other. In 1910 I
drifted into the quaint little town of Naha in the Loo-Choo Islands,
that forgotten kingdom of the East. At that time it was far off the
beaten track and very few foreigners had sought it out since 1854,
when Commodore Perry negotiated a treaty with its king in the
picturesque old Shuri Palace. Only a few months before I arrived,
Langdon Warner had visited it on a collecting trip and the natives
had not yet ceased to talk about the strange foreigner who gave them
new baskets for old ones.

A little later Warner preceded me to Japan, and in 1912 I followed
him to Korea. Our paths diverged when I went to Alaska in 1918, but
I crossed his trail again in China, and in 1916, just before my wife
and I left for Yn-nan, I missed him in Boston where I had gone to
lecture at Harvard University. It was strange that after ten years
we should meet for the first time in the middle of the Gobi Desert!

Warner was proceeding to Urga with two Czech officers who were on
their way to Irkutsk. We gave them the latest news of the war
situation and much to their disgust they realized that had they
waited only two weeks longer they could have gone by train, for the
attack by the Czechs on the Magyars and the Bolsheviki, in the
trans-Baikal region, had cleared the Siberian railway westward as
far as Omsk. After half an hour's talk we drove off in opposite
directions. Warner eventually reached Irkutsk, but not without some
interesting experiences with Bolsheviki along the way, and I did not
see him again until last March (1920), when he came to my office in
the American Museum just after we had returned to New York.

When we reached Panj-kiang we felt that our motor troubles were at
an end, but ten miles beyond the station my car refused to pull
through a sand pit and we found that there was trouble with the
differential. It was necessary to dismantle the rear end of the car,
and Coltman and Gup were well-nigh discouraged. The delay was a
serious matter for I had urgent business in Japan, and it was
imperative that I reach Peking as soon as possible. Charles finally
decided to send me, together with Price, the Czech, and the Cossack,
in his car, while he and Gup remained with the two ladies to repair
mine.

Price and I drove back to Panj-kiang to obtain extra food and water
for the working party and to telegraph Kalgan for assistance. We
took only a little tea, macaroni, and two tins of sausage, for we
expected to reach the mission station at Hei-ma-hou early the next
morning.

We were hardly five miles from the broken car when we discovered
that there was no more oil for our motor. It was impossible to go
much farther and we decided that the only alternative was to wait
until the relief party, for which we had wired, arrived from Kalgan.
Just then the car swung over the summit of a rise, and we saw the
white tent and grazing camels of an enormous caravan. Of course,
Mongols would have mutton fat and why not use that for oil! The
caravan leader assured us that he had fat in plenty and in ten
minutes a great pot of it was warming over the fire.

We poured it into the motor and proceeded merrily on our way. But
there was one serious obstacle to our enjoyment of that ride. Events
had been moving so rapidly that we had eaten nothing since
breakfast, and when a delicious odor of roast lamb began to arise
from the motor, we realized that we were all very hungry. Dry
macaroni would hardly do and the sausage must be saved for dinner.
All the afternoon that tantalizing odor hovered in the air and I
began to imagine that I could even smell mint sauce.

At six o'clock we saw the first _yurt_ and purchased a supply of
_argul_ so that we could save time in making camp. The lamps of the
car were _hors de combat_ and a watery moon did not give us
sufficient light by which to drive in safety, so we stopped on a
hilltop shortly after dark. In the morning when the motor was cold
we could save time and strength in cranking by pushing it down the
slope.

Much to our disgust we found that the _argul_ we had purchased from
the Mongol was so mixed with dirt that it would not burn. After half
an hour of fruitless work I gave up, and we divided the tin of cold
sausage. It was a pretty meager dinner for four hungry men and I
retired into my sleeping bag to dream of roast lamb and mint sauce.
When the Cossack officer found that he was not to have his tea he
was like a child with a stick of candy just out of reach. He tried
to sleep but it was no use, and in half an hour I opened my eyes to
see him flat on his face blowing lustily at a piece of _argul_ which
he had persuaded to emit a faint glow. For two mortal hours the
Russian nursed that fire until his pot of water reached the boiling
point. Then he insisted that we all wake up to share his triumph.

[Illustration: The Middle Ages and the Twentieth Century]

[Illustration: A Mongolian Antelope Killed from Our Motor Car]

[Illustration: Watering Camels at a Well in the Gobi Desert]

We reached the mission station at noon next day, and Father Weinz,
the Belgian priest in charge, gave us the first meal we had had in
thirty-six hours. The Czech courier decided to remain at Hei-ma-hou
and go in next day by cart, but we started immediately on the
forty-mile horseback ride to Kalgan. A steady rain began about two
o'clock in the afternoon, and in half an hour we were soaked to the
skin; then the ugly, little gray stallion upon which I had been
mounted planted both hind feet squarely on my left leg as we toiled
up a long hill-trail to the pass, and I thought that my walking days
had ended for all time. At the foot of the pass we halted at a dirty
inn where they told us it would be useless to go on to Kalgan, for the
gates of the city would certainly be closed and it would be
impossible to enter until morning. There was no alternative except
to spend the night at the inn, but as they had only a grass fire
which burned out as soon as the cooking was finished, and as all our
clothes were soaked, we spent sleepless hours shivering with cold.

The Cossack spoke only Mongol and Russian, and, as neither of us
knew a single word of either language, it was difficult to
communicate our plans to him. Finally, we found a Chinaman who spoke
Mongol and who consented to act as interpreter. The natives at the
inn could not understand why we were not able to talk to the
Cossack. Didn't all white men speak the same language? Mr. Price
endeavored to explain that Russian and English differ as much as do
Chinese and Mongol, but they only smiled and shook their heads.

In the morning I was so stiff from the kick which the gray stallion
had given me that I could get to his back only with the greatest
difficulty, but we reached Kalgan at eight o'clock. Unfortunately,
the Cossack had left his passport in the cart which was to follow
with his baggage, and the police at the gate would not let us pass.
Mr. Price was well known to them and offered to assume responsibility
for the Cossack in the name of the American Legation, but the
policemen, who were much disgruntled at being roused so early in the
morning, refused to let us enter.

Their attitude was so obviously absurd that we agreed to take
matters into our own hands. We strolled outside the house and
suddenly jumped on our horses. The sentries made a vain attempt to
catch our bridle reins and we rode down the street at a sharp, trot.
There was another police station in the center of the city which it
was impossible to avoid and as we approached it we saw a line of
soldiers drawn up across the road. Our friends at the gate had
telephoned ahead to have us stopped. Without hesitating we kept on,
riding straight at the gray-clad policemen. With wildly waving arms
they shouted at us to halt, but we paid not the slightest attention,
and they had to jump aside to avoid being run down. The spectacle
which these Chinese soldiers presented, as they tried to arrest us,
was so ridiculous that we roared with laughter. Imagine what would
happen on Fifth Avenue if you disregarded a traffic policeman's
signal to stop!

Although the officials knew that we could be found at Mr. Coltman's
house, we heard nothing further from the incident. It was so
obviously a matter of personal ill nature on the part of the captain
in charge of the gate police that they realized it was not a subject
for further discussion.

After the luxury of a bath and shave we proceeded to Peking. Charles
and Gup had rather a beastly time getting in. The car could not be
repaired sufficiently to carry on under its own power, and, through
a misunderstanding, the relief party only went as far as the pass
and waited there for their arrival. They eventually found it
necessary to hire three horses to tow them to the mission station
where the "hard luck" story ended.



CHAPTER IV

NEW TRAVELS ON AN OLD TRAIL

The winter of 1918-19 we spent in and out of one of the most
interesting cities in the world. Peking, with its background of
history made vividly real by its splendid walls, its age-old temples
and its mysterious Forbidden City, has a personality of its own.

When we had been away for a month or two there was always a
delightful feeling of anticipation in returning to the city itself
and to our friends in its cosmopolitan community.

Moreover, at our house in Wu Liang Tajen Hutung, a baby boy and his
devoted nurse were waiting to receive us. Even at two years the
extraordinary facility with which he discovered frogs and bugs,
which, quite unknown to us, dwelt in the flower-filled courtyard,
showed the hereditary instincts of a born explorer.

That winter gave us an opportunity to see much of ancient China, for
we visited Shantung, traveled straight across the Provinces of Honan
and Hupeh, and wandered about the mountains of Che-kiang on a serow
hunt.

In February the equipment for our summer's work in Mongolia was on
its way across the desert by caravan. We had sent flour, bacon,
coffee, tea, sugar, butter and dried fruit, for these could be
purchased in Urga only at prohibitive prices. Even then, with camel
charges at fourteen cents a _cattie_ (1 1/3 lbs.), a fifty-pound
sack of flour cost us more than six dollars by the time it reached
Urga.

Charles Coltman at Kalgan very kindly relieved me of all the
transportation details. We had seen him several times in Peking
during the winter, and had planned the trip across the plains to
Urga as _une belle excursion_.

Mrs. Coltman was going, of course, as were Mr. and Mrs. "Ted"
MacCallie of Tientsin. "Mac" was a famous Cornell football star whom
I knew by reputation in my own college days. He was to take a
complete Delco electric lighting plant to Urga, with the hope of
installing it in the palace of the "Living God."

A soldier named Owen from the Legation guard in Peking was to drive
the Delco car, and I had two Chinese taxidermists, Chen and Kang,
besides Lu, our cook and camp boy.

Chen had been loaned to me by Dr. J. G. Andersson, Mining Adviser to
the Chinese Republic, and proved to be one of the best native
collectors whom I have ever employed. The Coltmans and MacCallies
were to stay only a few days in Urga, but they helped to make the
trip across Mongolia one of the most delightful parts of our
glorious summer.

We left Kalgan on May 17. Mac, Owen, and I rode the forty miles to
Hei-ma-hou on horseback while Charles drove a motor occupied by the
three women.

There is a circuitous route by which cars can cross the pass under
their own power, but Coltman preferred the direct road and sent four
mules to tow the automobile up the mountains to the edge of the
plateau.

It was the same trail I had followed the previous September. Then,
as I stood on the summit of the pass gazing back across the far, dim
hills, my heart was sad for I was about to enter a new land alone.
My "best assistant" was on the ocean coming as fast as steam could
carry her to join me in Peking. I wondered if Fate's decree would
bring us here together that we might both have, as a precious
heritage for future years, the memories of this strange land of
romance and of mystery. Now the dream had been fulfilled and never
have I entered a new country with greater hopes of what it would
bring to me. Never, too, have such hopes been more gloriously
realized.

We packed the cars that night and at half past five the next morning
were on the road. The sky was gray and cloud-hung, but by ten
o'clock the sun burned out and we gradually emerged from the fur
robes in which we had been buried.

Instead of the fields of ripening grain which in the previous autumn
had spread the hills with a flowing golden carpet, we saw blue-clad
Chinese farmers turning long brown furrows with homemade plows. The
trees about the mission station had just begun to show a tinge of
green--the first sign of awakening at the touch of spring from the
long winter sleep. Already caravans were astir, and we passed lines
of laden camels now almost at the end of the long journey from Outer
Mongolia, whither we were bound. But, instead of splendid beasts
with upstanding humps and full neck beards, the camels now were
pathetic mountains of almost naked skin on which the winter hair
hung in ragged patches. The humps were loose and flat and flapped
disconsolately as the great bodies lurched along the trail.

When we passed one caravan a _dbonnaire_ old Mongol wearing a derby
hat swung out of line and signaled us to stop. After an appraising
glance at the car he smiled broadly and indicated that he would like
to race. In a moment he was off yelling at the top of his lungs and
belaboring the bony sides of his camel with feet and hands. The
animal's ungainly legs swung like a windmill in every direction it
seemed, except forward, and yet the Mongol managed to keep his
rolling old "ship of the desert" abreast of us for several minutes.
Finally we let him win the race, and his look of delight was worth
going far to see as he waved us good-by and with a hearty
"_sai-bei-nah_" loped slowly back to the caravan.

The road was much better than it had been the previous fall. During
the winter the constant tramp of padded feet had worn down and
filled the ruts which had been cut by the summer traffic of
spike-wheeled carts. But the camels had almost finished their winter's
work. In a few weeks they would leave the trail to ox and pony
caravans and spend the hot months in idleness, storing quantities of
fat in their great hump reservoirs.

There was even more bird life than I had seen the previous
September. The geese had all flown northward where we would find
them scattered over their summer breeding grounds, but thousands of
demoiselle cranes (_Anthropoides virgo_) had taken their places in
the fields. They were in the midst of the spring courting and seemed
to have lost all fear. One pair remained beside the road until we
were less than twenty feet away, stepping daintily aside only when
we threatened to run them down. Another splendid male performed a
love dance for the benefit of his prospective bride quite
undisturbed by the presence of our cars. With half-spread wings he
whirled and leaped about the lady while every feather on her slim,
blue body expressed infinite boredom and indifference to his
passionate appeal.

Ruddy sheldrakes, mallards, shoveler ducks, and teal were in even
the smallest ponds and avocets with sky-blue legs and slender
recurved bills ran along the shores of a lake at which we stopped
for tiffin. When we had passed the last Chinese village and were
well in the Mongolian grasslands we had great fun shooting gophers
(_Citellus mongolicus umbratus_) from the cars. It was by no means
easy to kill them before they slipped into their dens, and I often
had to burrow like a terrier to pull them out even when they were
almost dead.

We got eighteen, and camped at half past four in order that the
taxidermists might have time to prepare the skins. There was a hint
of rain in the air and we pitched the tent for emergencies, although
none of us wished to sleep inside. Mac suggested that we utilize the
electric light plant even if we were on the Mongolian plains. In
half an hour he had installed wires in the tent and placed an arc
lamp on the summit of a pole. It was an extraordinary experience to
see the canvas walls about us, to hear the mournful wail of a lone
wolf outside, and yet be able to turn the switch of an electric
light as though we were in the city. No arc lamp on Fifth Avenue
blazed more brightly than did this one on the edge of the Gobi
Desert where none of its kind had ever shone before. With the motor
cars which had stolen the sanctity of the plains it was only another
evidence of the passing of Mongolian mystery.

Usually when we camped we could see, almost immediately, the
silhouettes of approaching Mongols black against the evening sky.
Where they came from we could never guess. For miles there might not
have been the trace of a human being, but suddenly they would appear
as though from out the earth itself. Perhaps they had been riding
along some distant ridge far beyond the range of white men's eyes,
or the roar of a motor had carried to their ears across the miles of
plain; or perhaps it was that unknown sense, which seems to have
been developed in these children of the desert, which directs them
unerringly to water, to a lost horse, or to others of their kind. Be
it what it may, almost every night the Mongols came loping into camp
on their hardy, little ponies.

But this evening, when we had prepared an especial celebration, the
audience did not arrive. It was a bitter disappointment, for we were
consumed with curiosity to know what effect the blazing arc would
have upon the Mongolian stoics. We could not believe that natives
had not seen the light but probably they thought it was some spirit
manifestation which was to be avoided. An hour after we were
snuggled in our fur sleeping bags, two Mongols rode into camp, but
we were too sleepy to give an exhibition of the fireworks.

We reached Panj-kiang about noon of the second day and found that a
large mud house and a spacious compound had been erected beside the
telegraph station by the Chinese company which was endeavoring to
maintain a passenger service between Kalgan and Urga. The Chinese
government also had invaded the field and was sending automobiles
regularly to the Mongolian capital as a branch service of the
Peking-Suiyuan railroad. In the previous September we had passed
half a dozen of their motors in charge of a foreign representative
of Messrs. Jardine, Matheson and Co. of Shanghai from whom the cars
were purchased. He discovered immediately that the difficulties
which the Chinese had encountered were largely the result of
incompetent chauffeurs.

We had kept a sharp lookout for antelope, but saw nothing except a
fox which looked so huge in the clear air that all of us were
certain it was a wolf. There are always antelope on the Panj-kiang
plain, however, and we loaded the magazines of our rifles as soon as
we left the telegraph station. I was having a bit of sport with an
immense flock of golden plover (_Pluvialis dominicus fulvus_) when
the people in the cars signaled me to return, for a fine antelope
buck was standing only a few hundred yards from the road. The ground
was as smooth and hard as an asphalt pavement and we skimmed along
at forty miles an hour. When the animal had definitely made up its
mind to cross in front of us, Charles gave the accelerator a real
push and the car jumped to a speed of forty-eight miles. The
antelope was doing his level best to "cross our bows" but he was too
far away, and for a few moments it seemed that we would surely crash
into him if he held his course. It was a great race. Yvette had a
death grip on my coat, for I was sitting half over the edge of the
car ready to jump when Charles threw on the brakes. With any one but
Coltman at the wheel I would have been too nervous to enjoy the
ride, but we all had confidence in his superb driving.

The buck crossed the road not forty yards in front of us, just at
the summit of a tiny hill. Charles and I both fired once, and the
antelope turned half over in a whirl of dust. It disappeared behind
the hill crest and we expected to find it dead on the other side,
but the slope was empty and even with our glasses we could not
discover a sign of life on the plain, which stretched away to the
horizon apparently as level as a floor. It had been swallowed
utterly as though by the magic pocket of a conjurer.

Mac had not participated in the fun, for it had been a one-man race.
Fifteen minutes later, however, we had a "free for all" which gave
him his initiation.

An extract from Yvette's "Journal" gives her impression of the
chase:

"Some one pointed out the distant, moving specks on the horizon and
in a moment our car had left the road and started over the plains.
Nearer and nearer we came, and faster and faster ran the antelope
stringing out in a long, yellow line before us. The speedometer was
moving up and up, thirty miles, thirty-five miles. Roy was sitting
on the edge of the car with his legs hanging out, rifle in hand,
ready to swing to the ground as soon as the car halted. Mr. Coltman,
who was driving, had already thrown on the brakes, but Roy, thinking
in his excitement that he had stopped, jumped--and jumped too soon.
The speed at which we were going threw him violently to the ground.
I hardly dared look to see what had happened but somehow he turned a
complete somersault, landed on his knees, and instantly began
shooting. Mr. Coltman, his hands trembling with the exertion of the
drive, opened fire across the wind shield. As the first reports
crashed out, the antelope, which had seemed to be flying before,
flattened out and literally skimmed over the plain. Half a dozen
bullets struck behind the herd, then as Roy's rifle cracked again,
one of those tiny specks dropped to the ground.

"It was a wonderful shot--four hundred and twenty yards measured
distance. No, this isn't a woman's inaccuracy of figures, it's a
fact. But then you must remember the extraordinary clearness of the
air in Mongolia, where every object appears to be magnified half a
dozen times. The brilliant atmosphere is one of the most bewildering
things of the desert. Once we thought we saw an antelope grazing on
the hillside and Mr. Coltman remarked disdainfully: 'Pooh, that's a
horse.' But the laugh was on him for as we drew near the 'horse'
proved to be only a bleached bone. At a short distance camels and
ponies stood out as though cut in steel, seeming as high as a
village church steeple; and, most ridiculous of all, my husband
mistook me once at a long, long distance for a telegraph pole!
Tartarin de Tarascon would have had some wonderful stories to tell
of Mongolia!"

[Illustration: The Water Carrier for a Caravan]

[Illustration: A Thirty-five Pound Bustard]

[Illustration: Young Mongolia]

We had hardly reached the road again before Mrs. Coltman discovered
a great herd of antelope on the slope of a low hill, and when the
ears carried us over the crest we could see animals in every
direction, feeding in pairs or in groups of ten to forty.

We all agreed that no better place could be found at which to obtain
motion pictures and camp was made forthwith. Unfortunately, the
gazelles were shedding their winter coats and the skins were useless
except for study; however, I did need half a dozen skeletons, so the
animals we killed would not be wasted.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when the tents were up and too
late to take pictures; therefore, the photography was postponed
until the next day, and we ran over toward a herd of antelope which
was just visible on the sky line. When each of us had killed an
animal, the opinion was unanimous that we had enough. I got mine on
the first chase and thenceforth employed my time in making
observations on the antelope's speed.

Time after time the car reached forty miles an hour, but with an
even start the gazelles could swing about in front and "cross our
bows." One of the antelope had a front leg broken just below the
knee, and gave us a hard chase with the car going at thirty-five
miles an hour. I estimated that even in its crippled condition the
animal was traveling at a rate of _not less than twenty-five miles
an hour_.

My field notes tell of a similar experience with the last gazelle
which Mac killed late in the afternoon.  ". . . We ran toward
another group of antelope standing on the summit of a long land
swell. There were fourteen in this herd and as the car neared them
they trotted about with heads up, evidently trying to decide what
species of plains animal we represented. The sun had just set, and I
shall never forget the picture which they made, their graceful
figures showing in black silhouettes against the rose glow of the
evening sky. There was one buck among them and they seemed very
nervous. When the men leaped out to shoot we were fully two hundred
and fifty yards away, but at his third shot Mac dropped the buck. It
was up again and off before the motor started in pursuit and,
although running apart from the herd, it was only a short distance
behind the others. Evidently the right foreleg was broken but with
the car traveling at twenty-five miles an hour it was still drawing
ahead. The going was not good and we ran for two miles without
gaining an inch; then we came to a bit of smooth plain and the motor
shot ahead at thirty-five miles an hour. We gained slowly and, when
about one hundred yards away, I leaped out and fired at the animal
breaking the other foreleg low down on the left side. Even with two
legs injured it still traveled at a rate of fifteen miles, and a
third shot was required to finish the unfortunate business. We found
that both limbs were broken below the knee, and that the animal had
been running on the stumps."



CHAPTER V

ANTELOPE MOVIE STARS

It was eight o'clock before we finished breakfast in the morning,
but we did not wish to begin the motion picture photography until
the sun was high enough above the horizon to give us a clear field
for work. Charles and I rigged the tripod firmly in the _tonneau_ of
one of the cars. Mrs. Mac and Wang, a Chinese driver, were in the
front seat, while Yvette and I squeezed in beside the camera. The
Coltmans, Mac, and Owen occupied the other motor. We found a herd of
antelope within a mile of camp and they paraded in beautiful
formation as the car approached. It would have made a splendid
picture, but although the two automobiles were of the same make,
there was a vast difference in their speed and it was soon evident
that we could not keep pace with the other motor. After two or three
ineffectual attempts we roped the camera in the most powerful car,
the three men came in with me, and the women transferred to Wang's
machine.

The last herd of antelope had disappeared over a long hill, and when
we reached the summit we saw that they had separated into four
groups and scattered about on the plains below us. We selected the
largest, containing about fifty animals, and ran toward it as fast
as the car could travel. The herd divided when we were still several
hundred yards away, but the larger part gave promise of swinging
across our path. The ground was thinly covered with short bunch
grass, and when we reached a speed of thirty-five miles an hour the
car was bounding and leaping over the tussocks like a ship in a
heavy gale. I tried to stand, but after twice being almost pitched
out bodily I gave it up and operated the camera by kneeling on the
rear seat. Mac helped anchor me by sitting on my left leg, and we
got one hundred feet of film from the first herd. Races with three
other groups gave us two hundred feet more, and as the gasoline in
our tank was alarmingly depleted we turned back toward camp.

Unfortunately I did not reload the camera with a fresh roll of film
and thereby missed one of the most unusual and interesting pictures
which ever could be obtained upon the plains. The tents were already
in sight when a wolf suddenly appeared on the crest of a grassy
knoll. He looked at us for a moment and then set off at an easy
lope. The temptation was too great to be resisted even though there
was a strong possibility that we might be stalled in the desert with
no gas.

The ground was smooth and hard, and our speedometer showed forty
miles an hour. We soon began to gain, but for three miles he gave us
a splendid race. Suddenly, as we came over a low hill, we saw an
enormous herd of antelope directly in front of us. They were not
more than two hundred yards away, and the wolf made straight for
them. Panic-stricken at the sight of their hereditary enemy followed
by the roaring car, they scattered wildly and then swung about to
cross our path. The wolf dashed into their midst and the herd
divided as though cut by a knife. Some turned short about, but the
others kept on toward us until I thought we would actually run them
down. When not more than fifty yards from the motor they wheeled
sharply and raced along beside the wolf.

To add to the excitement a fat, yellow marmot, which seemed suddenly
to have lost his mind, galloped over the plain as fast as his short
legs could carry him until he remembered that safety lay
underground; then he popped into his burrow like a billiard ball
into a pocket. With this strange assortment fleeing in front of the
car we felt as though we had invaded a zological garden.

The wolf paid not the slightest attention to the antelope for he had
troubles of his own. We were almost on him, and I could see his red
tongue between the foam-flecked jaws. Suddenly he dodged at right
angles, and it was only by a clever bit of driving that Charles
avoided crashing into him with the left front wheel. Before we could
swing about the wolf had gained five hundred yards, but he was
almost done. In another mile we had him right beside the car, and
Coltman leaned far out to kill him with his pistol. The first bullet
struck so close behind the animal that it turned him half over, and
he dodged again just in time to meet a shot from Mac's rifle which
broke his back. With its dripping lips drawn over a set of ugly
teeth, the beast glared at us, as much as to say, "It is your move
next, but don't come too close." Had it been any animal except a
wolf I should have felt a twinge of pity, but I had no sympathy for
the skulking brute. There will be more antelope next year because of
its death.

All this had happened with an unloaded camera in the automobile. I
had tried desperately to adjust a new roll of film, but had given up
in despair for it was difficult enough even to sit in the bounding
car. Were I to spend the remainder of my life in Mongolia there
might never be such a chance again.

But we had an opportunity to learn just how fast a wolf can run, for
the one we had killed was undoubtedly putting his best foot forward.
I estimated that even at first he was not doing more than
thirty-five miles an hour, and later we substantiated it on another,
which gave us a race of twelve miles. With antelope which can reach
fifty-five to sixty miles an hour a wolf has little chance, unless he
catches them unawares, or finds the newly born young. To avoid just
this the antelope are careful to stay well out on the plains where
there are no rocks or hills to conceal a skulking wolf.

The wolf we had killed was shedding its hair and presented a most
dilapidated, moth-eaten appearance; moreover, it had just been
feeding on the carcass of a dead camel, which subsequently we
discovered a mile away. When we reached camp I directed the two
taxidermists to prepare the skeleton of the wolf, but to keep well
away from the tents.

Charles and I had been talking a good deal about antelope steak, and
for tiffin I had cut the fillets from one of the young gazelle. We
were very anxious to "make good" on all that had been promised, so
we cooked the steak ourselves. Just when the party was assembled in
the tent for luncheon the Chinese began work upon the wolf. They had
obediently gone to a considerable distance to perform the last
rites, but had not chosen wisely in regard to the wind. As the
antelope steak was brought in, a gentle breeze wafted with it a
concentrated essence of defunct camel. Yvette put down her knife and
fork and looked up. She caught my eye and burst out laughing. Mrs.
Mac had her hand clasped firmly over her mouth and on her face was
an expression of horror and deathly nausea.

Although I am a great lover of antelope steak, I will admit that
when accompanied by _parfum de chameau_, especially when it is a
very dead _chameau_, there are other things more attractive.
Moreover, the antelope which we killed on the Panj-kiang plain
really were very strong indeed. I have never been able to discover
what was the cause, for those farther to the north were as delicious
as any we have ever eaten. The introduction was such an unfortunate
one that the party shied badly whenever antelope meat was mentioned
during the remainder of the trip to Urga. Coltman, who had charge of
the commissary, quite naturally expected that we would depend
largely on meat and had not provided a sufficiency of other food. As
a result we found that after the third day rations were becoming
very short.

We camped that night at a well in a sandy river bottom about ten
miles beyond Ude, the halfway point on the trip to Urga. It had been
a bad day, with a bitterly cold wind which drove the dust and tiny
pebbles against our faces like a continual storm of hail. As soon as
the cars had stopped every one of us set to work with soap and water
before anything had been done toward making camp. Our one desire was
to remove a part of the dirt which had sifted into our eyes, hair,
mouths, and ears. In half an hour we looked more brightly upon the
world and began to wonder what we would have for dinner. It was a
discussion which could not be carried on for very long since the
bread was almost gone and only macaroni remained. Just then a
demoiselle crane alighted beside the well not forty yards away.
"There's our dinner," Charles shouted, "shoot it."

Two minutes later I was stripping off the feathers, and in less than
five minutes it was sizzling in the pan. That was a bit too much for
Mrs. Mac, hungry as she was. "Just think," she said, "that bird was
walking about here not ten minutes ago and now it's on my plate. It
hasn't stopped wiggling yet. I can't eat it!"

Poor girl, she went to bed hungry, and in the night waked to find
her face terribly swollen from wind and sunburn. She was certain
that she was about to die, but decided, like the "good sport" she
is, to die alone upon the hillside where she wouldn't disturb the
camp. After half an hour of wandering about she felt better, and
returned to her sleeping bag on the sandy river bottom.

Just before dark we heard the _dong_, _dong_, _dong_ of a camel's
bell and saw the long line of dusty yellow animals swing around a
sharp earth-corner into the sandy space beside the well. Like the
trained units of an army each camel came into position, kneeled upon
the ground and remained quietly chewing its cud until the driver
removed the load. Long before the last straggler had arrived the
tents were up and a fire blazing, and far into the night the thirsty
beasts grunted and roared as the trough was filled with water.

For thirty-six days they had been on the road, and yet were only
halfway across the desert. Every day had been exactly like the day
before--an endless routine of eating and sleeping, camp-making and
camp-breaking in sun, rain, or wind. The monotony of it all would be
appalling to a westerner, but the Oriental mind seems peculiarly
adapted to accept it with entire contentment. Long before daylight
they were on the road again, and when we awoke only the smoking
embers of an _argul_ fire remained as evidence that they ever had
been there.

Mongolia, as we saw it in the spring, was very different from
Mongolia of the early autumn. The hills and plains stretched away in
limitless waves of brown untinged by the slightest trace of green,
and in shaded corners among rocks there were still patches of snow
or ice. Instead of resembling the grassy plains of Kansas or
Nebraska, now it was like a real desert and I had difficulty in
justifying to Yvette and Mac my glowing accounts of its potential
resources.

Moreover, the human life was just as disappointing as the lack of
vegetation, for we were "between seasons" on the trail. The winter
traffic was almost ended, and the camels would not be replaced by
cart caravans until the grass was long enough to provide adequate
food for oxen and horses. The _yurts_, which often are erected far
out upon the plains away from water when snow is on the ground, had
all been moved near the wells or to the summer pastures; and
sometimes we traveled a hundred miles without a glimpse of even a
solitary Mongol.

Ude had been left far behind, and we were bowling along on a road as
level as a floor, when we saw two wolves quietly watching us half a
mile away. We had agreed not to chase antelope again; but wolves
were fair game at any time. Moreover, we were particularly glad to
be able to check our records as to how fast a wolf can run when
conditions are in its favor. Coltman signaled Mac to await us with
the others, and we swung toward the animals which were trotting
slowly westward, now and then stopping to look back as though
reluctant to leave such an unusual exhibition as the car was giving
them. A few moments later, however, they decided that curiosity
might prove dangerous and began to run in earnest.

They separated almost immediately, and we raced after the larger of
the two, a huge fellow with rangy legs which carried him forward in
a long, swinging lope. The ground was perfect for the car, and the
speedometer registered forty miles an hour. He had a thousand-yard
start, but we gained rapidly, and I estimated that he never reached
a greater speed than thirty miles an hour. Charles was very anxious
to kill the brute from the motor with his .45 caliber automatic
pistol, and I promised not to shoot.

The wolf was running low to the ground, his head a little to one
side watching us with one bloodshot eye. He was giving us a great
race, but the odds were all against him, and finally we had him
right beside the motor. Leaning far out, Coltman fired quickly. The
bullet struck just behind the brute, and he swerved sharply, missing
the right front wheel by a scant six inches. Before Charles could
turn the car he had gained three hundred yards, but we reached him
again in little more than a mile. As Coltman was about to shoot a
second time, the wolf suddenly dropped from sight. Almost on the
instant the car plunged over a bank four feet in height, landed with
a tremendous shock--and kept on! Charles had seen the danger in a
flash, and had thrown his body against the wheel to hold it steady.
Had he not been an expert driver we should inevitably have turned
upside down and probably all would have been killed.

We stopped an instant to inspect the springs, but by a miracle not a
leaf was broken. The wolf halted, too, and we could see him standing
on a gentle rise with drooping head, his gray sides heaving. He
seemed to be "all in," but to our amazement he was off again like
the wind even before the car had started. During the last three
miles the ground had been changing rapidly, and we soon reached a
stony plain where there was imminent danger of smashing a front
wheel. The wolf was heading directly toward a rocky slope which lay
against the sky like the spiny back of some gigantic monster of the
past.

His strategy had almost won the race. For a moment the wolf rested
on the ridge, and I leaped out to shoot, but instantly he dropped
behind the bowlders. Leaving me to intercept the animal, Charles
swung behind the ridge only to run at full speed into a sandy
pocket. The motor ceased to throb, and the race was ended.

These wolves are sneaking carrion-feeders and as such I detest them,
but this one had "played the game." _For twelve long miles_ he had
kept doggedly at his work without a whimper or a cry of "kamerad."
The brute had outgeneraled us completely, had won by strategy and
magnificent endurance. Whatever he supposed the roaring car to be,
instinct told him that safety lay among the rocks and he led us
there as straight as an arrow's flight.

The animal seemed to take an almost human enjoyment in the way we
had been tricked, for he stood on a hillside half a mile away
watching our efforts to extricate the car. We were in a bad place,
and it was evident that the only method of escape was to remove all
the baggage which was tied to the running boards. Spreading our fur
sleeping bags upon the sand, we pushed and lifted the automobile to
firm ground after an hour of strenuous work. Hardly had we started
back to the road, when Charles suddenly clapped both hands to his
face yelling, "My Lord, I'm burning up. What is it? I'm all on
fire."

Mrs. Coltman pulled his hands away, revealing his face covered with
blotches and rising blisters. At the same moment Yvette and I felt a
shower of liquid fire stinging our hands and necks. We leaped out of
the car just as another blast swept back upon us. Then Charles
shouted, "I know. It's the Delco plant," and dived toward the front
mud guard. Sure enough, the cover had been displaced from one of the
batteries, and little pools of sulphuric acid had formed on the
leather casings. The wind was blowing half a gale, and each gust
showered us with drops of colorless liquid which bit like tiny,
living coals.

In less than ten seconds I had slashed the ropes and the batteries
were lying on the ground, but the acid had already done its work
most thoroughly. The duffle sacks containing all our field clothes
had received a liberal dose, and during the summer Yvette was kept
busy patching shirts and trousers. I never would have believed that
a little acid could go so far. Even garments in the very center of
the sacks would suddenly disintegrate when we put them on, and the
Hutukhtu and his electric plant were "blessed" many times before we
left Mongolia.

[Illustration: Mongol Horsemen on the Streets of Urga]

[Illustration: The Prison at Urga]

[Illustration: A Criminal in a Coffin with Hands Manacled]

When we reached the road, Mrs. Mac was sitting disconsolately in a
car beside the servants. We had been gone nearly three hours and the
poor girl was frantic with anxiety. Mac and Owen had followed our
tracks in another motor, and arrived thirty minutes later. Mac's
happy face was drawn and white.

"I wouldn't go through that experience again for all the money in
Mongolia," he said. "We followed your tracks and at every hill
expected to find you dead on the other side and the car upside down.
How on earth did you miss capsizing when you went over that bank?"

At Turin we found Mr. and Mrs. Mamen camped near the telegraph
station awaiting our arrival. The first cry was "Food! Food!" and
two loaves of Russian bread which they had brought from Urga
vanished in less than fifteen minutes. After taking several hundred
feet of "movie" film at the monastery, we ran on northward over a
road which was as smooth and hard as a billiard table. The Turin
plain was alive with game; marmots, antelope, hares, bustards,
geese, and cranes seemed to have concentrated there as though in a
vast zological garden, and we had some splendid shooting. But as
Yvette and I spent two glorious months on this same plain, I will
tell in future chapters how, in long morning horseback rides and
during silent starlit nights, we learned to know and love it.



CHAPTER VI

THE SACRED CITY OF THE LIVING BUDDHA

Far up in northern Mongolia, where the forests stretch in an
unbroken line to the Siberian frontier, lies Urga, the Sacred City
of the Living Buddha. The world has other sacred cities, but none
like this. It is a relic of medieval times overlaid with a veneer of
twentieth-century civilization; a city of violent contrasts and
glaring anachronisms. Motor cars pass camel caravans fresh from the
vast, lone spaces of the Gobi Desert; holy lamas, in robes of
flaming red or brilliant yellow, walk side by side with black-gowned
priests; and swarthy Mongol women, in the fantastic headdress of
their race, stare wonderingly at the latest fashions of their
Russian sisters.

We came to Urga from the south. All day we had been riding over
rolling, treeless uplands, and late in the afternoon we had halted
on the summit of a hill overlooking the Tola River valley. Fifteen
miles away lay Urga, asleep in the darkening shadow of the Bogdo-ol
(God's Mountain). An hour later the road led us to our first
surprise in Mai-ma-cheng, the Chinese quarter of the city. Years of
wandering in the strange corners of the world had left us totally
unprepared for what we saw. It seemed that here in Mongolia we had
discovered an American frontier outpost of the Indian fighting days.
Every house and shop was protected by high stockades of unpeeled
timbers, and there was hardly a trace of Oriental architecture save
where a temple roof gleamed above the palisades.

Before we were able to adjust our mental perspective we had passed
from colonial America into a hamlet of modern Russia. Gayly painted
cottages lined the road, and, unconsciously, I looked for a white
church with gilded cupolas. The church was not in sight, but its
place was taken by a huge red building of surpassing ugliness, the
Russian Consulate. It stands alone on the summit of a knoll, the
open plains stretching away behind it to the somber masses of the
northern forests. In its imposing proportions it is tangible
evidence of the Russian Colossus which not many years ago dominated
Urga and all that is left of the ancient empire of the Khans.

For two miles the road is bordered by Russian cottages; then it
debouches into a wide square which loses its distinctive character
and becomes an indescribable mixture of Russia, Mongolia, and China.
Palisaded compounds, gay with fluttering prayer flags, ornate
houses, felt-covered _yurts_, and Chinese shops mingle in a dizzying
chaos of conflicting personalities. Three great races have met in
Urga and each carries on, in this far corner of Mongolia, its own
customs and way of life. The Mongol _yurt_ has remained unchanged;
the Chinese shop, with its wooden counter and blue-gowned inmates,
is pure Chinese; and the ornate cottages proclaim themselves to be
only Russian.

But on the street my wife and I could never forget that we were in
Mongolia. We never tired of wandering through the narrow alleys,
with their tiny native shops, or of watching the ever-changing
crowds. Mongols in half a dozen different tribal dresses, Tibetan
pilgrims, Manchu Tartars, or camel drivers from far Turkestan drank
and ate and gambled with Chinese from civilized Peking.

The barbaric splendor of the native dress fairly makes one gasp for
breath. Besides gowns and sashes of dazzling brilliance, the men
wear on their heads all the types of covering one learned to know in
the pictures of ancient Cathay, from the high-peaked hat of yellow
and black--through the whole, strange gamut--to the helmet with
streaming peacock plumes. But were I to tell about them all I would
leave none of my poor descriptive phrases for the women.

It is hopeless to draw a word-picture of a Mongol woman. A
photograph will help, but to be appreciated she must be seen in all
her colors. To begin with the dressing of her hair. If all the women
of the Orient competed to produce a strange and fantastic type, I do
not believe that they could excel what the Mongol matrons have
developed by themselves.

Their hair is plaited over a frame into two enormous flat bands,
curved like the horns of a mountain sheep and renforced with bars
of wood or silver. Each horn ends in a silver plaque, studded with
bits of colored glass or stone, and supports a pendent braid like a
riding quirt. On her head, between the horns, she wears a silver cap
elaborately chased and flashing with "jewels." Surmounting this is a
"saucer" hat of black and yellow. Her skirt is of gorgeous brocade
or cloth, and the jacket is of like material with prominent "puffs"
upon the shoulders. She wears huge leather boots with upturned,
pointed toes, similar to those of the men, and when in full array
she has a whole portiere of beadwork suspended from the region of
her ears.

She is altogether satisfying to the lover of fantastic Oriental
costumes, except in the matter of footgear, and this slight
exception might be allowed, for she has so amply decorated every
other available part of her anatomy.

Moreover, the boots form a very necessary adjunct to her personal
equipment, besides providing a covering for her feet. They are many
sizes too large, of course, but they furnish ample space during the
bitter cold of winter for the addition of several pairs of socks,
varying in number according to the thermometer. During the summer
she often wears no socks at all, but their place is taken by an
assortment of small articles which cannot be carried conveniently on
her person. Her pipe and tobacco, a package of tea, or a wooden bowl
can easily be stuffed into the wide top boots, for pockets are an
unknown luxury even to the men.

In its kaleidoscopic mass of life and color the city is like a great
pageant on the stage of a theater, with the added fascination of
reality. But, somehow, I could never quite make myself believe that
it was real when a brilliant group of horsemen in pointed, yellow
hats and streaming, peacock feathers dashed down the street. It
seemed too impossible that I, a wandering naturalist of the drab,
prosaic twentieth century, and my American wife were really a
living, breathing part of this strange drama of the Orient.

But there was one point of contact which we had with this dream-life
of the Middle Ages. Yvette and I both love horses, and the way to a
Mongol's heart is through his pony. Once on horseback we began to
identify ourselves with the fascinating life around us. We lost the
uncomfortable sense of being merely spectators in the Urga
theatricals, and forgot that we had come to the holy city by means
of a very unromantic motor car.

We remained at Urga for ten days while preparations were under way
for our first trip to the plains, and returned to it often during
the summer. We came to know it well, and each time we rode down the
long street it seemed more wonderful that, in these days of
commerce, Urga, and in fact all Mongolia, could have existed
throughout the centuries with so little change.

There is, of course, no lack of modern influence in the sacred city,
but as yet it is merely a veneer which has been lightly superimposed
upon its ancient civilization, leaving almost untouched the basic
customs of its people. This has been due to the remoteness of
Mongolia. Until a few years ago, when motor cars first made their
way across the seven hundred miles of plains, the only access from
the south was by camel caravan, and the monotonous trip offered
little inducement to casual travelers. The Russians came to Urga
from the north and, until the recent war, their influence was
paramount along the border. They were by no means anxious to have
other foreigners exploit Mongolia, and they wished especially to
keep the country as a buffer-state between themselves and China.

Not only is Urga the capital of Mongolia and the only city of
considerable size in the entire country but it is also the residence
of the Hutukhtu, or Living Buddha, the head of both the Church and
the State. Across the valley his palaces nestle close against the
base of the Bogdo-ol (God's Mountain), which rises in wooded slopes
from the river to an elevation of eleven thousand feet above sea
level.

The Sacred Mountain is a vast game preserve, which is patrolled by
two thousand lamas, and every approach is guarded by a temple or a
camp of priests. Great herds of elk, roebuck, boar, and other
animals roam the forests, but to shoot within the sacred precincts
would mean almost certain death for the transgressor. Some years ago
several Russians from Urga made their way up the mountain during the
night and killed a bear. They were brought back in chains by a mob
of frenzied lamas. Although the hunters had been beaten nearly to
death, it required all the influence of the Russian diplomatic agent
to save what remained of their lives.

The Bogdo-ol extends for twenty-five miles along the Tola Valley,
shutting off Urga from the rolling plains to the south. Like a
gigantic guardian of the holy city at its base, it stands as the
only obstacle to the wireless station which is soon to be erected.

The Hutukhtu has three palaces on the banks of the Tola River. One
of them is a hideous thing, built in Russian style. The other two at
least have the virtue of native architecture. In the main palace the
central structure is white with gilded cupolas, and smaller
pavilions at the side have roofs of green. The whole is surrounded
by an eight-foot stockade of white posts trimmed with red.

The Hutukhtu seldom leaves his palace now, for he is old and sick
and almost blind. Many strange stories are told of the mysterious
"Living God" which tend to show him "as of the earth earthy." It is
said that in former days he sometimes left his "heaven" to revel
with convivial foreigners in Urga; but all this is gossip and we are
discussing a very saintly person. His passion for Occidental
trinkets and inventions is well known, however, and his palace is a
veritable storehouse for gramophones, typewriters, microscopes,
sewing machines, and a host of other things sold to him by Russian
traders and illustrated in picture catalogues sent from the
uttermost corners of the world. But like a child he soon tires of
his toys and throws them aside. He has a motor car, but he never
rides in it. It has been reported that his chief use for the
automobile is to attach a wire to its batteries and give his
ministers an electric shock; for all Mongols love a practical joke,
and the Hutukhtu is no exception.

Now his palace is wired for electricity, and a great arc light
illuminates the courtyard. One evening Mr. Lucander and Mr. Mamen,
who sold the electric plant to the Hutukhtu, were summoned to the
palace to receive payment. They witnessed a scene which to-day could
be possible only in Mongolia. Several thousand dollars in silver
were brought outside to their motor car, and the lama, who paid the
bills, insisted that they count it in his presence.

A great crowd of Mongols had gathered near the palace and at last a
long rope was let out from one of the buildings. Kneeling, the
Mongols reverently touched the rope, which was gently waggled from
the other end, supposedly by the Hutukhtu. A barbaric monotone of
chanted prayers arose from the kneeling suppliants, and the rope was
waggled again. Then the Mongols rode away, silent with awe at having
been blessed by the Living God. All this under a blazing electric
light beside an automobile at the foot of the Bogdo-ol!

The Hutukhtu seemed to feel that it became his station as a ruling
monarch to have a foreign house with foreign furniture. Of course he
never intended to live in it, but other kings had useless palaces
and why shouldn't he? Therefore, a Russian atrocity of red brick was
erected a half mile or so from his other dwellings. The furnishing
became a matter of moment, and Mr. Lucander, who was temporarily in
the employ of the Mongolian Government, was intrusted with the task
of attending to the intimate details. The selection of a bed was
most important, for even Living Buddhas have to sleep
sometimes--they cannot always be blessing adoring subjects or playing
jokes on their ministers of state. With considerable difficulty a
foreign bed was purchased and brought across the seven hundred miles
of plains and desert to the red brick palace on the banks of the Tola
River.

Mr. Lucander superintended its installation in the Hutukhtu's
boudoir and himself turned chambermaid. As this was the first time
he had ever made a bed for a Living God, he arranged the spotless
sheets and turned down the covers with the greatest care. When all
was done to his satisfaction he reported to one of the Hutukhtu's
ministers that the bed was ready. Two lamas, high dignitaries of the
church, were the inspection committee. They agreed that it _looked_
all right, but the question was, how did it _feel_? Mr. Lucander
waxed eloquent on the "springiness" of the springs, and assured them
that no bed could be better; that this was the bed _par excellence_
of all the beds in China. The lamas held a guttural consultation and
then announced that before the bed could be accepted it must be
tested. Therefore, without more ado, each lama in his dirty boots
and gown laid his unwashed self upon the bed, and bounced up and
down. The result was satisfactory--except to Lucander and the
sheets.

Although to foreign eyes and in the cold light of modernity the
Hutukhtu and his government cut a somewhat ridiculous figure, the
reverse of the picture is the pathetic death struggle of a once
glorious race. I have said that unaccustomed luxury was responsible
for the decline of the Mongol Empire, but the ruin of the race was
due to the Lama Church. Lamaism, which was introduced from Tibet,
gained its hold not long after the time of Kublai Khan's death in
1295. Previous to this the Mongols had been religious liberals, but
eventually Lamaism was made the religion of the state. It is a
branch of the Buddhist cult, and its teachings are against war and
violent death.

By custom one or more sons of every family are dedicated to the
priesthood, and as Lamaism requires its priests to be celibate, the
birth rate is low. To-day there are only a few million Mongols in a
country half as large as the United States (exclusive of Alaska), a
great proportion of the male population being lamas. With no
education, except in the books of their sect, they lead a lazy,
worthless existence, supported by the lay population and by the
money they extract by preying upon the superstitions of their
childlike brothers. Were Lamaism abolished there still would be hope
for Mongolia under a proper government, for the Mongols of to-day
are probably the equals of Genghis Khan's warriors in strength,
endurance, and virility.

The religion of Mongolia is like that of Tibet and the Dalai Lama of
Lhassa is the head of the entire Church. The Tashi Lama residing at
Tashilumpo, also in Tibet, ranks second. The Hutukhtu of Mongolia is
third in the Lama hierarchy, bearing the title _Cheptsundampa
Hutukhtu_ (Venerable Best Saint). According to ancient tradition,
the Hutukhtu never dies; his spirit simply reappears in the person
of some newly born infant and thus comes forth rembodied. The names
of infants, who have been selected as possible candidates for the
honor, are written upon slips of paper incased in rolls of paste and
deposited in a golden urn. The one which is drawn is hailed as the
new incarnation.

Some years ago the eyesight of the Hutukhtu began to fail, and a
great temple was erected as a sacrifice to appease the gods. It
stands on a hill at the western end of Urga, surrounded by the tiny
wooden dwellings of the priests. "The Lama City" it is called, for
only those in the service of the Church are allowed to live within
its sacred precincts. In the temple itself there is an eighty-foot
bronze image of Buddha standing on a golden lotus flower. The great
figure is heavily gilded, incrusted with precious stones, and draped
with silken cloths.

I was fortunate in being present one day when the temple was opened
to women and the faithful in the city. Somewhat doubtful as to my
reception, I followed the crowd as it filed through an outer
pavilion between a double row of kneeling lamas in high-peaked hats
and robes of flaming yellow. I carried my hat in my hand and tried
to wear a becoming expression of humility and reverence. It was
evidently successful, for I passed unhindered into the Presence. At
the entrance stood a priest who gave me, with the others, a few
drops of holy water from a filthy jug. Silent with awe, the people
bathed their faces with the precious fluid and prostrated themselves
before the gigantic figure standing on the golden lotus blossom, its
head lost in the shadows of the temple roof. They kissed its silken
draperies, soiled by the lips of other thousands, and each one
gathered a handful of sacred dirt from the temple floor. From niches
in the walls hundreds of tiny Buddhas gazed impassively on the
worshiping Mongols.

[Illustration: The Great Temple at Urga]

[Illustration: A Prayer Wheel and a Mongol Lama]

[Illustration: Lamas Calling the Gods at a Temple in Urga]

[Illustration: Mongol Praying at a Shrine in Urga]

The scene was intoxicating in its barbaric splendor. The women in
their fantastic headdresses and brilliant gowns; the blazing yellow
robes of the kneeling lamas; and the chorus of prayers which rose
and fell in a meaningless half-wild chant broken by the clash of
cymbals and the boom of drums--all this set the blood leaping in my
veins. There was a strange dizziness in my head, and I had an almost
overpowering desire to fall on my knees with the Mongols and join in
the chorus of adoration. The subtle smell of burning incense, the
brilliant colors, and the barbaric music were like an intoxicating
drink which inflamed the senses but dulled the brain. It was then
that I came nearest to understanding the religious fanaticism of the
East. Even with a background of twentieth-century civilization I
felt its sensuous power. What wonder that it has such a hold on a
simple, uneducated people, fed on superstition from earliest
childhood and the religious traditions of seven hundred years!

The service ended abruptly in a roar of sound. Rising to their feet,
the people streamed into the courtyard to whirl the prayer wheels
about the temple's base. Each wheel is a hollow cylinder of varying
size, standing on end, and embellished with Tibetan characters in
gold. The wheels are sometimes filled with thousands of slips of
paper upon which is written a prayer or a sacred thought, and each
revolution adds to the store of merit in the future life.

The Mongol goes farther still in accumulating virtue, and every
native house in Urga is gay with fluttering bits of cloth or paper
on which a prayer is written. Each time the little flag moves in the
wind it sends forth a supplication for the welfare of the Mongol's
spirit in the Buddhistic heaven. Not only are the prayer wheels
found about the temples, but they line the streets, and no visiting
Mongol need be deprived of trying the virtue of a new device without
going to a place of worship. He can give a whirl or two to half a
dozen within a hundred yards of where he buys his tea or sells his
sheep.

On every hand there is constant evidence that Urga is a sacred city.
It never can be forgotten even for a moment. The golden roofs of
scores of temples give back the sunlight, and the moaning chant of
praying lamas is always in the air. Even in the main street I have
seen the prostrate forms of ragged pilgrims who have journeyed far
to this Mecca of the lama faith. If they are entering the city for
the first time and crave exceeding virtue, they approach the great
temple on the hill by lying face down at every step and beating
their foreheads upon the ground. Wooden shrines of dazzling
whiteness stand in quiet streets or cluster by themselves behind the
temples. In front of each, raised slightly at one end, is a prayer
board worn black and smooth by the prostrated bodies of worshiping
Mongols.

Although the natives take such care for the repose of the spirit in
after life, they have a strong distaste for the body from which the
spirit has fled and they consider it a most undesirable thing to
have about the house. The stigma is imposed even upon the dying. In
Urga a family of Mongols had erected their _yurt_ in the courtyard
of one of our friends. During the summer the young wife became very
ill, and when her husband was convinced that she was about to die he
moved the poor creature bodily out of the _yurt_. She could die if
she wished, but it must not be inside his house.

The corpse itself is considered unclean and the abode of evil
spirits, and as such must be disposed of as quickly as possible.
Sometimes the whole family will pack up their _yurt_ and decamp at
once, leaving the body where it lies. More usually the corpse is
loaded upon a cart which is driven at high speed over a bit of rough
ground. The body drops off at some time during the journey, but the
driver does not dare look back until he is sure that the unwelcome
burden is no longer with him; otherwise he might anger the spirit
following the corpse and thereby cause himself and his family
unending trouble. Unlike the Chinese, who treat their dead with the
greatest respect and go to enormous expense in the burial, every
Mongol knows that his coffin will be the stomachs of dogs, wolves,
or birds. Indeed, the Chinese name for the raven is the "Mongol's
coffin."

The first day we camped in Urga, my wife and Mrs. MacCallie were
walking beside the river. Only a short distance from our tent they
discovered a dead Mongol who had just been dragged out of the city.
A pack of dogs were in the midst of their feast and the sight was
most unpleasant.

The dogs of Mongolia are savage almost beyond belief. They are huge
black fellows like the Tibetan mastiff, and their diet of dead human
flesh seems to have given them a contempt for living men. Every
Mongol family has one or more, and it is exceedingly dangerous for a
man to approach a _yurt_ or caravan unless he is on horseback or has
a pistol ready. In Urga itself you will probably be attacked if you
walk unarmed through the meat market at night. I have never visited
Constantinople, but if the Turkish city can boast of more dogs than
Urga, it must be an exceedingly disagreeable place in which to
dwell. Although the dogs live to a large extent upon human remains,
they are also fed by the lamas. Every day about four o'clock in the
afternoon you can see a cart being driven through the main street,
followed by scores of yelping dogs. On it are two or more dirty
lamas with a great barrel from which they ladle out refuse for the
dogs, for according to their religious beliefs they accumulate great
merit for themselves if they prolong the life of anything, be it
bird, beast, or insect.

In the river valley, just below the Lama City, numbers of dogs can
always be found, for the dead priests usually are thrown there to be
devoured. Dozens of white skulls lie about in the grass, but it is a
serious matter even to touch one. I very nearly got into trouble one
day by targeting my rifle upon a skull which lay two or three
hundred yards away from, our tent.

The customs of the Mongols are not all as gruesome as those I have
described, yet Urga is essentially a frontier city where life is
seen in the raw. Its natives are a hard-living race, virile beyond
compare. Children of the plains, they are accustomed to privation
and fatigue. Their law is the law of the northland:

     ". . . . That only the Strong shall thrive,
     That surely the Weak shall perish and only the Fit survive."

In the careless freedom of his magnificent horsemanship a Mongol
seems as much an untamed creature of the plains as does the eagle
itself which soars above his _yurt_. Independence breathes in every
movement; even in his rough good humor and in the barbaric splendor
of the native dress.

But the little matter of cleanliness is of no importance in his
scheme of life. When a meal has been eaten, the wooden bowl is
licked clean with the tongue; it is seldom washed. Every man and
woman usually carries through life the bodily dirt which has
accumulated in childhood, unless it is removed by some accident or
by the wear of years. One can be morally certain that it will never
be washed off by design or water. Perhaps the native is not
altogether to blame, for, except in the north, water is not
abundant. It can be found on the plains and in the Gobi Desert only
at wells and an occasional pond, and on the march it is too precious
to be wasted in the useless process of bathing. Moreover, from
September until May the bitter winds which sweep down from the
Siberian steppes furnish an unpleasant temperature in which to take
a bath.

The Mongol's food consists almost entirely of mutton, cheese, and
tea. Like all northern people, he needs an abundance of fat, and
sheep supply his wants. There is always more or less grease
distributed about his clothes and person, and when Mongols are _en
masse_ the odor of mutton and unwashed humanity is well-nigh
overpowering.

I must admit that in morality the Mongol is but little better off
than in personal cleanliness. A man may have only one lawful wife,
but may keep as many concubines as his means allow, all of whom live
with the members of the family in the single room of the _yurt_.
Adultery is openly practiced, apparently without prejudice to either
party, and polyandry is not unusual in the more remote parts of the
country.

The Mongol is _unmoral_ rather than _immoral_. He lives like an
untaught child of nature and the sense of modesty or decency, as we
conceive it, does not enter into his scheme of life. But the
operation of natural laws, which in the lower animals are successful
in maintaining the species, is fatally impaired by the loose family
relations which tend to spread disease. Unless Lamaism is abolished
I can see little hope for the rejuvenation of the race.

In writing of Urga's inhabitants and their way of life I am
neglecting the city itself. I have already told of the great temple
on the hill and its clustering lama houses which overlook and
dominate the river valley. Its ornate roof, flashing in the sun, can
be seen for many miles, like a religious beacon guiding the steps of
wandering pilgrims to the Mecca of their faith.

At the near end of the broad street below the Lama City is the tent
market, and just beyond it are the blacksmith shops where bridles,
cooking pots, tent pegs, and all the equipment essential to a
wandering life on the desert can be purchased in an hour--if you
have the price! Nothing is cheap in Urga, with the exception of
horses, and when we began to outfit for our trip on the plains we
received a shock similar to that which I had a month ago in New
York, when' paid twenty dollars for a pair of shoes. We ought to be
hardened to it now, but when we were being robbed in Urga by
profiteering Chinese, who sell flour at ten and twelve dollars a
sack and condensed milk at seventy-five cents a tin, we roared and
grumbled--and paid the price! I vowed I would never pay twenty
dollars for a pair of shoes at home, but roaring and grumbling is no
more effective in procuring shoes in New York than it was in
obtaining flour and milk in Urga.

We paid in Russian rubles, then worth three cents each. (In former
years a ruble equaled more than half a dollar.) Eggs were well-nigh
nonexistent, except those which had made their way up from China
over the long caravan trail and were guaranteed to be "addled"--or
whatever it is that sometimes makes an egg an unpleasant companion
at the breakfast table. Even those cost three rubles each! Only a
few Russians own chickens in Urga and their productions are
well-nigh "golden eggs," for grain is very scarce and it takes an
astounding number of rubles to buy a bushel.

Fortunately we had sent most of our supplies and equipment to Urga
by caravan during the winter, but there were a good many odds and
ends needed to fill our last requirements, and we came to know the
ins and outs of the sacred city intimately before we were ready to
leave for the plains. The Chinese shops were our real help, for in
Urga, as everywhere else in the Orient, the Chinese are the most
successful merchants. Some firms have accumulated considerable
wealth and the Chinaman does not hesitate to exact the last cent of
profit when trading with the Mongols.

At the eastern end of Urga's central street, which is made
picturesque by gayly painted prayer wheels and alive with a moving
throng of brilliant horsemen, are the Custom House and the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs. The former is at the far end of an enormous
compound filled with camel caravans or loaded carts. There is a more
or less useless wooden building, but the business is conducted in a
large _yurt_, hard against the compound wall. It was an
extraordinary contrast to see a modern filing-cabinet at one end and
a telephone box on the felt-covered framework of the _yurt_.

Not far beyond the Custom House is what I believe to be one of the
most horrible prisons in the world. Inside a double palisade of
unpeeled timbers is a space about ten feet square upon which open
the doors of small rooms, almost dark. In these dungeons are piled
wooden boxes, four feet long by two and one-half feet high. These
coffins are the prisoners' cells.

Some of the poor wretches have heavy chains about their necks and
both hands manacled together. They can neither sit erect nor lie at
full length. Their food, when the jailer remembers to give them any,
is pushed through a six-inch hole in the coffin's side. Some are
imprisoned here for only a few days or weeks; others for life, or
for many years. Sometimes they lose the use of their limbs, which
shrink and shrivel away. The agony of their cramped position is
beyond the power of words to describe. Even in winter, when the
temperature drops, as it sometimes does, to sixty degrees below
zero, they are given only a single sheepskin for covering. How it is
possible to live in indescribable filth, half-fed, well-nigh frozen
in winter, and suffering the tortures of the damned, is beyond my
ken--only a Mongol could live at all.

The prison is not a Mongol invention. It was built by the Manchus
and is an eloquent tribute to a knowledge of the fine arts of
cruelty that has never been surpassed.

I have given this description of the prison not to feed morbid
curiosity, but to show that Urga, even if it has a Custom House, a
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, motor cars, and telephones, is still at
heart a city of the Middle Ages.

In Urga we made a delightful and most valuable friend in the person
of Mr. F. A. Larsen. Most foreigners speak of him as "Larsen of
Mongolia" and indeed it is difficult for us to think of the country
without thinking of the man. Some thirty years ago he rode into
Mongolia and liked it. He liked it so much, in fact, that he dug a
well and built a house among the Tabool hills a hundred miles north
of Kalgan. At first he labored with his wife as a missionary, but
later he left that field to her and took up the work which he loved
best in all the world--the buying and selling of horses.

During his years of residence in Mongolia hundreds of thousands of
horses have passed under his appraising eyes and the Mongols respect
his judgment as they respect the man. I wish that I might write the
story of his life, for it is more interesting than any novel of
romance or adventure. In almost every recent event of importance to
the Mongols Mr. Larsen's name has figured. Time after time he has
been sent as an emissary of the Living Buddha to Peking when
misunderstandings or disturbances threatened the political peace of
Mongolia. Not only does he understand the psychology of the natives,
but he knows every hill and plain of their vast plateau as well as
do the desert nomads.

For some time he had been in charge of Andersen, Meyer's branch at
Urga with Mr. E. W. Olufsen and we made their house our
headquarters. Mr. Larsen immediately undertook to obtain an outfit
for our work upon the plains. He purchased two riding ponies for us
from Prince Tze Tze; he borrowed two carts with harness from a
Russian friend, and bought another; he loaned us a riding pony for
our Mongol, a cart horse of his own, and Mr. Olufsen contributed
another. He made our equipment a personal matter and he was never
too busy to assist us in the smallest details. Moreover, we could
spend hours listening to the tales of his early life, for his keen
sense of humor made him a delightful story-teller. One of the most
charming aspects of our wandering life is the friends we have made
in far corners of the world, and for none have we a more
affectionate regard than for "Larsen of Mongolia."

[Illustration: Mongol Women Beside a _Yurt_]

[Illustration: The Headdress of a Mongol Married Woman]

[Illustration: The Framework of a _Yurt_]

[Illustration: Mongol Women and a Lama]



CHAPTER VII

THE LONG TRAIL TO SAIN NOIN KHAN

Our arrival in Urga was in the most approved manner of the twentieth
century. We came in motor cars with much odor of gasoline and noise
of horns. When we left the sacred city we dropped back seven hundred
years and went as the Mongols traveled. Perhaps it was not quite as
in the days of Genghis Khan, for we had three high-wheeled carts of
a Russian model, but they were every bit as springless and
uncomfortable as the palanquins of the ancient emperors.

Of course, we ourselves did not ride in carts. They were driven by
our cook and the two Chinese taxidermists, each of whom sat on his
own particular mound of baggage with an air of resignation and
despondency. Their faces were very long indeed, for the sudden
transition from tie back seat of a motor car to a jolting cart did
not harmonize with their preconceived scheme of Mongolian life. But
they endured it manfully, and doubtless it added much to the store
of harrowing experience with which they could regale future
audiences in civilized Peking.

My wife and I were each mounted on a Mongol pony. Mine was called
"Kublai Khan" and he deserved the name. Later I shall have much to
tell of this wonderful horse, for I learned to love him as one loves
a friend who has endured the "ordeal by fire" and has not been found
wanting. My wife's chestnut stallion was a trifle smaller than
Kublai Khan and proved to be a tricky beast whom I could have shot
with pleasure. To this day she carries the marks of both his teeth
and hoofs, and we have no interest in his future life. Kublai Khan
has received the reward of a sunlit stable in Peking where carrots
are in abundance and sugar is not unknown.

Besides the three Chinese we had a little Mongol priest, a yellow
lama only eighteen years of age. We did not hire him for spiritual
reasons, but to be our guide and social mentor upon the plains. Of
course, we could not speak Mongol, but both my wife and I know some
Chinese and our cook-boy Lu was possessed of a species of "pidgin
English" which, by using a good deal of imagination, we could
understand at times. Since our lama spoke fluent Chinese, he acted
as interpreter with the Mongols, and we had no difficulty. It is
wonderful how much you can do with sign language when you really
have to, especially if the other fellow tries to understand. You
always can be sure that the Mongols will match your efforts in this
respect.

An interesting part of our equipment was a Mongol tent which Charles
Coltman had had made for us in Kalgan. This is an ingenious
adaptation of the ordinary wall tent, and is especially fitted for
work on the plains. No one should attempt to use any other kind.
From the ridgepole the sides curve down and out to the ground,
presenting a sloping surface to the wind at every angle. One corner
can be lifted to cause a draft through the door and an open fire can
be built in the tent without danger of suffocation from the smoke;
moreover, it can be erected by a single person in ten minutes. We
had an American wall tent also, but found it such a nuisance that we
used it only during bad weather. In the wind which always blows upon
the plains it flapped and fluttered to such a degree that we could
hardly sleep.

As every traveler knows, the natives of a country usually have
developed the best possible clothes and dwellings for the peculiar
conditions under which they live. Just as the Mongol felt-covered
_yurt_ and tent are all that can be desired, so do they know that
fur and leather are the only clothing to keep them warm during the
bitter winter months.

In the carts we had an ample supply of flour, bacon, coffee, tea,
sugar, and dried fruit. For meat, we depended upon our guns, of
course, and always had as much as could be used. Although we did not
travel _de luxe_, nevertheless we were entirely comfortable. When a
man boasts of the way in which he discards even necessaries in the
field, you can be morally certain that he has not done much real
traveling. "Roughing it" does not harmonize well with hard work. One
must accept enough discomforts under the best conditions without the
addition of any which can be avoided. Good health is the prime
requisite in the field. Without it you are lost. The only way in
which to keep fit and ready to give every ounce of physical and
mental energy to the problems of the day is to sleep comfortably,
eat wholesome food, and be properly clothed. It is not often, then,
that you will need a doctor. We have not as yet had a physician on
any of our expeditions, even though we have often been very many
miles from the nearest white men.

It never ceases to amuse me that the insurance companies always
cancel my accident policies as soon as I leave for the field. The
excuse is that I am not a "good risk," although they are ready
enough to renew them when I return to New York. And yet the average
person has a hundred times more chance of being killed or injured
right on Fifth Avenue than do we who live in the open, breathing
God's fresh air and sleeping under the stars. My friend Stefansson,
the Arctic explorer, often says that "adventures are a mark of
incompetence," and he is doubtless right. If a man goes into the
field with a knowledge of the country he is to visit and with a
proper equipment, he probably will have very few "adventures." If he
has not the knowledge and equipment he had much better remain at
home, for he will inevitably come to grief.

We learned from the Mongols that there was a wonderful shooting
ground three hundred miles southwest of Urga in the country
belonging to Sain Noin Khan. It was a region backed by mountains
fifteen thousand feet in height, inhabited by bighorn sheep and
ibex; and antelope were reported to be numerous upon the plains
which merged gradually into the sandy wastes of the western Gobi
where herds of wild horses (_Equus prjevalski_) and wild asses
(_Equus hemionus_) could be found.

Sain Noin, one of the four Mongolian kings, had died only a short
time earlier under suspicious circumstances, and his widow had just
visited the capital. Monsieur Orlow, the Russian Diplomatic Agent,
had written her regarding our prospective visit, and through him she
had extended to us a cordial invitation.

Our start from Urga was on a particularly beautiful day, even for
Mongolia. The golden roof of the great white temple on the hill
blazed with light, and the undulating crest of the Sacred Mountain
seemed so near that we imagined we could see the deer and boar in
its parklike openings. Our way led across the valley and over the
Tola River just below the palace of the Living God. We climbed a
long hill and emerged on a sloping plain where marmots were bobbing
in and out of their burrows like toy animals manipulated by a
string. Two great flocks of demoiselle cranes were daintily catching
grasshoppers not a hundred yards away. We wanted both the cranes for
dinner and the marmots for specimens, but we dared not shoot.
Although not actually upon sacred soil we were in close proximity to
the Bogdo-ol and a rifle shot might have brought a horde of
fanatical priests upon our heads. It is best to take no chances with
religious superstitions, for the lamas do not wait to argue when
they are once aroused.

The first day began most beautifully, but it ended badly as all
first days are apt to do. We met our "Waterloo" on a steep hill
shortly after tiffin, for two of the horses absolutely refused to
pull. The loads were evidently too heavy, and the outlook for the
future was not encouraging. An extract from my wife's journal tells
what we did that afternoon.

"It took two hours to negotiate the hill, and the men were almost
exhausted when the last load reached the summit Ever since tiffin
the sky had been growing darker and darker, and great masses of
black clouds gathered about the crest of the Bogdo-ol. Suddenly a
vivid flash of lightning cut the sky as though with a flaming knife,
and the rain came down in a furious beat of icy water. In five
minutes we were soaked and shivering with cold, so when at last we
reached the plain we turned off the road toward two Mongol _yurts_,
which rested beside the river a mile away like a pair of great white
birds.

"Roy and I galloped ahead over the soft, slushy grass, nearly
blinded by the rain, and hobbling our horses outside the nearest
_yurt_, went inside with only the formality of a shout. The room was
so dark that I could hardly see, and the heavy smoke from the open
fire burned and stung our eyes. On the floor sat a frowzy-looking
woman, blowing at the fire, and a yellow lama, his saucer hat hidden
under its waterproof covering--apparently he was a traveler like
ourselves.

"The frowzy lady smiled and motioned us to sit down on a low couch
beside the door. As we did so, I saw a small face peering out of a
big sheepskin coat and two black eyes staring at us unblinkingly. It
was a little Mongol girl whose nap had been disturbed by so many
visitors. She was rather a pretty little thing and so small--just a
little older than my own baby in Peking--that I wanted to play with
her. She was shy at first, but when I held out a picture
advertisement from a package of cigarettes she gradually edged
nearer, encouraged by her mother. Soon she was leaning on my knee.
Then without taking her black eyes from my face, she solemnly put
one finger in her mouth and jerked it out with a loud 'pop,' much to
her mother's gratification. But when she decided to crawl up into my
lap, my interest began to wane, for she exuded such a concentrated
'essence of Mongol' and rancid mutton fat that I was almost
suffocated.

"Our hostess was busy stirring a thick, white soup in a huge
caldron, and by the time the carts arrived every one was dipping in
with their wooden bowls. We begged to be excused, since we had
already had some experience with Mongol soup.

"The _yurt_ really was not a bad place when we became accustomed to
the bitter smoke and the combination of native odors. There were two
couches, about six inches from the ground, covered with sheepskins
and furs. Opposite the door stood a chest--rather a nice one--on top
of which was a tiny god with a candle burning before it, and a
photograph of the Hutukhtu."

We had dinner in the _yurt_, and the boys slept there while we used
our Mongol tent. There was no difficulty in erecting it even in the
wind and rain, but it would have been impossible to have put up the
American wall tent. Even though it was the fifth of June, there was
a sharp frost during the night, and we were thankful for our fur
sleeping bags.

Always in Mongolia after a heavy rain the air is crystal-clear, and
we had a delightful morning beside the river. Hundreds of demoiselle
cranes were feeding in the meadowlike valley bottom where the grass
was as green as emeralds. We saw two of the graceful birds standing
on a sand bar and, as we rode toward them, they showed not the
slightest sign of fear. When we were not more than twenty feet away
they walked slowly about in a circle, and the lama discovered two
spotted brown eggs almost under his pony's feet. There was no sign
of a nest, but the eggs were perfectly protected by their
resemblance to the stones.

Our way led close along the Tola River, and just before tiffin we
saw a line of camels coming diagonally toward us from behind a
distant hill. I wish you could have seen that caravan in all its
barbaric splendor as it wound across the vivid green plains. Three
lamas, dressed in gorgeous yellow robes, and two, in flaming red,
rode ahead on ponies. Then neck and neck, mounted on enormous
camels, came four men in gowns of rich maroon and a woman flashing
with jewels and silver. Behind them, nose to tail, was the long,
brown line of laden beasts. It was like a painting of the Middle
Ages--like a picture of the days of Kublai Khan, when the Mongol
court was the most splendid the world has ever seen. My wife and I
were fascinated, for this was the Mongolia of our dreams.

But our second day was not destined to be one of unalloyed
happiness, for just after luncheon we reached a bad stretch of road
alternating between jagged rocks and deep mud holes. The white
horse, which was so quickly exhausted the day before, gave up
absolutely when its cart became badly mired. Just then a red lama
appeared with four led ponies and said that one of his horses could
extricate the cart. He hitched a tiny brown animal between the
shafts, we all put our shoulders to the wheels, and in ten minutes
the load was on solid ground. We at once offered to trade horses,
and by giving a bonus of five dollars I became the possessor of the
brown pony.

But the story does not end there. Two months later when we had
returned to Urga a Mongol came to our camp in great excitement and
announced that we had one of his horses. He said that five animals
had been stolen from him and that the little brown pony for which I
had traded with the lama was one of them. His proof was
incontrovertible and according to the law of the country I was bound
to give back the animal and accept the loss. However, a half dozen
hard-riding Mongol soldiers at once took up the trail of the lama,
and the chances are that there will be one less thieving priest
before the incident is closed.

It is interesting to note how a similarity of conditions in western
America and in Mongolia has developed exactly the same attitude of
mutual protection in regard to horses. In both countries
horse-stealing is considered to be one of the worst crimes. It is
punishable by death in Mongolia or, what is infinitely worse, by a
life in one of the prison coffins. Moreover, the spirit of mutual
assistance is carried further, and several times during the summer
when our ponies had strayed miles from the tents they were brought
in by passing Mongols, or we were told where they could be found.

Our camp the second night was on a beautiful, grassy plateau beside
a tiny stream, a tributary of the river. We put out a line of traps
for small mammals, but in the morning were disappointed to find only
three meadow mice (_Microtus_). There were no fresh signs of
marmots, hares, or other animals along the river, and I began to
suspect what eventually proved to be true, viz., that the valley was
a favorite winter camping ground for Mongols, and that all the game
had been killed or driven far away. Indeed, we had hardly been
beyond sight of a _yurt_ during the entire two days, and great
flocks of sheep and goats were feeding on every grassy meadow.

But the Mongols considered cartridges too precious to waste on birds
and we saw many different species. The demoiselle cranes were
performing their mating dances all about us, and while one was
chasing a magpie it made the most amusing spectacle, as it hopped
and flapped after the little black and white bird which kept just
out of reach.

Mongolian skylarks were continually jumping out of the grass from
almost under our horses' feet to soar about our heads, flooding the
air with song. Along the sand banks of the river we saw many flocks
of swan geese (_Cygnopsis cygnoides_). They are splendid fellows
with a broad, brown band down the back of the neck, and are
especially interesting as being the ancestors of the Chinese
domestic geese. They were not afraid of horses, but left immediately
if a man on foot approached. I killed half a dozen by slipping off
my pony, when about two hundred yards away, and walking behind the
horses while Yvette rode boldly toward the flock, leading Kublai
Khan. Twice the birds fell across the river, and we had to swim for
them. My pony took to the water like a duck and when we had reached
the other bank would arch his neck as proudly as though he had
killed the bird himself. His keen interest in sport, his gentleness,
and his intelligence won my heart at once. He would let me shoot
from his back without the slightest fear, even though he had never
been used as a hunting pony by Prince Tze Tze from whom he had been
purchased.

In the ponds and among the long marsh grass we found the ruddy
sheldrake (_Casarca casarca_), and the crested lapwing (_Vanellus
vanellus_). They were like old friends, for we had met them first in
far Yn-nan and on the Burma frontier during the winter of 1916-17
whence they had gone to escape the northern cold; now they were on
their summer breeding grounds. The sheldrakes glowed like molten
gold when the sun found them in the grass, and we could not have
killed the beautiful birds even had we needed them for food.
Moreover, like the lapwings, they had a trusting simplicity, a way
of throwing themselves on one's mercy, which was infinitely
appealing. We often hunted for the eggs of both the sheldrakes and
lapwings. They must have been near by, we knew, for the old birds
would fly about our heads uttering agonizing calls, but we never
found the nests.

I killed four light-gray geese with yellow bills and legs and narrow
brown bars across the head, and a broad brown stripe down the back
of the neck. I could only identify the species as the bar-headed
goose of India (_Eulabeia indica_), which I was not aware ever
traveled so far north to breed. Later I found my identification to
be correct, and that the bird is an occasional visitor to Mongolia.
We saw only one specimen of the bean goose (_Anser fabalis_), the
common bird of China, which I had expected would be there in
thousands. There were a few mallards, redheads, and shoveler ducks,
and several bustards, besides half a dozen species of plover and
shore birds.

Except for these the trip would have been infinitely monotonous, for
we were bitterly disappointed in the lack of animal life. Moreover,
there was continual trouble with the carts, and on the third day I
had to buy an extra horse. Although one can purchase, a riding pony
at any _yurt_, cart animals are not easy to find, for the Mongols
use oxen or camels to draw most loads. The one we obtained had not
been in the shafts for more than two years and was badly frightened
when we brought him near the cart. It was a liberal education to see
our Mongol handle that horse! He first put a hobble on all four
legs, then he swung a rope about the hind quarters, trussed him
tightly, and swung him into the shafts. When the pony was properly
harnessed, he fastened the bridle to the rear of the other cart and
drove slowly ahead. At first the horse tried to kick and plunge, but
the hobbles held him fast and in fifteen minutes he settled to the
work. Then the Mongol removed the hobbles from the hind legs, and
later left the pony entirely free. He walked beside the animal for a
long time, and did not attempt to drive him from the cart for at
least an hour.

Although Mongols seem unnecessarily rough and almost brutal, I do
not believe that any people in the world can handle horses more
expertly. From earliest childhood their real home is the back of a
pony. Every year, in the spring, a children's race is held at Urga.
Boys and girls from four to six years old are tied on horses and
ride at full speed over a mile-long course. If a child falls off it
receives but scant sympathy and is strapped on again more tightly
than before. A Mongol has no respect whatever for a man or woman who
cannot ride, and nothing will win his regard as rapidly as expert
horsemanship. Strangely enough the Mongols seldom show affection for
their ponies, nor do they caress them in any way; consequently, the
animals do not enjoy being petted and are prone to kick and bite. My
pony, Kublai Khan, was an extraordinary exception to this rule and
was as affectionate and gentle as a kitten--but there are few
animals like Kublai Khan in Mongolia!

The ponies are small, of course, but they are strong almost beyond
belief, and can stand punishment that would kill an ordinary horse.
The Mongols seldom side except at a trot or a full gallop, and forty
to fifty miles a day is not an unusual journey. Moreover, the
animals are not fed grain; they must forage on the plains the year
round. During the winter, when the grass is dry and sparse, they
have poor feeding, but nevertheless are able to withstand the
extreme cold. They grow a coat of hair five or six inches in length,
and when Kublai Khan arrived in Peking after his long journey across
the plains he looked more like a grizzly bear than a horse. He had
changed so completely from the sleek, fine-limbed animal we had
known in Mongolia that my wife was almost certain he could not be
the same pony. He had to be taught to eat carrots, apples, and other
vegetables and would only sniff suspiciously at sugar. But in a very
short time he learned all the tastes of his city-bred companions.

Horses are cheap in Mongolia, but not extraordinarily so. In the
spring a fair pony can be purchased for from thirty to sixty dollars
(silver), and especially good ones bring as much as one hundred and
fifty dollars. In the fall when the Mongols are confronted with a
hard winter, which naturally exacts a certain toll from any herd,
ponies sell for about two-thirds of their spring price.

In Urga we had been led to believe that the entire trip to Sain Noin
Khan's village could be done in eight days and that game was
plentiful along the trail. We had already been on the road five
days, making an average of twenty-five miles at each stage, and the
natives assured us that it would require at least ten more days of
steady travel before we could possibly arrive at our destination; if
difficulties arose it might take even longer. Moreover, we had seen
only one hare and one marmot, and our traps had yielded virtually
nothing. It was perfectly evident that the entire valley had been
denuded of animal life by the Mongols, and there was little prospect
that conditions would change as long as we remained on such rich
grazing grounds.

It was hard to turn back and count the time lost, but it was
certainly the wisest course for we knew that there was good
collecting on the plains south of Urga, although the fauna would not
be as varied as at the place we had hoped to reach. The summer in
Mongolia is so short that every day must be made to count if results
which are worth the money invested are to be obtained.

Yvette and I were both very despondent that evening when we decided
it was necessary to turn back. It was one of those nights when I
wished with all my heart that we could sit in front of our own camp
fire without the thought of having to "make good" to any one but
ourselves. However, once the decision was made, we tried to forget
the past days and determined to make up for lost time in the future.

[Illustration: The Traffic Policeman on Urga's "Broadway"]

[Illustration: A Mongol Lama]

[Illustration: The Grasslands of Outer Mongolia]



CHAPTER VIII

THE LURE OF THE PLAINS

On Monday, June 16, we left Urga to go south along the old caravan
trail toward Kalgan. Only a few weeks earlier we had skimmed over
the rolling surface in motor cars, crossing in one day then as many
miles of plains as our own carts could do in ten. But it had another
meaning to us now, and the first night as we sat at dinner in front
of the tent and watched the afterglow fade from the sky behind the
pine-crowned ridge of the Bogdo-ol, we thanked God that for five
long months we could leave the twentieth century with its roar and
rush, and live as the Mongols live; we knew that the days of
discouragement had ended and that we could learn the secrets of the
desert life which are yielded up to but a chosen few.

Within twenty-five miles of Urga we had seen a dozen marmots and a
species of gopher (_Citellus_) that was new to us. The next
afternoon at two o'clock we climbed the last long slope from out the
Tola River drainage basin, and reached the plateau which stretches
in rolling waves of plain and desert to the frontier of China six
hundred miles away. Before us three pools of water flashed like
silver mirrors in the sunlight, and beyond them, tucked away in a
sheltered corner of the hills, stood a little temple surrounded by a
cluster of gray-white _yurts_.

Our Mongol learned that the next water was on the far side of a
plain thirty-five miles in width, so we camped beside the largest
pond. It was a beautiful spot with gently rolling hills on either
side, and in front, a level plain cut by the trail's white line.

As soon as the tents were up Yvette and I rode off, accompanied by
the lama, carrying a bag of traps. Within three hundred yards of
camp we found the first marmot. When it had disappeared underground
we carefully buried a steel trap at the entrance of the hole and
anchored it securely to an iron tent peg. With rocks and earth we
plugged all the other openings, for there are usually five or six
tunnels to every burrow. While the work was going on other marmots
were watching us curiously from half a dozen mounds, and we set nine
traps before it was time to return for dinner.

The two Chinese taxidermists had taken a hundred wooden traps for
smaller mammals, and before dark we inspected the places they had
found. Already one of them held a gray meadow vole (_Microtus_),
quite a different species from those which had been caught along the
Tola River, and Yvette discovered one of the larger traps dragged
halfway into a hole with a baby marmot safely caught. He was only
ten inches long and covered with soft yellow-white fur.

Shortly after daylight the next morning the lama came to our tent to
announce that there was a marmot in one of the traps. The boy was as
excited as a child of ten and had been up at dawn. When we were
dressed we followed the Mongol to the first burrow Where a fine
marmot was securely caught by the hind leg. A few yards away we had
another female, and the third trap was pulled far into the hole. A
huge male was at the other end, but he had twisted his body halfway
around a curve in the tunnel and by pulling with all our strength
the Mongol and I could not move him a single inch. Finally we gave
up and had to dig him out. He had given a wonderful exhibition of
strength for so small an animal.

It was especially gratifying to catch these marmots so easily, for
we had been told in Urga that the Mongols could not trap them. I was
at a loss to understand why, for they are closely related to the
"woodchucks" of America with which every country boy is familiar.
Later I learned the reason for the failure of the natives. In the
Urga market we saw some double-spring traps exactly like those of
ours, but when I came to examine them I found they had been made in
Russia, and the springs were so weak that they were almost useless.
These were the only steel traps which the Mongols had ever seen.

The marmots (_Marmota robusta_) were supposed to be responsible for
the spread of the pneumonia plague which swept into northern China
from Manchuria a few years ago; but I understand from physicians of
the Rockefeller Foundation in Peking, who especially investigated
the disease, that the animal's connection with it is by no means
satisfactorily determined.

The marmots hibernate during the winter, and retire to their burrows
early in October, not to emerge until April. When they first come
out in the spring their fur is bright yellow, and the animals
contrast beautifully with the green grass. After the middle of June
the yellow fur begins to slip off in patches, leaving exposed the
new coat, which is exceedingly short and is mouse-gray in color.
Then, of course, the skins are useless for commercial purposes. As
the summer progresses the fur grows until by September first it has
formed a long, soft coat of rich gray-brown which is of considerable
economic value. The skins are shipped to Europe and America and
during the past winter (1919-1920) were especially popular as
linings for winter coats.

We had an opportunity to see how quickly the demand in the great
cities reaches directly to the center of production thousands of
miles away. When we went to Urga in May prime marmot skins were
worth thirty cents each to the Mongols. Early in October, when we
returned, the hunters were selling the same skins for _one dollar
and twenty-five cents apiece_.

The natives always shoot the animals. When a Mongol has driven one
into its burrow, he lies quietly beside the hole waiting for the
marmot to appear. It may be twenty minutes or even an hour, but the
Oriental patience takes little note of time. Finally a yellow head
emerges and a pair of shining eyes glance quickly about in every
direction. Of course, they see the Mongol but he looks only like a
mound of earth, and the marmot raises itself a few inches higher.
The hunter lies as motionless as a log of wood until the animal is
well out of its burrow--then he shoots.

The Mongols take advantage of the marmot's curiosity in an amusing
and even more effective way. With a dogskin tied to his saddle the
native rides over the plain until he reaches a marmot colony. He
hobbles his pony at a distance of three or four hundred yards, gets
down on his hands and knees, and throws the dogskin over his
shoulders. He crawls slowly toward the nearest animal, now and then
stopping to bark and shake his head. In an instant, the marmot is
all attention. He jumps up and down whistling and barking, but never
venturing far from the opening of his burrow.

As the pseudo-dog advances there seems imminent danger that the fat
little body will explode from curiosity and excitement. But suddenly
the "dog" collapses in the strangest way and the marmot raises on
the very tips of his toes to see what it is all about. Then there is
a roar, a flash of fire and another skin is added to the millions
which have already been sent to the seacoast from outer Mongolia.

Mr. Mamen often spoke of an extraordinary dance which he had seen
the marmots perform, and when Mr. and Mrs. MacCallie returned to
Kalgan they saw it also. We were never fortunate enough to witness
it. Mac said that two marmots stood erect on their hind legs,
grasping each other with their front paws, and danced slowly about
exactly as though they were waltzing. He agreed with Mamen that it
was the most extraordinary and amusing thing he had ever seen an
animal do. I can well believe it, for the marmots have many curious
habits which would repay close study. The dance could hardly be a
mating performance since Mac saw it in late May and by that time the
young had already been born.

One morning at the "Marmot Camp," as we named the one where we first
began real collecting, Yvette saw six or seven young animals on top
of a mound in the green grass. We went there later with a gun and
found the little fellows playing like kittens, chasing each other
about and rolling over and over. It was hard to make myself bring
tragedy into their lives, but we needed them for specimens. A group
showing an entire marmot family would be interesting for the Museum;
especially so in view of their reported connection with the
pneumonic plague. We collected a dozen others before the summer was
over to show the complete transition from the first yellow coat to
the gray-brown of winter.

Like most rodents, the marmots grow rapidly and have so many young
in every litter that they will not soon be exterminated in Mongolia
unless the native hunters obtain American steel traps. Even then it
would take some years to make a really alarming impression upon the
millions which spread over all the plains of northern Mongolia and
Manchuria.

Since these marmots are a distinctly northern animal they are a
great help in determining the life zones of this part of Asia. We
found that their southern limit is at Turin, one hundred and
seventy-five miles from Urga. A few scattered families live there,
but the real marmot country begins about twenty-five miles farther
north.

The first hunting camp was eighty miles south of Urga, after we had
passed a succession of low hills and reached what, in prehistoric
times, was probably a great lake basin. When our tents were pitched
beside the well they seemed pitifully small in the vastness of the
plain. The land rolled in placid waves to the far horizon on every
hand. It was like a calm sea which is disturbed only by the lazy
progress of the ocean swell. Two _yurts_, like the sails of
hull-down ships, showed black against the sky-rim where it met the
earth. The plain itself seemed at first as flat as a table, for the
swells merged indistinguishably into a level whole. It was only when
approaching horsemen dipped for a little out of sight and the
depressions swallowed them up that we realized the unevenness of the
land.

Camp was hardly made before our Mongol neighbors began to pay their
formal calls. A picturesque fellow, blazing with color, would dash
up to our tent at a full gallop, slide off and hobble his pony
almost in a single motion. With a "_sai bina_" of greeting he would
squat in the door, produce his bottle of snuff and offer us a pinch.
There was a quiet dignity about these plains dwellers which was
wonderfully appealing. They were seldom unduly curious, and when we
indicated that the visit was at an end, they left at once.

Sometimes they brought bowls of curded milk, or great lumps of
cheese as presents, and in return we gave cigarettes or now and then
a cake of soap. Having been told in Urga that soap was especially
appreciated by the Mongols, I had brought a supply of red, blue, and
green cakes which had a scent even more wonderful than the color. I
can't imagine why they like it, for it is carefully put away and
never used.

Strangely enough, the Mongols have no word for "thank you" other
than "_sai_" (good), but when they wish to express approbation, and
usually when saying "good-by," they put up the thumb with the
fingers closed. In Yn-nan and eastern Tibet we noted the same
custom among the aboriginal tribesmen. I wonder if it is merely a
coincidence that in the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome
"thumbs up" meant mercy or approval!

The Mongols told us that in the rolling ground to the east of camp
we could surely find antelope. The first morning my wife and I went
out alone. We trotted steadily for an hour, making for the summit of
a rise seven or eight miles from camp. Yvette held the ponies, while
I sat down to sweep the country with my glasses. Directly in front
of us two small valleys converged into a larger one, and almost
immediately I discovered half a dozen orange-yellow forms in its
very bottom about two miles away. They were antelope quietly
feeding. In a few moments I made out two more close together, and
then four off at the right. After my wife had found them with her
glasses we sat down to plan the stalk.

It was obvious that we should try to cross the two small depressions
which debouched into the main valley and approach from behind the
hill crest nearest to the gazelles. We trotted slowly across the
gully while the antelope were in sight, and then swung around at
full gallop under the protection of the rising ground. We came up
just opposite to the herd and dismounted, but were fully six hundred
yards away. Suddenly one of those impulses which the hunter never
can explain sent them off like streaks of yellow light, but they
turned on the opposite hillside, slowed down, and moved uncertainly
up the valley.

Much to our surprise four of the animals detached themselves from
the others and crossed the depression in our direction. When we saw
that they were really coming we threw ourselves into the saddles and
galloped forward to cut them off. Instantly the antelope increased
their speed and literally flew up the hill slope. I shouted to
Yvette to watch the holes and shook the reins over Kublai Khan's
neck. Like a bullet he was off. I could feel his great muscles
flowing between my knees but otherwise there seemed hardly a motion
of his body in the long, smooth run. Standing straight up in the
stirrups, I glanced back at my wife who was sitting her chestnut
stallion as lightly as a butterfly. Hat gone, hair streaming, the
thrill of it all showed in every line of her body. She was running a
close second, almost at my side. I saw a marmot hole flash by. A
second death trap showed ahead and I swung Kublai Khan to the right.
Another and another followed, but the pony leaped them like a cat.
The beat of the fresh, clean air; the rush of the splendid horse;
the sight of the yellow forms fleeing like wind-blown ribbons across
our path--all this set me mad with excitement and a wild
exhilaration. Suddenly I realized that I was yelling like an Indian.
Yvette, too, was screaming in sheer delight.

The antelope were two hundred yards away when I tightened on the
reins. Kublai Khan stiffened and stopped in twenty yards. The first
shot was low and to the left, but it gave the range. At the second,
the rearmost animal stumbled, recovered itself, and ran wildly about
in a circle. I missed him twice, and he disappeared over a little
hill. Leaping into the saddle, we tore after the wounded animal. As
we thundered over the rise I heard my wife screaming frantically and
saw her pointing to the right where the antelope was lying down.
There was just one more shell in the gun and my pockets were empty.
I fired again at fifty yards and the gazelle rolled over, dead.

Leading our horses, Yvette and I walked up to the beautiful
orange-yellow form lying in the fresh, green grass. We both saw its
horns in the same instant and hugged each other in sheer delight. At
this time of the year the bucks are seldom with the does and then only
in the largest herds. This one was in full pelage, spotless and with
the hair unworn. Moreover, it had finer horns than any other which
we killed during the entire trip.

Kublai Khan looked at the dead animal and arched his neck, as much
as to say, "Yes, I ran him down. He had to quit when I really got
started." My wife held the pony's head, while I hoisted the antelope
to his back and strapped it behind the saddle. He watched the
proceedings interestedly but without a tremor, and even when I
mounted, he paid not the slightest attention to the head dangling on
his flanks. Thereby he showed that he was a very exceptional pony.
In the weeks which followed he proved it a hundred times, and I came
to love him as I have never loved another animal.

Yvette and I trotted slowly back to camp, thrilled with the
excitement of the wild ride. We began to realize that we were lucky
to have escaped without broken necks. The race taught us never again
to attempt to guide our ponies away from the marmot holes which
spotted the plains, for the horses could see them better than we
could and all their lives had known that they meant death.

That morning was our initiation into what is the finest sport we
have ever known. Hunting from a motor car is undeniably exciting at
first, but a real sportsman can never care for it very long. The
antelope does not have a chance against gas and steel and a
long-range rifle. On horseback the conditions are reversed. An
antelope can run twice as fast as the best horse living. It can see as
far as a man with prism binoculars. All the odds are in the animal's
favor except two--its fatal desire to run in a circle about the
pursuer, and the use of a high-power rifle. But even then an antelope
three hundred yards away, going at a speed of fifty miles an hour, is
not an easy target.

Of course, the majority of sportsmen will say that it cannot be done
with any certainty--until they go to Mongolia and do it themselves!
But, as I remarked in a previous chapter, conditions on the plains
are so unusual that shooting in other parts of the world is no
criterion. After one gets the range of an animal which, like the
antelope, has a smooth, even run, it is not so difficult to hit as
one might imagine. Practice is the great essential. At the beginning
I averaged one antelope to every eight cartridges, but later my
score was one to three.

We spent the afternoon at the new camp, setting traps and preparing
for the days to come--days in which we knew, from long experience,
we would have every waking moment full of work. The nights were
shortening rapidly, and the sun did not dip below the rim of our
vast, flat world until half past seven. Then there was an hour of
delightful, lingering twilight, when the stars began to show in tiny
points of light; by nine o'clock the brooding silence of the
Mongolian night had settled over all the plain.

Daylight came at four o'clock, and before the sun rose we had
finished breakfast. Our traps held five marmots and a beautiful
golden-yellow polecat (_Mustela_). I have never seen such an
incarnation of fury as this animal presented. It might have been the
original of the Chinese dragon, except for its small size. Its long,
slender body twisted and turned with incredible swiftness, every
hair was bristling, and its snarling little face emitted horrible
squeaks and spitting squeals. It seemed to be cursing us in every
language of the polecat tribe.

The fierce little beast was evidently bent upon a night raid on a
marmot family. We could imagine easily into what terror the tiny
demon would throw a nest of marmots comfortably snuggled together in
the bottom of their burrow. Probably it would be most interested in
the babies, and undoubtedly would destroy every one within a few
moments. All the weasel family, to which the polecat belongs, kill
for the pure joy of killing, and in China one such animal will
entirely depopulate a hen-roost in a single night.

At six o'clock Yvette and I left camp with the lama and rode
northeast. The plain swept away in long, grassy billows, and at
every rise I stopped for a moment to scan the horizon with my
glasses. Within half an hour we discovered a herd of antelope six or
seven hundred yards away. They saw us instantly and trotted
nervously about, staring in our direction.

Dropping behind the crest of the rise, I directed the lama to ride
toward them from behind while we swung about to cut them off. He was
hardly out of sight when we heard a snort and a rush of pounding
hoofs. With a shout to Yvette I loosened the reins over Kublai
Khan's neck, and he shot forward like a yellow arrow. Yvette was
close beside me, leaning far over her pony's neck. We headed
diagonally toward the herd, and they gradually swung toward us as
though drawn by a powerful magnet. On we went, down into a hollow
and up again on its slope. We could not spare the horses for the
antelope were already over the crest and lost to view, but our
horses took the hill at full speed, and from the summit we could see
the herd fairly on our course, three hundred yards away.

Kublai Khan braced himself like a polo pony when he felt the
pressure of my knees, and I opened fire almost under his nose. At
the crack of the rifle there was a spurt of brown dust near the
leading animal. "High and to the left," shouted Yvette, and I held a
little lower for the second trial. The antelope dropped like a piece
of white paper, shot through the neck. I paced the distance and
found it to be three hundred and sixty-seven yards. It seemed a very
long shot then, but later I found that almost none of my antelope
were killed at less than three hundred yards.

As I came up to Kublai Khan with the dead animal, I accidentally
struck him on the flank with my rifle in such a way that he was
badly frightened. He galloped off, and Yvette had a hard chase
before he finally allowed her to catch him. Had I been alone I
should probably have had a long walk to camp.

It taught us never to hunt without a companion, if it could possibly
be avoided. If your horse runs away, you may be left many miles from
water, with rather serious consequences. I think there is nothing
which makes me feel more helpless than to be alone on the plains
without a horse. For miles and miles there is only the rolling
grassland or the wide sweep of desert, with never a house or tree to
break the low horizon. It seems so futile to walk, your own legs
carry you so slowly and such a pitifully short distance, in these
vast spaces.

To be left alone in a small boat on the open sea is exactly similar.
You feel so very, very small and you realize then what an
insignificant part of nature you really are. I have felt it, too,
amid vast mountains when I have been toiling up a peak which
stretched thousands of feet above me with others rearing their
majestic forms on every side. Then, nature seems almost alive and
full of menace; something to be fought and conquered by brain and
will.

Early in our work upon the plains we learned how easy it is to lose
one's way. The vast sea of land seems absolutely flat, but in
reality it is a gently rolling surface full of slopes and hollows,
every one of which looks exactly like the others. But after a time
we developed a _land sense_. The Mongols all have it to an
extraordinary degree. We could drop an antelope on the plain and
leave it for an hour or more. With a quick glance about our lama
would fix the place in his mind, and dash off on a chase which might
carry us back and forth toward every point of the compass. When it
was time to return, he would head his pony unerringly for that
single spot on the plain and take us back as straight as the flight
of an arrow.

At first it gave him unceasing enjoyment when we became completely
lost, but in a very short time we learned to note the position of
the sun, the character of the ground, and the direction of the wind.
Then we began to have more confidence in ourselves. But only by
years of training can one hope even to approximate the Mongols. They
have been born and reared upon the plains, and have the inheritance
of unknown generations whose very life depended upon their ability
to come and go at will. To them, the hills, the sun, the grass, the
sand--all have become the street signs of the desert.

In the afternoon of our second day I remained at the tents to
measure specimens, while Yvette and the lama rode out toward the
scene of our morning hunt to locate an antelope which one of our
Mongol neighbors had reported dead not far away. At six o'clock they
came galloping back with the news that there were two gazelles
within three miles of camp. I saddled Kublai Khan and left with them
at once. Twenty minutes of steady trotting brought us to the summit
of a slope, where we could see the animals quietly feeding not five
hundred yards away.

It was just possible to stalk them for a long-range shot, and
slipping off my pony, I flattened out upon the ground. On hands and
knees, and sometimes at full length, I wormed my way through the
grass for one hundred yards. The cover ended there and I must shoot
or come into full view of the gazelles. They were so far away that
the front sight entirely covered the animals, and to increase the
difficulty, both were walking slowly. The first bullet struck low
and to the right, but the antelope only jumped and stared fixedly in
my direction; at the second shot one went down. The other animal
dashed away like a flash of lightning, and although I sent a bullet
after its white rump-patch, the shot was hopeless.

The antelope I had knocked over got to its feet and tried
desperately to get away, but the lama leaped on his pony and caught
it by one hind leg. My automatic pistol was not in working order,
and it was necessary to knife the poor beast--a job which I hate
like poison. The lama walked away a dozen yards and covered his face
with the sleeve of his gown. It is against the laws of the Buddhist
religion to take the life of any animal or even to see it done,
although there are no restrictions as to eating flesh.

With a blanket the Mongol made a seat for himself on his pony's
haunches, and threw the antelope across his saddle; then we trotted
back to camp into the painted western sky, with the cool night air
bringing to us the scent of newborn grass. We would not have
exchanged our lot that night with any one on earth.



CHAPTER IX

HUNTING ON THE TURIN PLAIN

After ten days we left the "Antelope Camp" to visit the Turin plain
where we had seen much game on the way to Urga. One by one our
Mongol neighbors rode up to say "farewell," and each to present us
with a silk scarf as a token of friendship and good will. We
received an invitation to stop for tea at the _yurt_ of an old man
who had manifested an especial interest in us, but it was a very
dirty _yurt_, and the preparations for tea were so uninviting that
we managed to exit gracefully before it was finally served.

Yvette photographed the entire family including half a dozen dogs, a
calf, and two babies, much to their enjoyment. When we rode off, our
hands were heaped with cheese and slabs of mutton which were
discarded as soon as we had dropped behind a slope. Mongol
hospitality is whole-souled and generously given, but one must be
very hungry to enjoy their food.

A day and a half of traveling was uneventful, for herds of sheep and
horses indicated the presence of _yurts_ among the hills. Game will
seldom remain where there are Mongols. Although it was the first of
July, we found a heavy coating of ice on the lower sides of a deep
well. The water was about fifteen feet below the level of the plain,
and the ice would probably remain all summer. Moreover, it is said
that the wells never freeze even during the coldest winter.

[Illustration: Mongol Herdsmen Carrying Lassos]

[Illustration: A Lone Camp on the Desert]

The changes of temperature were more rapid than in any other country
in which I have ever hunted. It was hot during the day--about 85
Fahrenheit--but the instant the sun disappeared we needed coats, and
our fur sleeping bags were always acceptable at night.

We were one hundred and fifty miles from Urga and were still going
slowly south, when we had our next real hunting camp. Great bands of
antelope were working northward from the Gobi Desert to the better
grazing on the grass-covered Turin plain. We encountered the main
herd one evening about six o'clock, and it was a sight which made us
gasp for breath. We were shifting camp, and my wife and I were
trotting along parallel to the carts which moved slowly over the
trail a mile away. We had had a delightful, as well as a profitable,
day. Yvette had been busy with her camera, while I picked up an
antelope, a bustard, three hares, and half a dozen marmots. We were
loafing in our saddles, when suddenly we caught sight of the cook
standing on his cart frantically signaling us to come.

In ten seconds our ponies were flying toward the caravan, while we
mentally reviewed every accident which possibly could have happened
to the boys. Lu met us twenty yards from the trail, trembling with
excitement and totally incoherent. He could only point to the south
and stammer, "Too many antelope. Over there. Too many, too many."

I slipped off Kublai Khan's back and put up the glasses. Certainly
there were animals, but I thought they must be sheep or ponies.
Hundreds were in sight, feeding in one vast herd and in many smaller
groups. Then I remembered that the nearest well was twenty miles
away; therefore they could not be horses. I looked again and knew
they must be antelope--not in hundreds, but in thousands.

Mr. Larsen in Urga had told us of herds like this, but we had never
hoped to see one. Yet there before us, as far as the eye could
reach, was a yellow mass of moving forms. In a moment Yvette and I
had left the carts. There was no possibility of concealment, and our
only chance was to run the herd. When we were perhaps half a mile
away the nearest animals threw up their heads and began to stamp and
run about, only to stop again and stare at us. We kept on very
slowly, edging nearer every moment. Suddenly they decided that we
were really dangerous, and the herd strung out like a regiment of
yellow-coated soldiers.

Kublai Khan had seen the antelope almost as soon as we left the
carts, and although he had already traveled forty miles that day,
was nervously champing the bit with head up and ears erect. When at
last I gave him the word, he gathered himself for one terrific
spring; down went his head and he dashed forward with every ounce of
strength behind his flying legs. His run was the long, smooth stride
of a thoroughbred, and it sent the blood surging through my veins in
a wild thrill of exhilaration. Once only I glanced back at Yvette.
She was almost at my side. Her hair had loosened and was flying back
like a veil behind her head. Tense with excitement, eyes shining,
she was heedless of everything save those skimming yellow forms
before us. It was useless to look for holes; ere I had seen one we
were over or around it. With head low down and muzzle out, my pony
needed not the slightest touch to guide him. He knew where we were
going and the part he had to play.

More than a thousand antelope were running diagonally across our
course. It was a sight to stir the gods; a thing to give one's life
to see. But when we were almost near enough to shoot, the herd
suddenly swerved heading directly away from us. In an instant we
were enveloped in a whirling cloud of dust through which the flying
animals were dimly visible like phantom figures.

Khan was choked, and his hot breath rasped sharply through his
nostrils, but he plunged on and on into that yellow cloud. Standing
in my stirrups, I fired six times at the wraithlike forms ahead as
fast as I could work the lever of my rifle. Of course, it was
useless, but just the same I had to shoot.

In about a mile the great herd slowed down and stopped. We could see
hundreds of animals on every side, in groups of fifty or one
hundred. Probably two thousand antelope were in sight at once and
many more were beyond the sky rim to the west. We gave the ponies
ten minutes' rest, and had another run as unsuccessful as the first.
Then a third and fourth. The antelope, for some strange reason,
would not cross our path, but always turned straight away before we
were near enough to shoot.

After an hour we returned to the carts--for Yvette was exhausted
from excitement--and the lama took her place. We left the great herd
and turned southward, parallel to the road. A mile away we found
more antelope; at least a thousand were scattered about feeding
quietly like those we had driven north. It seemed as though all the
gazelles in Mongolia had concentrated on those few miles of plain.

The ponies were so exhausted that we decided to try a drive and
leave the main herd in peace. When we were concealed from view in
the bottom of a land swell I slipped off and hobbled Kublai Khan.
The poor fellow was so tired he could only stand with drooping head,
even though there was rich grass beneath his feet. I sent the lama
in a long circle to get behind the herd, while I crawled a few
hundred yards away and snuggled out of sight into an old wolf den.

I watched the antelope for fifteen minutes through my binoculars.
They were feeding in a vast semicircle, entirely unconscious of my
presence. Suddenly every head went up; they stared fixedly toward
the west for a moment, and were off like the wind. About five
hundred drew together in a compact mass, but a dozen smaller herds
scattered wildly, running in every direction except toward me. They
had seen the lama before he had succeeded in completely encircling
them, and the drive was ruined.

The Mongols kill great numbers of antelope in just this way. When a
herd has been located, a line of men will conceal themselves at
distances of two or three hundred yards, while as many more get
behind the animals and drive them toward the waiting hunters.
Sometimes the gazelles almost step on the natives and become so
frightened that they run the gantlet of the entire firing line.

I did not have the heart to race again with our exhausted ponies,
and we turned back toward the carts which were out of sight. Scores
of antelope, singly or in pairs, were visible on the sky line and as
we rode to the summit of a little rise a herd of fifty appeared
almost below us. We paid no attention to them; but suddenly my pony
stopped with ears erect. He looked back at me, as much as to say,
"Don't you see those antelope?" and began gently pulling at the
reins. I could feel him tremble with eagerness and excitement.
"Well, old chap," I said, "if you are as keen as all that, let's
give them a run."

With a magnificent burst of speed Kublai Khan launched himself
toward the fleeing animals. They circled beautifully, straight into
the eye of the sun, which lay like a great red ball upon the surface
of the plain. We were still three hundred yards away and gaining
rapidly, but I had to shoot; in a moment I would be blinded by the
sun. As the flame leaped from my rifle, we heard the dull thud of a
bullet on flesh; at the second shot, another; and then a third.
"_Sanga_" (three), yelled the lama, and dashed forward, wild with
excitement.

The three gazelles lay almost the same distance apart, each one shot
through the body. It was interesting evidence that the actions of
working the lever on my rifle and aiming, and the speed of the
antelope, varied only by a fraction of a second. In this case, brain
and eye and hand had functioned perfectly. Needless to say, I do not
always shoot like that.

Two of the antelope were yearling bucks, and one was a large doe.
The lama took the female on his pony, and I strapped the other two
on Kublai Khan. When I mounted, he was carrying a weight of two
hundred and eighty-five pounds, yet he kept his steady "homeward
trot" without a break until we reached the carts six miles away.

Yvette had been afraid that we would miss the well in the gathering
darkness, and had made a "dry camp" beside the road. We had only a
little water for ourselves; but my pony's nose was full of dust, and
I knew how parched his throat must be, so I divided my supply with
him. The poor animal was so frightened by the dish, that he would
only snort and back away; even when I wet his nose with some of the
precious fluid, he would not drink.

The success of our work upon the plains depended largely upon Kublai
Khan. He was only a Mongol pony but he was just as great, in his own
way, as was the Tartar emperor whose name he bore. Whatever it was I
asked him to do, he gave his very best. Can you wonder that I loved
him?

Within a fortnight from the time I bought him, he became a perfect
hunting pony. The secret of it all was that he liked the game as
well as I. Traveling with the carts bored him exceedingly but the
instant game appeared he was all excitement. Often he saw antelope
before we did. We might be trotting slowly over the plains, when
suddenly he would jerk his head erect and begin to pull gently at
the reins; when I reached down to take my rifle from the holster, he
would tremble with eagerness to be off.

In hunting antelope you should ride slowly toward the animals,
drawing nearer gradually. They are so accustomed to see Mongols that
they will not begin to run in earnest until a man is five or six
hundred yards away, but when they are really off, a fast pony is the
great essential. The time to stop is just before the animals cross
your path, and then you must stop quickly. Kublai Khan learned the
trick immediately. As soon as he felt the pressure of my knees, and
the slightest pull upon the reins, his whole body stiffened and he
braced himself like a polo pony. It made not the slightest
difference to him whether I shot from his back or directly under his
nose; he stood quietly watching the running antelope. When we were
riding across the plains if a bird ran along the ground or a hare
jumped out of the grass, he was after it like a dog. Often I would
find myself flying toward an animal which I had never seen.

Yvette's pony was useless for hunting antelope. Instead of heading
diagonally toward the gazelles he would always attempt to follow the
herd. When it was time to stop I would have to put all my strength
upon the reins and the horse would come into a slow gallop and then
a trot. Seconds of valuable time would be wasted before I could
begin to shoot. I tried half a dozen other ponies, but they were all
as bad. They did not have the intelligence or the love of hunting
which made Kublai Khan so valuable.

The morning after encountering the great herd, we camped at a well
thirty miles north of the Turin monastery. Three or four _yurts_
were scattered about, and a caravan of two hundred and fifty camels
was resting in a little hollow. From the door of our tent we could
see the blue summit of the Turin "mountain," and have in the
foreground a perpetual moving picture of camels, horses, sheep,
goats, and cattle seeking water. All day long hundreds of animals
crowded about the well, while one or two Mongols filled the troughs
by means of wooden buckets.

The life about the wells is always interesting, for they are points
of concentration for all wanderers on the plains. Just as we pitch
our tents and make ourselves at home, so great caravans arrive with
tired, laden camels. The huge brutes kneel, while their packs are
being removed, and then stand in a long line, patiently waiting
until their turn comes to drink. Groups of ten or twelve crowd about
the trough; then, majestically swinging their padded feet, they move
slowly to one side, kneel upon the ground, and sleepily chew their
cuds until all the herd has joined them. Sometimes the caravans wait
for several days to rest their animals and let them feed; sometimes
they vanish in the first gray light of dawn.

On the Turin plain we had a delightful glimpse of antelope babyhood.
The great herds which we had found were largely composed of does
just ready to drop their young, and after a few days they scattered
widely into groups of from five to twenty.

We found the first baby antelope on June 27. We had seen half a
dozen females circling restlessly about, and suspected that their
fawns could not be far away. Sure enough, our Mongol discovered one
of the little fellows in the flattest part of the flat plain. It was
lying motionless with its neck stretched out, just where its mother
had told it to remain when she saw us riding toward her.

Yvette called to me, "Oh, please, please catch it. We can raise it
on milk and it will make such an adorable pet."

"Oh, yes," I said, "let's do. I'll get it for you. You can put it in
your hat till we go back to camp."

In blissful ignorance I dismounted and slowly went toward the little
animal. There was not the slightest motion until I tossed my
outspread shooting coat. Then I saw a flash of brown, a bobbing
white rump-patch, and a tiny thing, no larger than a rabbit,
speeding over the plain. The baby was somewhat "wobbly," to be sure,
for this was probably the first time it had ever tried its slender
legs, but after a few hundred yards it ran as steadily as its
mother.

I was so surprised that for a moment I simply stared. Then I leaped
into the saddle and Kublai Khan rushed after the diminutive brown
fawn. It was a good half mile before we had the little chap under
the pony's nose but the race was by no means ended. Mewing with
fright, it swerved sharply to the left and ere we could swing about,
it had gained a hundred yards. Again and again we were almost on it,
but every time it dodged and got away. After half an hour my pony
was gasping for breath, and I changed to Yvette's chestnut stallion.
The Mongol joined me and we had another run, but we might have been
pursuing a streak of shifting sunlight. Finally we had to give it up
and watch the tiny thing bob away toward its mother, who was
circling about in the distance.

There were half a dozen other fawns upon the plain, but they all
treated us alike and my wife's hat was empty when we returned to
camp. These antelope probably had been born not more than two or
three days before we found them. Later, after a chase of more than a
mile, we caught one which was only a few hours old. Had it not
injured itself when dodging between my pony's legs we could never
have secured it at all.

Thus, nature, in the great scheme of life, has provided for her
antelope children by blessing them with undreamed-of speed and only
during the first days of babyhood could a wolf catch them on the
open plain. When they are from two to three weeks old they run with
the females in herds of six or eight, and you cannot imagine what a
pretty sight it is to see the little fellows skimming like tiny,
brown chickens beside their mothers. There is another wonderful
provision for their life upon the desert. The digestive fluids of
the stomach act upon the starch in the vegetation which they eat so
that it forms sufficient water for their needs. Therefore, some
species never drink.

The antelope choose a flat plain on which to give birth to their
young in order to be well away from the wolves which are their
greatest enemy; and the fawns are taught to lie absolutely
motionless upon the ground until they know that they have been
discovered. Apparently they are all born during the last days of
June and in the first week of July. The great herds which we
encountered were probably moving northward both to obtain better
grazing and to drop their young on the Turin plain. During this
period the old bucks go off singly into the rolling ground, and the
herds are composed only of does and yearling males. It was always
possible to tell at once if an antelope had a fawn upon the plain,
for she would run in a wide circle around the spot and refuse to be
driven away.

We encountered only two species of antelope between Kalgan and Urga.
The one of which I have been writing, and with which we became best
acquainted, was the Mongolian gazelle (_Gazella gutturosa_). The
other was the goitered gazelle (_Gazella subgutturosa_). In the
western Gobi, the Prjevalski gazelle (_Gazella prjevalski_) is more
abundant than the other species, but it never reaches the region
which we visited.

The goitered antelope is seldom found on the rolling meadowlands
between Kalgan and Panj-kiang on the south, or between Turin and
Urga on the north, according to our observations; they keep almost
entirely to the Gobi Desert between Panj-kiang and Turin, and we
often saw them among the "nigger heads" or tussocks in the most arid
parts. The Mongolian gazelle, on the other hand, is most abundant in
the grasslands both north and south of the Gobi, but nevertheless
has a continuous distribution across the plateau between Kalgan and
Urga.

On our northward trip in May, when we took motion pictures of the
antelope on the Panj-kiang plain, both, species were present, but
the goitered gazelle far outnumbered the others--which is unusual in
that locality. It could always be distinguished from the Mongolian
gazelle because of its smaller size, darker coloring, and the long
tail which it carries straight up in the air at right angles to the
back; the Mongolian antelope has an exceedingly short tail. The
horns of both species differ considerably in shape and can easily be
distinguished.

During the winter these antelope develop a coat of very long, soft
hair which is light brown-gray in color strongly tinged with rufous
on the head and face. Its summer pelage is a beautiful orange-fawn.
The winter coat is shed during May, and the animals lose their short
summer hair in late August and early September.

Both species have a greatly enlarged larynx from which the goitered
gazelle derives its name. What purpose this extraordinary character
serves the animal, I am at a loss to know. Certainly it is not to
give them an exceptional "voice"; for, when wounded, I have heard
them make only a deep-toned roar which was by no means loud.
Specimens of the larynx which we preserved in formalin are now being
prepared for anatomical study.

Although the two species inhabit the same locality, they keep well
by themselves and only once, on the Panj-kiang plain, did we see
them running together in the same herd; then it was probably because
they were frightened by the car. I doubt if they ever interbreed
except in rare instances.

The fact that these animals can develop such an extraordinary speed
was a great surprise to me, as undoubtedly it will be to most
naturalists. Had we not been able to determine it accurately by
means of the speedometers on our cars, I should never have dared
state that they could reach fifty-five or sixty miles an hour. It
must be remembered that the animals can continue at such a high
speed only for a short distance--perhaps half a mile--and will never
exert themselves to the utmost unless they are thoroughly
frightened. They would run just fast enough to keep well away from
the cars or our horses, and it was only when we began to shoot that
they showed what they were capable of doing. When the bullets began
to scatter about them they would seem to flatten several inches and
run at such a terrific speed that their legs appeared only as a
blur.

Of course, they have developed their fleetness as a protection from
enemies. Their greatest menace is the wolves, but since we
demonstrated that these animals cannot travel faster than about
thirty miles an hour, the antelope are perfectly safe unless they
happen to be caught off their guard. To prevent just this, the
gazelles usually keep well out on the open plains and avoid rocks or
abrupt hills which would furnish cover for a wolf. Of course, they
often go into the rolling ground, but it is usually where the slopes
are gradual and where they have sufficient space in which to protect
themselves.

The gazelles have a perfectly smooth, even run when going at full
speed. I have often seen them bound along when not particularly
frightened, but never when they are really trying to get away in the
shortest possible time. The front limbs, as in the case of a deer,
act largely as supports and the real motive power comes from the
hind legs. If an antelope has only a front leg broken no living
horse can catch it, but with a shattered hind limb my pony could run
it down. I have already related (see [the end of chapter IV]) how,
in a car, we pursued an antelope with both front legs broken below
the knee; even then, it reached a speed of fifteen miles an hour.
The Mongolian plains are firm and hard with no bushes or other
obstructions and, consequently, are especially favorable for rapid
travel.

The cheetah, or hunting leopard of Africa, has the reputation of
being able to reach a greater speed, for a short dash, than any
other animal in that country, and I have often wondered how it would
fare in a race with a Mongolian gazelle. Unfortunately, conditions
in Africa are not favorable for the use of automobiles in hunting,
and no actual facts as to the speed of the cheetah are available.

At this camp, and during the journey back to Urga, we had many
glorious hunts. Each one held its own individual fascination, for no
two were just alike; and every day we learned something new about
the life history of the Mongolian antelope. We needed specimens for
a group in the new Hall of Asiatic Life in the American Museum of
Natural History, as well as a series representing all ages of both
males and females for scientific study. When we returned to Urga we
had them all.

The hunting of large game was only one aspect of our work. We
usually returned to camp about two o'clock in the afternoon. As soon
as tiffin had been eaten my wife worked at her photography, while I
busied myself over the almost innumerable details of the preparation
and cataloguing of our specimens. About six o'clock, accompanied by
the two Chinese taxidermists carrying bags of traps, we would leave
the tents. Sometimes we would walk several miles, meanwhile
carefully scrutinizing the ground for holes or traces of mammal
workings, and set eighty or one hundred traps. We might find a
colony of meadow voles (_Microtus_) where dozens of "runways"
betrayed their presence, or discover the burrows of the desert
hamster (_Cricetulus_). These little fellows, not larger than a
house mouse, have their tiny feet enveloped in soft fur, like the
slippers of an Eskimo baby.

As we walked back to camp in the late afternoon, we often saw a
kangaroo rat (_Alactaga mongolica_?) jumping across the plain, and
when we had driven it into a hole, we could be sure to catch it in a
trap the following morning. They are gentle little creatures, with
huge, round eyes, long, delicate ears, and tails tufted at the end
like the feathers on an arrow's shaft. The name expresses exactly
what they are like--diminutive kangaroos--but, of course, they are
rodents and not marsupials. During the glacial period of the early
Pleistocene, about one hundred thousand years ago, we know from
fossil remains that there were great invasions into Europe of most
of these types of tiny mammals, which we were catching during this
delightful summer on the Mongolian plains.

After two months we regretfully turned back toward Urga. Our summer
was to be divided between the plains on the south and the forests to
the north of the sacred city, and the first half of the work had
been completed. The results had been very satisfactory, and our
boxes contained five hundred specimens; but our hearts were sad. The
wide sweep of the limitless, grassy sea, the glorious morning rides,
and the magic of the starlit nights had filled our blood. Even the
lure of the unknown forests could not make us glad to go, for the
plains had claimed us as their own.



CHAPTER X

AN ADVENTURE IN THE LAMA CITY

Late on a July afternoon my wife and I stood disconsolately in the
middle of the road on the outskirts of Urga. We had halted because
the road had ended abruptly in a muddy river. Moreover, the river
was where it had no right to be, for we had traveled that road
before and had found only a tiny trickle across its dusty surface.
We were disconsolate because we wished to camp that night in Urga,
and there were abundant signs that it could not be done.

At least the Mongols thought so, and we had learned that what a
Mongol does not do had best "give us pause." They had accepted the
river with Oriental philosophy and had made their camps accordingly.
Already a score of tents dotted the hillside, and _argul_ fires were
smoking in the doorways. Hundreds of carts were drawn up in an
orderly array while a regiment of oxen wandered about the hillside
or sleepily chewed their cuds beside the loads. In a few hours or
days or weeks the river would disappear, and then they would go on
to Urga. Meanwhile, why worry?

Two adventurous spirits, with a hundred camels, tried to cross. We
watched the huge beasts step majestically into the water, only to
huddle together in a yellow-brown mass when they reached midstream.
All their dignity fled, and they became merely frightened mountains
of flesh amid a chaos of writhing necks and wildly switching tails.

But stranger still was a motor car standing on a partly submerged
island between two branches of the torrent. We learned later that
its owners had successfully navigated the first stream and entered
the second. A flooded carburetor had resulted, and ere the car was
again in running order, the water had risen sufficiently to maroon
them on the island.

My wife and I both lack the philosophical nature of the Oriental,
and it was a sore trial to camp within rifle shot of Urga. But we
did not dare leave our carts, loaded with precious specimens, to the
care of servants and the curiosity of an ever increasing horde of
Mongols.

For a well-nigh rainless month we had been hunting upon the plains,
while only one hundred and fifty miles away Urga had had an almost
daily deluge. In midsummer heavy rain-clouds roll southward to burst
against "God's Mountain," which rears its green-clad summits five
thousand feet above the valley. Then it is only a matter of hours
before every streamlet becomes a swollen torrent. But they subside
as quickly as they rise, and the particular river which barred our
road had lost its menace before the sun had risen in a cloudless
morning sky. All the valley seemed in motion. We joined the motley
throng of camels, carts, and horsemen; and even the motor car
coughed and wheezed its way to Urga under the stimulus of two
bearded Russians.

[Illustration: Tibetan Yaks]

[Illustration: Our Caravan Crossing the Terelche River]

We made our camp on a beautiful bit of lawn within a few hundred
yards of one of the most interesting of all the Urga temples. It is
known to the foreigners in the city as "God's Brother's House," for
it was the residence of the Hutukhtu's late brother. The temple
presents a bewildering collection of carved gables and gayly painted
pavilions flaunting almost every color of the rainbow. Yvette and I
were consumed with curiosity to see what was contained within the
high palisades which surround the buildings. We knew it would be
impossible to obtain permission for her to go inside, and one
evening as we were walking along the walls we glanced through the
open gate. No one was in sight and from somewhere in the far
interior we heard the moaning chant of many voices. Evidently the
lamas were at their evening prayers.

We stepped inside the door intending only to take a rapid look. The
entire court was deserted, so we slipped through the second gate and
stood just at the entrance of the main temple, the "holy of holies."
In the half darkness we could see the tiny points of yellow light
where candles burned before the altar. On either side was a double
row of kneeling lamas, their wailing chant broken by the clash of
cymbals and the boom of drums.

Beside the temple were a hideous foreign house and an enormous
_yurt_--evidently the former residences of "God's Brother"; in the
corners of the compound were ornamental pavilions painted green and
red. Except for these, the court was empty.

Suddenly there was a stir among the lamas, and we dashed away like
frightened rabbits, dodging behind the gateposts until we were safe
outside. It was not until some days later that we learned what a
really dangerous thing it was to do, for the temple is one of the
holiest in Urga, and in it women are never allowed. Had a Mongol
seen us, our camp would have been stormed by a mob of frenzied
lamas.

A few days later we had an experience which demonstrates how quickly
trouble can arise where religious superstitions are involved. My
wife and I had put the motion picture camera in one of the carts
and, with our Mongol driving, went to the summit of the hill above
the Lama City to film a panoramic view of Urga. We, ourselves, were
on horseback. After getting the pictures, we drove down the main
street of the city and stopped before the largest temple, which I
had photographed several times before.

As soon as the motion picture machine was in position, about five
hundred lamas gathered about us. It was a good-natured crowd,
however, and we had almost finished work, when a "black Mongol"
(i.e., one with a queue, not a lama) pushed his way among the
priests and began to harangue them violently. In a few moments he
boldly grasped me by the arm. Fearing that trouble might arise, I
smiled and said, in Chinese, that we were going away. The Mongol
began to gesticulate wildly and attempted to pull me with him
farther into the crowd of lamas, who also were becoming excited. I
was being separated from Yvette, and realizing that it would be
dangerous to get far away from her, I suddenly wrenched my arm free
and threw the Mongol to the ground; then I rushed through the line
of lamas surrounding Yvette, and we backed up against the cart.

I had an automatic pistol in my pocket, but it would have been
suicide to shoot except as a last resort. When a Mongol "starts
anything" he is sure to finish it; he is not like a Chinese, who
will usually run at the first shot. We stood for at least three
minutes with that wall of scowling brutes ten feet away. They were
undecided what to do and were only waiting for a leader to close in.
One huge beast over six feet tall was just in front of me, and as I
stood with my fingers crooked about the trigger of the automatic in
my pocket, I thought, "If you start, I'm going to nail you anyway."

Just at this moment of indecision our Mongol leaped on my wife's
pony, shouted that he was going to Duke Loobitsan Yangsen, an
influential friend of ours, and dashed away. Instantly attention
turned from us to him. Fifty men were on horseback in a second,
flying after him at full speed. I climbed into the cart, shouting to
Yvette to jump on Kublai Khan and run; but she would not leave me.
At full speed we dashed down the hill, the plunging horses
scattering lamas right and left. Our young Mongol had saved us from
a situation which momentarily might have become critical.

At the entrance to the main street of Urga below the Lama City I saw
the black Mongol who had started all the trouble. I jumped to the
ground, seized him by the collar and one leg, and attempted to throw
him into the cart for I had a little matter to settle with him which
could best be done to my satisfaction where we were without
spectators.

At the same instant a burly policeman, wearing a saber fully five
feet long, seized my horse by the bridle. At the black Mongol's
instigation (who, I discovered, was himself a policeman) he had been
waiting to arrest us when we came into the city. Since it was
impossible to learn what had caused the trouble, Yvette rode to
Andersen, Meyer's compound to bring back Mr. Olufsen and his
interpreter. She found the whole courtyard swarming with excited
Mongol soldiers. A few moments later Olufsen arrived, and we were
allowed to return to his house on parole. Then he visited the
Foreign Minister, who telephoned the police that we were not to be
molested further.

We could never satisfactorily determine what it was all about for
every one had a different story. The most plausible explanation was
as follows. Russians had been rather _persona non grata_ in Urga
since the collapse of the empire, and the Mongols were ready to
annoy them whenever it was possible to do so and "get away with it."
All foreigners are supposed to be Russians by the average native
and, when the black Mongol discovered us using a strange machine, he
thought it an excellent opportunity to "show off" before the lamas.
Therefore, he told them that we were casting a spell over the great
temple by means of the motion picture camera which I was swinging up
and down and from side to side. This may not be the true explanation
of the trouble but at least it was the one which sounded most
logical to us.

Our lama had been caught in the city, and it was with difficulty
that we were able to obtain his release. The police charged that he
tried to escape when they ordered him to stop. He related how they
had slapped his face and pulled his ears before they allowed him to
leave the jail, and he was a very much frightened young man when he
appeared at Andersen, Meyer's compound. However, he was delighted to
have escaped so easily, as he had had excellent prospects of
spending a week or two in one of the prison coffins.

The whole performance had the gravest possibilities, and we were
exceedingly fortunate in not having been seriously injured or
killed. By playing upon their superstitions, the black Mongol had so
inflamed the lamas that they were ready for anything. I should never
have allowed them to separate me from my wife and, to prevent it,
probably would have had to use my pistol. Had I begun to shoot,
death for both of us would have been inevitable.

The day that we arrived in Urga from the plains we found the city
flooded. The great square in front of the horse market was a
chocolate-colored lake; a brown torrent was rushing down the main
street; and every alley was two feet deep in water, or a mass of
liquid mud. It was impossible to walk without wading to the knees
and even our horses floundered and slipped about, covering us with
mud and water. The river valley, too, presented quite a different
picture than when we had seen it last. Instead of open sweeps of
grassland dotted with an occasional _yurt_, now there were hundreds
of felt dwellings interspersed with tents of white or blue. It was
like the encampment of a great army, or a collection of huge
beehives.

Most of the inhabitants were Mongols from the city who had pitched
their _yurts_ in the valley for the summer. Although the wealthiest
natives seem to feel that for the reception of guests their
"position" demands a foreign house, they seldom live in it. Duke
Loobitsan Yangsen had completed his mansion the previous winter. It
was built in Russian style and furnished with an assortment of
hideous rugs and foreign furniture which made one shiver. But in the
yard behind the house his _yurt_ was pitched, and there he lived in
comfort.

Loobitsan was a splendid fellow--one of the best types of Mongol
aristocrats. From the crown of his finely molded head to the toes of
his pointed boots, he was every inch a duke. I saw him in his house
one day reclining on a _kang_ while he received half a dozen minor
officials, and his manner of quiet dignity and conscious power
recalled accounts of the Mongol princes as Marco Polo saw them.
Loobitsan liked foreigners and one could always find a cordial
reception in his compound. He spoke excellent Chinese and was
unusually well educated for a Mongol.

Although he was in charge of the customs station at Mai-ma-cheng and
owned considerable property, which he rented to the Chinese for
vegetable gardens, his chief wealth was in horses. In Mongolia a
man's worldly goods are always measured in horses, not in dollars.
When he needs cash he sells a pony or two and buys more if he has
any surplus silver. His bank is the open plain; his herdsmen are the
guardians of his riches.

Loobitsan's wife, the duchess, was a nice-looking woman who seemed
rather bored with life. She rejoiced in two gorgeous strings of
pearls, which on state occasions hung from the silver-encrusted
horns of hair to the shoulders of her brocade jacket. Ordinarily she
appeared in a loose red gown and hardly looked regal.

Loobitsan had never seen Peking and was anxious to go. When General
Hsu Shu-tseng made his _coup d'tat_ in November, 1919, Mr. Larsen
and Loobitsan came to the capital as representatives of the
Hutukhtu, and one day, as my wife was stepping into a millinery shop
on Rue Marco Polo, she met him dressed in all his Mongol splendor.
But he was so closely chaperoned by Chinese officials that he could
not enjoy himself. I saw Larsen not long afterward, and he told me
that Loobitsan was already pining for the open plains of his beloved
Mongolia.

In mid-July, when we returned to Urga, the vegetable season was at
its height. The Chinese, of course, do all the gardening; and the
splendid radishes, beets, onions, carrots, cabbages, and beans,
which were brought every day to market, showed the wonderful
possibilities for development along these lines. North of the
Bogdo-ol there is a superabundance of rain and vegetables grow so
rapidly in the rich soil that they are deliciously sweet and tender,
besides being of enormous size. While we were on the plains our food
had consisted largely of meat and we reveled in the change of diet. We
wished often for fruit but that is nonexistent in Mongolia except a
few, hard, watery pears, which merchants import from China.

Mr. Larsen was in Kalgan for the summer but Mr. Olufsen turned over
his house and compound for our work. I am afraid we bothered him
unmercifully, yet his good nature was unfailing and he was never too
busy to assist us in the innumerable details of packing the
specimens we had obtained upon the plains and in preparing for our
trip into the forests north of Urga. It is men like him who make
possible scientific work in remote corners of the world.



CHAPTER XI

MONGOLS AT HOME

Until we left Urga the second time Mongolia, to us, had meant only
the Gobi Desert and the boundless, rolling plains. When we set our
faces northward we found it was also a land of mountains and rivers,
of somber forests and gorgeous flowers.

A new forest always thrills me mightily. Be it of stately northern
pines, or a jungle tangle in the tropics, it is so filled with
glamour and mystery that I enter it with a delightful feeling of
expectation. There is so much that is concealed from view, it is so
pregnant with the possibility of surprises, that I am as excited as
a child on Christmas morning.

The forests of Mongolia were by no means disappointing. We entered
them just north of Urga where the Siberian life zone touches the
plains of the central Asian region and the beginnings of a new fauna
are sharply delineated by the limit of the trees. We had learned
that the Terelche River would offer a fruitful collecting ground. It
was only forty miles from Urga and the first day's trip was a
delight. We traveled northward up a branch valley enclosed by
forested hills and carpeted with flowers. Never had we seen such
flowers! Acre after acre of bluebells, forget-me-nots, daisies,
buttercups, and cowslips converted the entire valley into a vast
"old-fashioned garden," radiantly beautiful. Our camp that night was
at the base of a mountain called the Da Wat which shut us off from
the Terelche River.

On the second morning, instead of golden sunshine, we awoke to a
cloud-hung sky and floods of rain. It was one of those days when
everything goes wrong; when with all your heart you wish to swear
but instead you must smile and smile and keep on smiling. No one
wished to break camp in the icy deluge but there were three marshes
between us and the Terelche River which were bad enough in dry
weather. A few hours of rain would make them impassable, perhaps for
weeks.

My wife and I look back upon that day and the next as one of our
few, real hardships. After eight hours of killing work, wet to the
skin and almost frozen, we crossed the first dangerous swamp and
reached the summit of the mountain. Then the cart, with our most
valuable possessions, plunged off the road on a sharp descent and
crashed into the forest below. Chen and I escaped death by a miracle
and the other Chinese taxidermist, who was safe and sound, promptly
had hysterics. It was discouraging, to say the least. We camped in
the gathering darkness on a forty-five-degree slope in mud twelve
inches deep. Next day we gathered up our scattered belongings,
repaired the cart, and reached the river.

I had a letter from Duke Loobitsan Yangsen to a famous old hunter,
Tserin Dorchy by name, who lives in the Terelche region. He had been
gone for six days on a shooting trip when we came into the beautiful
valley where his _yurts_ were pitched, but his wife welcomed us with
true Mongolian hospitality and a great dish of cheese. Our own camp
we made just within the forest, a mile away.

For a week we hunted and trapped in the vicinity, awaiting Tserin
Dorchy's return. Our arrival created a deal of interest among the
half dozen families in the neighborhood and, after each had paid a
formal call, they apparently agreed that we were worthy of being
accepted into their community. We were nomads for the time, just as
they are for life. We had pitched our tents in the forest, as they
had erected their _yurts_ in the meadow beside the river. When the
biting winds of winter swept the valley a few months later they
would move, with all their sheep and goats, to the shelter of the
hills and we would seek new hunting grounds.

Before many days we learned all the valley gossip. Moreover, we
furnished some ourselves for one of the Chinese taxidermists became
enamored of a Mongol maiden. There were two of them, to be exact,
and they both "vamped" him persistently. The toilettes with which
they sought to allure him were marvels of brilliance, and one of
them actually scrubbed her little face and hands with a cake of my
yellow, scented soap.

Our servant's affections finally centered upon the younger girl and
I smiled paternally upon the wild-wood romance. Every night, with a
sheepish grin, Chen would ask to borrow a pony. The responsibilities
of chaperones sat lightly on our shoulders, but sometimes my wife
and I would wander out to the edge of the forest and watch him to
the bottom of the hill. Usually his love was waiting and they would
ride off together in the moonlight--where, we never asked!

But we could not blame the boy--those Mongolian nights were made for
lovers. The marvel of them we hold among our dearest memories.
Wherever we may be, the fragrance of pine trees or the sodden smell
of a marsh carries us back in thought to the beautiful valley and
fills our hearts again with the glory of its clear, white nights.

No matter what the day brought forth, we looked forward to the
evening hunt as best of all. As we trotted our ponies homeward
through the fresh, damp air we could watch the shadows deepen in the
somber masses of the forest, and on the hilltops see the ragged
silhouettes of sentinel pines against the rose glow of the sky.
Ribbons of mist, weaving in and out above the stream, clothed the
alders in ghostly silver and rested in billowy masses upon the
marshes. Ere the moon had risen, the stars blazed out like tiny
lanterns in the sky. Over all the valley there was peace
unutterable.

We were soon admitted to a delightful comradeship with the Mongols
of our valley. We shared their joys and sorrows and nursed their
minor ills. First to seek our aid was the wife of the absent hunter,
Tserin Dorchy. She rode up one day with a two-year-old baby on her
arm. The little fellow was badly infected with eczema, and for three
weeks one of the lamas in the tiny temple near their _yurt_ had been
mumbling prayers and incantations in his behalf, without avail.
Fortunately, I had a supply of zinc ointment and before the month
was ended the baby was almost well. Then came the lama with his bill
"for services rendered," and Tserin Dorchy contributed one hundred
dollars to his priestly pocket. A young Mongol with a dislocated
shoulder was my next patient, and when I had made him whole, the
lama again claimed the credit and collected fifty dollars as the
honorarium for his prayers. And so it continued throughout the
summer; I made the cures, and the priest got the fees.

Although the Mongols all admitted the efficacy of my foreign
medicines, nevertheless they could not bring themselves to dispense
with the lama and his prayers. Superstition was too strong and fear
that the priest would send an army of evil spirits flocking to their
_yurts_ if they offended him brought the money, albeit reluctantly,
from their pockets. Although the lama never proposed a partnership
arrangement, as I thought he might have done, he spent much time
about our camp and often brought us bowls of curded milk and cheese.
He was a wandering priest and not a permanent resident of the
valley, but he evidently decided not to wander any farther until we,
too, should leave, for he was with us until the very end.

A short time after we had made our camp near the Terelche River a
messenger arrived from Urga with a huge package of mail. In it was a
copy of _Harper's Magazine_ containing an account of a flying visit
which I had made to Urga in September, 1918. [Footnote: _Harper's
Magazine_, June, 1919, pp. 1-16.] There were half a dozen Mongols
near our tent, among whom was Madame Tserin Dorchy. I explained the
pictures to the hunter's wife in my best Chinese while Yvette "stood
by" with her camera and watched results. Although the woman had
visited Urga several times she had never seen a photograph or a
magazine and for ten minutes there was no reaction. Then she
recognized a Mongol headdress similar to her own. With a gasp of
astonishment she pointed it out to the others and burst into a
perfect torrent of guttural expletives. A picture of the great
temple at Urga, where she once had gone to worship, brought forth
another volume of Mongolian adjectives and her friends literally
fought for places in the front row.

News travels quickly in Mongolia and during the next week men and
women rode in from _yurts_ forty or fifty miles away to see that
magazine. I will venture to say that no American publication ever
received more appreciation or had a more picturesque audience than
did that copy of _Harper's_.

The absent Tserin Dorchy returned one day when I was riding down the
valley with his wife. We saw two strange figures on horseback
emerging from the forest, each with a Russian rifle on his back.
Their saddles were strung about with half-dried skins--four roebuck,
a musk deer, a moose, and a pair of elk antlers in the "velvet."

[Illustration: Our Base Camp at the Edge of the Forest]

[Illustration: The Mongol Village of the Terelche Valley]

With a joyful shout Madame Tserin Dorchy rode toward her husband. He
was an oldish man, of fifty-five years perhaps, with a face as dried
and weather-beaten as the leather beneath his saddle. He may have
been glad to see her but his only sign of greeting was a "_sai_" and
a nod to include us both. Her pleasure was undisguised, however, and
as we rode down the valley she chattered volubly between the
business of driving in half a dozen horses and a herd of sheep. The
monosyllabic replies of the hunter were delivered in a voice which
seemed to come from a long way off or from out of the earth beneath
his pony's feet. I was interested to see what greeting there would
be upon his arrival at the _yurt_. His two daughters and his infant
son were waiting at the door but he had not even a word for them and
only a pat upon the head for the baby.

All Mongols are independent but Tserin Dorchy was an extreme in
every way. He ruled the half dozen families in the valley like an
autocrat. What he commanded was done without a question. I was
anxious to get away and announced that we would start the day after
his arrival. "No," said he, "we will go two days from now." Argument
was of no avail. So far as he was concerned, the matter was closed.
When it came to arranging wages he stated his terms, which were
exorbitant. I could accept them or not as I pleased; he would not
reduce his demands by a single copper.

As a matter of fact, offers of money make little impression upon the
ordinary Mongols. They produce well-nigh everything they need for
they dress in sheepskins during the winter and eat little else than
mutton. When they want cloth, tea, or ammunition, they simply sell a
sheep or a pony or barter with the Chinese merchants.

We found that the personal equation enters very largely into any
dealings with a Mongol. If he likes you, remuneration is an
incident. If he is not interested, money does not tempt him His
independence is a product of the wild, free life upon the plains. He
relies entirely upon himself for he has learned that in the struggle
for existence, it is he himself that counts. Of the Chinaman, the
opposite is true. His life is one of the community and he depends
upon his family and his village. He is gregarious above all else and
he hates to live alone. In this dependence upon his fellow men he
knows that money counts--and there is very little that a Chinaman
will not do for money.

On one of his trips across Mongolia, Mr. Coltman's car became badly
mired within a stone's throw of a Mongol _yurt_. Two or three oxen
were grazing in front of the house and Coltman asked the native to
pull his car out of the mud. The Mongol, who was comfortably smoking
his pipe in the sun, was not at all interested in the matter, but
finally remarked casually that he would do it for eight dollars.
There was no argument. Eight dollars was what he said, and eight
dollars it would have to be or he would not move. The entire
operation of dragging the car to firm ground consumed just four
minutes. But this instance was an exception for usually a Mongol is
the very essence of good nature and is ready to assist whenever a
traveler is in difficulty.

Tserin Dorchy's independence kept us in a constant state of
irritation for it was manifested in a dozen different ways. We would
gladly have dispensed with his services but his word was law in the
community and, if he had issued a "bull" against us, we could not
have obtained another man. For all his age, he was an excellent
hunter and we came to be good friends.

The old man's independence once led him into serious trouble. He had
often looked at the Bogdo-ol with longing eyes and had made short
excursions, without his gun, into its sacred forests. On one of
these trips he saw a magnificent elk with antlers such as he had
never dreamed were carried by any living animal. He could not forget
that deer. Its memory was a thorn that pricked him wherever else he
hunted. Finally he determined to have it, even if Mongolian law and
the Lama Church had proclaimed it sacred.

Toward the end of July, when he deemed the antlers just ripe for
plucking, he slipped into the forest during the night and climbed
the mountain. After two days he killed the elk. But the lamas who
patrol "God's Mountain" had heard the shot and drove him into a
great rock-strewn gorge where they lost his trail. Believing that he
was still within hearing distance, they shouted to one another that
it was useless to hunt longer and that they had best return. Then
they concealed themselves and awaited results. An hour later Tserin
Dorchy crawled out from under a bowlder directly into their hands.

He had been well-nigh killed before the lamas brought him down to
Urga and was still unconscious when they dumped him unceremoniously
into one of the prison coffins. He was sentenced to remain a year;
but the old man would not have lived a month if Duke Loobitsan
Yangsen, with whom he had often hunted, had not obtained his
release. His independent spirit is by no means chastened, however,
and I feel sure that he will shoot another deer on the Bogdo-ol
before he dies!

Three days after his return home, my wife and I left with him and
three other Mongols on our first real hunt. Our equipment consisted
only of sleeping bags and such food as could be carried on our
horses; it was a time when living "close to nature" was really
necessary. Eight miles away we stopped at the entrance to a tiny
valley. By arranging a bit of canvas over the low branches of a
larch tree we prepared a shelter for ourselves and another for the
hunters.

In fifteen minutes camp was ready and a fire blazing. When a huge
iron basin of water had begun to warm one of the Mongols threw in a
handful of brick tea, which resembled nothing so much as powdered
tobacco. After the black fluid had boiled vigorously for ten minutes
each one filled his wooden eating bowl, put in a great chunk of
rancid butter, and then a quantity of finely-ground meal. This is
what the Tibetans call _tsamba_, and the buttered tea was prepared
exactly as we had seen the Tibetans make it. The tsamba, however,
was only to enable them to "carry on" until we killed some game; for
meat is the Mongols' "staff of life," and they care little for
anything except animal food.

The evening hunt yielded no results. Two of the Mongols had missed a
bear, I had seen a roebuck, and the old man had lost a wounded musk
deer on the mountain ridge above the camp. But the game was there
and we knew where to find it on the morrow. In the gray light of
early morning Tserin Dorchy and I rode up the valley through the
dew-soaked grass. Once the old man stopped to examine the rootings
of a _ga-hai_ (wild boar), then he continued steadily along the
stream bed. In the half-gloom of the forest the bushes and trees
seemed flat and colorless but suddenly the sun burned through an
horizon cloud, flooding the woods with golden light. The whole
forest seemed instantly to awaken. It was as though we had come into
a dimly lighted room and touched an electric switch. The trees and
bushes assumed a dozen subtle shades of green, and the flowers
blazed like jewels in the gorgeous woodland carpet.

I should have liked to spend the morning in the forest but we knew
the deer were feeding in the open. On foot we climbed upward through
knee-high grass to the summit of a hill. There seemed nothing living
in the meadow but as we walked along the ridge a pair of grouse shot
into the air followed by half a dozen chicks which buzzed away like
brown bullets to the shelter of the trees. We crossed a flat
depression and rested for a moment on a rounded hilltop. Below us a
new valley sloped downward, bathed in sunshine. Tserin Dorchy
wandered slowly to the right while I studied the edge of a marsh
with my glasses.

Suddenly I heard the muffled beat of hoofs. Jerking the glasses from
my eyes I saw a huge roebuck, crowned with a splendid pair of
antlers, bound into view not thirty feet away. For the fraction of a
second he stopped, with his head thrown back, then dashed along the
hillside. That instant of hesitation gave me just time to seize my
rifle, catch a glimpse of the yellow-red body through the rear
sight, and fire as he disappeared. Leaping to my feet, I saw four
slender legs waving in the air. The bullet had struck him in the
shoulder and he was down for good.

My heart pounded with exultation as I lifted his magnificent head.
He was the finest buck I had ever seen and I gloated over his body
as a miser handles his gold. And gold, shining in the sunlight, was
never more beautiful than his spotless summer coat.

Right where he lay upon the hillside, amid a veritable garden of
bluebells, daisies, and yellow roses, was the setting for the group
we wished to prepare in the American Museum of Natural History. He
would be its central figure for his peer could not be found in all
Mongolia.

As I stood there in the brilliant sunlight, mentally planning the
group, I thought how fortunate I was to have been born a naturalist.
A sportsman shoots a deer and takes its head; later, it hangs above
his fireplace or in the trophy room. If he be one of imagination, in
years to come it will bring back to him the feel of the morning air,
the fragrance of the pine trees, and the wild thrill of exultation
as the buck went down. But it is a memory picture only and limited
to himself. The mounted head can never bring to others the smallest
part of the joy he felt and the scene he saw.

The naturalist shares his pleasure and, after all, it is largely
that which counts. When the group is constructed in the Museum under
his direction he can see reproduced with fidelity and in minutest
detail this hidden corner of the world. He can share with thousands
of city dwellers the joy of his hunt and teach them something of the
animals he loves and the lands they call their own.

To his scientific training he owes another source of pleasure. Every
animal is a step in the solution of some one of nature's problems.
Perhaps it is a new discovery, a species unknown to science. Asia is
full of such surprises--I have already found many. Be the specimen
large or small, if it has fallen to your trap or rifle, there is the
thrill of knowing that you have traced one more small line on the
white portion of nature's map.

While I was gazing at the fallen buck Tserin Dorchy stood like a
statue on the hilltop, scanning the forest and valley with the hope
that my shot had disturbed another animal. In a few moments he came
down to me. The old man had lost some of his accustomed calm and,
with thumb upraised, murmured, "_Sai_, _sai_." Then he gave, in
vivid pantomime, a recital of how he suddenly surprised the buck
feeding just below the hill crest and how he had seen me jerk the
glasses from my eyes and shoot.

Sitting down beside the deer we went through the ceremony of a
smoke. Then Tserin Dorchy eviscerated the animal, being careful to
preserve the heart, liver, stomach, and intestines. Like all other
Orientals with whom I have hunted, the Mongols boiled and ate the
viscera as soon as we reached camp and seemed to consider them an
especial delicacy.

Some weeks later we killed two elk and Tserin Dorchy inflated and
dried the intestines. These were to be used as containers for butter
and mutton fat. After tanning the stomach he manufactured from it a
bag to contain milk or other liquids. His wife showed me some really
beautiful leather which she had made from roebuck skins. Tanning
hides and making felt were the only strictly Mongolian industries
which we observed in the region visited by our expedition. The
Mongols do a certain amount of logging and charcoal burning and in
the autumn they cut hay; but with these exceptions we never saw them
do any work which could not be done from horseback.

Our first hunting trip lasted ten days and in the following months
there were many others. We became typical nomads, spending a day or
two in some secluded valley only to move again to other hunting
grounds. For the time we were Mongols in all essentials. The
primitive instincts, which lie just below the surface in us all,
responded to the subtle lure of nature and without an effort we
slipped into the care-free life of these children of the woods and
plains.

We slept at night under starlit skies in the clean, fresh forest;
the first gray light of dawn found us stealing through the
dew-soaked grass on the trail of elk, moose, boar or deer; and when
the sun was high, like animals, we spent the hours in sleep until the
lengthening shadows sent us out again for the evening hunt. In those
days New York seemed to be on another planet and very, very far
away. Happiness and a great peace was ours, such as those who dwell
in cities can never know.

In the midst of our second hunt the Mongols suddenly announced that
they must return to the Terelche Valley. We did not want to go, but
Tserin Dorchy was obdurate. With the limited Chinese at our command
we could not learn the reason, and at the base camp Lu, "the
interpreter," was wholly incoherent. "To-morrow, plenty Mongol
come," he said. "Riding pony, all same Peking. Two men catch hold,
both fall down." My wife was perfectly sure that he had lost his
mind, but by a flash of intuition I got his meaning. If was to be a
field meet. "Riding pony, all same Peking" meant races, and "two men
catch hold, both fall down" could be nothing else than wrestling. I
was very proud of myself, and Lu was immensely relieved.

Athletic contests are an integral part of the life of every Mongol
community, as I knew, and the members of our valley family were to
hold their annual games. At Urga, in June, the great meet which the
Living God blesses with his presence is an amazing spectacle,
reminiscent of the pageants of the ancient emperors. All the _elite_
of Mongolia gather on the banks of the Tola River, dressed in their
most splendid robes, and the archery, wrestling, and horse racing
are famous throughout the East.

This love of sport is one of the most attractive characteristics of
the Mongols. It is a common ground on which a foreigner immediately
has a point of contact. The Chinese, on the contrary, despise all
forms of physical exercise. They consider it "bad form," and they do
not understand any sport which calls for violent exertion. They
prefer to take a quiet walk, carrying their pet bird in a cage for
an airing; to play a game of cards; or, if they must travel, to loll
back in a sedan chair, with the curtains drawn and every breath of
air excluded.

The Terelche Valley meet was held on a flat strip of ground just
below our camp. As my wife and I rode out of the forest, a dozen
Mongols swept by, gorgeous in flaming red and streaming peacock
plumes. They waved a challenge to us, and we joined them in a wild
race to a flag in the center of the field. On the side of the hill
sat a row of lamas in dazzling yellow gowns; opposite them were the
judges, among whom I recognized Tserin Dorchy, though he was so
bedecked, behatted and beribboned that I could hardly realize that
it was the same old fellow with whom we had lived in camp. (I
presume if he saw me in the clothes of civilization he would be
equally surprised.)

In front of the judges, who represented the most respected laity of
the community, were bowls of cheese cut into tiny cubes. The
spectators consisted of two groups of women, who sat some distance
apart in compact masses, the "horns" of their headdresses almost
interlocked. Their costumes were marvels of brilliance. They looked
like a flock of gorgeous butterflies, which had alighted for a
moment on the grass.

The first race consisted of about a dozen ponies, ridden by
fourteen-year-old boys and girls. They swept up the valley from the
starting point in full run, hair streaming, and uttering wailing
yells. The winner was led by two old Mongols to the row of lamas,
before whom he prostrated himself twice, and received a handful of
cheese. This he scattered broadcast, as he was conducted
ceremoniously to the judges, from whom he returned with palms
brimming with bits of cheese.

Finally, all the contestants in the races, and half a dozen of the
Mongols on horseback, lined up in front of the priests, each one
singing a barbaric chant. Then they circled about the lamas, beating
their horses until they were in a full run. After the race came
wrestling matches. The contestants sparred for holds and when
finally clinched, each with a grip on the other's waistband,
endeavored to obtain a fall by suddenly heaving. When the last
wrestling match was finished, a tall Mongol raised the yellow
banner, and followed by every man and boy on horseback, circled
about the seated lamas. Faster and faster they rode, yelling like
demons, and then strung off across the valley to the nearest _yurt_.

Although the sports in themselves were not remarkable, the scene was
picturesque in the extreme. Opposite to the grassy hill the
forest-clad mountains rose, tier upon tier, in dark green masses.
The brilliant yellow lamas faced by the Mongols in their blazing
robes and pointed yellow hats, the women, flashing with "jewels" and
silver, the half-wild chant, and the rush of horses, gave a barbaric
touch which thrilled and fascinated us. We could picture this same
scene seven hundred years ago, for it is an ancient custom which has
come down from the days of Kublai Khan. It was as though the veil of
centuries had been lifted for a moment to allow us to carry away, in
motion pictures, this drama of Mongolian life.


CHAPTER XII

NOMADS OF THE FOREST

Three days after the field meet we left with Tserin Dorchy and two
other Mongols for a wapiti hunt. We rode along the Terelche River
for three miles, sometimes splashing through the soggy edges of a
marsh, and again halfway up a hillside where the ground was firm and
hard; then, turning west on a mountain slope, we came to a low
plateau which rolled away in undulating sweeps of bush-land between
the edges of the dark pine woods. It was a truly boreal landscape;
we were on the edge of the forest, which stretches in a vast,
rolling sea of green far beyond the Siberian frontier.

From the summit of the table-land we descended between dark walls of
pine trees to a beautiful valley filled with parklike openings. Just
at dark Tserin Dorchy turned abruptly into the stream and crossed to
a pretty grove of spruces on a little island formed by two branches
of the river. It was as secluded as a cavern, and made an ideal
place in which to camp. A hundred feet away the tent was invisible
and, save for the tiny wreaths of smoke which curled above the
tree-tops, there was no sign of our presence there.

After dinner Tserin Dorchy shouldered a pack of skins and went to a
"salt lick" in a meadow west of camp to spend the night. He returned
in the first gray light of dawn, just as I was making coffee, and
reported that he had heard wapiti barking, but that no animals had
visited the lick. He directed me to go along the hillsides north of
camp, while the Mongol hunters struck westward across the mountains.

I had not been gone an hour, and had just worked across the lower
end of a deep ravine, when I heard a wapiti bark above and behind
me. It was a hoarse roar, exactly like a roebuck, except that it was
deeper toned and louder. I was thrilled as though by an electric
current. It seemed very far away, much farther than it really was,
and as I crept to the summit of a ridge a splendid bull wapiti broke
through the underbrush. He had been feeding in the bottom of the
ravine and saw my head instantly as it appeared above the sky line.
There was no chance to shoot because of the heavy cover; and even
when he paused for a moment on the opposite hillside a screen of
tree branches was in my way.

Absolutely disgusted with myself, I followed the animal's trail
until it was lost in the heavy forest. The wapiti was gone for good,
but on the way back to camp I picked up a roebuck which acted as
some balm to my injured feelings.

I had climbed to the crest of the mountains enclosing the valley in
which we were camped, and was working slowly down the rim of a deep
ravine. In my soft leather moccasins I could walk over the springy
moss without a sound, and suddenly saw a yellow-red form moving
about in a luxurious growth of grass and tinted leaves. My heart
missed a beat, for I thought it was a wapiti.

Instantly I dropped behind a bush and, as the animal moved into the
open, I saw it was an enormous roebuck bearing a splendid pair of
antlers. I watched him for a moment, then aimed low behind the
foreleg and fired. The deer bounded into the air and rolled to the
bottom of the ravine, kicking feebly; my bullet had burst the heart.
It was one of the few times I have ever seen an animal instantly
killed with a heart shot for usually they run a few yards, and then
suddenly collapse.

The buck was almost as large as the first one I had killed with
Tserin Dorchy but it had a twisted right antler. Evidently it had
been injured during the animal's youth and had continued to grow at
right angles to the head, instead of straight up in the normal way.

When I reached camp I found Yvette busily picking currants in the
bushes beside the stream. Her face and hands were covered with red
stains and she looked like a very naughty little boy who had run
away from school for a day in the woods. Although blueberries grew
on every hillside, we never found strawberries, such as the Russians
in Urga gather on the Bogdo-ol, and only one patch of raspberries on
a burned-off mountain slope. But the currants were delicious when
smothered in sugar.

Yvette and I rode out to the spot where I had killed the roebuck to
bring it in on Kublai Khan and before we returned the Mongol hunters
had reached camp; neither of them had seen game of any kind. During
the day we discovered some huge trout in the stream almost at our
door. We had no hooks or lines, but the Mongols devised a way to
catch the fish which brought us food, although it would have made a
sportsman shiver. They built a dam of stones across the stream and
one man waded slowly along, beating the water with a branch to drive
the trout out of the pools into the ripples; then we dashed into the
water and tried to catch them with our hands. At least a dozen got
away but we secured three by cornering them among the rocks.

They were huge trout, nearly three feet long. Unfortunately I was
not able to preserve any of them and I do not know what species they
represented. The Mongols and Chinese often catch the same fish in
the Tola River by means of nets and we sometimes bought them in
Urga. One, which we put on the scales, weighed nine pounds. Although
Ted MacCallie tried to catch them with a fly at Urga he never had
any success but they probably would take live bait.

August 20 was our second day in camp. At dawn I was awakened by the
patter of rain on the tent and soon it became a steady downpour.
There was no use in hunting and I went back to sleep. At seven
o'clock Chen, who was fussing about the fire, rushed over to say
that he could see two wapiti on the opposite mountain. Yvette and I
scrambled out of our sleeping bags just in time to see a doe and a
fawn silhouetted against the sky rim as they disappeared over the
crest. Half an hour later they returned, and I tried a stalk but I
lost them in the fog and rain. Tserin Dorchy believed that the
animals had gone into a patch of forest on the other side of the
mountain. We tried to drive them out but the only thing that
appeared was a four-year-old roebuck which the Mongol killed with a
single shot.

[Illustration: Wrestlers at Terelche Valley Field Meet]

[Illustration: Women Spectators at the Field Meet]

We had ridden up the mountain by zigzagging across the slope, but
when we started back I was astounded to see Tserin Dorchy keep to
his saddle. The wet grass was so slippery that I could not even
stand erect and half the time was sliding on my back, while Kublai
Khan picked his way carefully down the steep descent. The Mongol
never left his horse till we reached camp. Sometimes he even urged
the pony to a trot and, moreover, had the roebuck strapped behind
his saddle. I would not have ridden down that mountain side for all
the deer in Mongolia!

It had begun to rain in earnest by eleven o'clock, and we spent a
quiet afternoon. There is a charm about a rainy day when one can
read comfortably and let it pour. The steady patter on the tent
gives one the delightful sensation of immediately escaping extreme
discomfort. There is no pleasure in being warm unless the weather is
cold; and one never realizes how agreeable it is to be dry unless
the day is wet. This day was very wet indeed. We had a month's
accumulation of unopened magazines which a Mongol had brought to our
base camp just before we left, so there was no chance of being
bored. The fire had been built half under a huge, back-log which
kept a cheery glow of coals throughout all the downpour, and Chen
made us "_chowdzes_"--delicious little balls of meat mixed with
onions and seasoned with Chinese sauce. The Mongols slept and ate
and slept some more. We ate and slept and read. Therefore, we were
very happy.

The weather during that summer in the forest was a source of
constant surprise to us. We had never seen such rapid changes from
brilliant sunshine to sheets of rain. For an hour or two the sky
might stretch above us like a vast blue curtain flecked with tiny
masses of snow-white clouds. Suddenly, a leaden blanket would spread
itself over every inch of celestial space, while a rush of rain and
wind changed the forest to a black chaos of writhing branches and
dripping leaves. In fifteen minutes the storm would sweep across the
mountain tops, and the sun would again flood our peaceful valley
with the golden light of early autumn.

For autumn had already reached us even though the season was only
mid-August. It was like October in New York, and we had nightly
frosts which withered the countless flowers and turned the leaves to
red and gold. In the morning, when I crossed the meadows to the
forest, the grass was white with frost and crackled beneath my feet
like delicate threads of spun glass. My moccasins were powdered with
gleaming crystals of frozen dew, but at the first touch of sun every
twig and leaf and blade of grass began to drip, as though from a
heavy rain. My feet and legs waist-high were soaked in half an hour,
and at the end of the morning hunt I was as wet as though I had
waded a dozen rivers.

One cannot move on foot in northern Mongolia without the certainty
of a thorough wetting. When the sun has dried the dew, there are
swamps and streamlets in every valley and even far up the mountain
slopes. It is the heavy rainfall, the rich soil, and the brilliant
sunshine that make northern Mongolia a paradise of luxurious grass
and flowers, even though the real summer lasts only from May till
August. Then, the valleys are like an exquisite garden and the woods
are ablaze with color. Bluebells, their stalks bending under the
weight of blossoms, clothe every hillside in a glorious azure dress
bespangled with yellow roses, daisies, and forget-me-nots. But I
think I like the wild poppies best of all, for their delicate,
fragile beauty is wonderfully appealing. I learned to love them
first in Alaska, where their pale, yellow faces look up happily from
the storm-swept hills of the Pribilof Islands in the Bering Sea.

Besides its flowers, this northern country is one of exceeding
beauty. The dark green forests of spruce, larch and pine, broken now
and then by a grove of poplars or silver birches, the secluded
valleys and the rounded hills are strangely restful and give one a
sense of infinite peace. It is a place to go for tired nerves.
Ragged peaks, towering mountains, and yawning chasms, splendid as
they are, may be subtly disturbing, engendering a feeling of
restlessness and vague depression. There is none of this in the
forests of Mongolia. We felt as though we might be happy there all
our lives--the mad rush of our other world seemed very far away and
not much worth while.

As yet this land has been but lightly touched by the devastating
hand of man. A log road cuts the forest here and there and sometimes
we saw a train of ox-carts winding through the trees; but the
primitive beauty of the mountains remains unmarred, save where a
hillside has been swept by fire. In all our wanderings through the
forests we saw no evidences of occupation by the Mongols except the
wood roads and a few scattered charcoal pits. These were old and
moss-grown, and save for ourselves the valleys were deserted.

One morning while I was hunting north of camp, I heard a wapiti roar
on the summit of a mountain. I found its tracks in the soft earth of
a game trail which wound through forest so dense that I could hardly
see a dozen yards. As I stole along the path I heard a sudden sneeze
exactly like that of a human being and saw a small, dark animal dash
off the trail. I stopped instantly and slowly sank to the ground,
kneeling motionless, with my rifle ready. For five minutes I
remained there--the silence of the forest broken only by the
clucking of a hazel grouse above my head. Then came that sneeze
again, sounding even more human than before. I heard a nervous
patter of tiny hoofs, and the animal sneezed from the bushes at my
right. I kept as motionless as a statue, and the sneezes followed
each other in rapid succession, accompanied by impatient stampings
and gentle rustlings in the brush. Then I saw a tiny head emerge
from behind a leafy screen and a pair of brilliant eyes gazing at me
steadily.

Very, very slowly I raised the rifle until the stock nestled against
my cheek; then I fired quickly.

Running to the spot where the head had been I found a beautiful
brown-gray animal lying behind a bush. It was no larger than a
half-grown fawn, but on either side of its mouth two daggerlike tusks
projected, slender, sharp and ivory white. It was a musk deer--the
first living, wild one I had ever seen. Even before I touched the
body I inhaled a heavy, not unpleasant, odor of musk and discovered
the gland upon the abdomen. It was three inches long and two inches
wide, but all the hair on the rump and belly was strongly
impregnated with the odor.

These little deer are eagerly sought by the natives throughout the
Orient, as musk is valuable for perfume. In Urga the Mongols could
sell a "pod" for five dollars (silver) and in other parts of China
it is worth considerably more. When we were in Yn-nan we frequently
heard of a musk buyer whom the Paris perfumer, Pinaud, maintained in
the remote mountain village of Atunzi, on the Tibetan frontier.

Because of their commercial value the little animals are
relentlessly persecuted in every country which they inhabit and in
some places they have been completely exterminated. Those in
Mongolia are particularly difficult to kill, since they live only on
the mountain summits in the thickest forests. Indeed, were it not
for their insatiable curiosity it would be almost impossible ever to
shoot them.

They might be snared, of course, but I never saw any traps or
devices for catching animals which the Mongols used; they seem to
depend entirely upon their guns. This is quite unlike the Chinese,
Koreans, Manchus, Malays, and other Orientals with whom I have
hunted, for they all have developed ingenious snares, pitfalls and
traps.

The musk sac is present only in the male deer and is, of course, for
the purpose of attracting the does. Unfortunately, it is not
possible to distinguish the sexes except upon close examination, for
both are hornless, and as a result the natives sometimes kill
females which they would prefer to leave unmolested.

The musk deer use their tusks for fighting and also to dig up the
food upon which they live. I frequently found new pine cones which
they had torn apart to get at the soft centers. During the winter
they develop an exceedingly long, thick coat of hair which, however,
is so brittle that it breaks almost like dry pine needles;
consequently, the skins have but little commercial value.

Late one rainy afternoon Tserin Dorchy and I rode into a beautiful
valley not far from where we were camped. When well in the upper
end, we left our horses and proceeded on foot toward the summit of a
ridge on which he had killed a bear a month earlier.

Motioning me to walk to the crest of the ridge from the other side,
the old man vanished like a ghost among the trees. When I was nearly
at the top I reached the edge of a small patch of burned forest. In
the half darkness the charred stumps and skeleton trees were as
black as ebony. As I was about to move into the open I saw an object
which at first seemed to be a curiously shaped stump. I looked at it
casually, then something about it arrested my attention. Suddenly a
tail switched nervously and I realized that the "stump" was an
enormous wild boar standing head-on, watching me.

I fired instantly, but even as I pressed the trigger the animal
moved and I knew that the bullet would never reach its mark. But my
brain could not telegraph to my finger quickly enough to stop its
action and the boar dashed away unharmed. It was the largest pig I
have ever seen. As he stood on the summit of the ridge he looked
almost as big as a Mongol pony. It was too dark to follow the animal
so I returned to camp, a very dejected man.

I have never been able to forget that boar and I suppose I never
shall. Later, I killed others but they can never destroy the memory
of that enormous animal as he stood there looking down at me. Had I
realized that it was a pig only the fraction of a second sooner it
would have been a different story. But that is the fortune of
shooting. In no other sport is the line between success and failure
so closely drawn; of course, it is that which makes it so
fascinating. At the end of a long day's hunt one chance may be
given; then all depends on a clear eye, a steady hand and, above
all, judgment. In your action in that single golden second rests the
success or failure of, perhaps, a season's trip. You may have
traveled thousands of miles, spent hundreds of dollars, and had just
one shot at the "head of heads."

Some men tell me that they never get excited when they hunt. Thank
God, I do. There would be no fun at all for me if I _didn't_ get
excited. But, fortunately, it all comes after the crucial moment.
When the stock of the rifle settles against my cheek and I look
across the sights, I am as cold as steel. I can shoot, and keep on
shooting, with every brain cell concentrated on the work in hand but
when it is done, for better or worse, I get the reaction which makes
it all worth while.

One morning, a week after we had been in camp, Tserin Dorchy and I
discovered a cow and a calf wapiti feeding in an open forest. It was
a delight to see how the old Mongol stalked the deer, slipping from
tree to bush, sometimes on his knees or flat on his face in the soft
moss carpet. When we were two hundred yards away we drew up behind a
stump. I took the cow, while Tserin Dorchy covered the calf and at
the sound of our rifles both animals went down for good. I was glad
to have them for specimens because we never got a shot at a bull in
Mongolia, although twice I lost one by the merest chance. One of our
hunters brought in a three-year-old moose a short time after we got
the wapiti and another had a long chase after a wounded bear.

It was the first week in September when we returned to the base
camp, our ponies heavily loaded with skins and antlers. The Chinese
taxidermists under my direction had made a splendid collection of
small mammals, and we had pretty thoroughly exhausted the resources
of the forests in the Terelche region. Therefore, Yvette and I
decided that it would be well to ride into Urga and make
arrangements for our return to Peking.

We did the fifty miles with the greatest ease and spent the night
with Mamen in Mai-ma-cheng. Next day Mr. and Mrs. MacCallie arrived,
much to our delight. They were to spend the winter in Urga on
business and they brought a supply of much needed ammunition,
photographic plates, traps and my Mannlicher rifle. This equipment
had been shipped from New York ten months earlier but had only just
reached Peking and been released from the Customs through the heroic
efforts of Mr. Guptil.

We had another two weeks' hunting trip before we said good-by to
Mongolia but it netted few results. All the valleys, which had been
deserted when we were there before, were filled with Mongols cutting
hay for the winter feed of their sheep and goats. Of course, every
camp was guarded by a dog or two, and their continual barking had
driven the moose, elk, and bear far back into the deepest forests
where we had no time to follow.

Mr. and Mrs. MacCallie had taken a house in Urga, just opposite the
Russian Consulate, and they entertained us while I packed our
collections which were stored in Andersen, Meyer's godown. It was a
full week's work, for we had more than a thousand specimens. The
forests of Mongolia had yielded up their treasures is we had not
dared to hope they would, and we left them with almost as much
regret as we had left the plains.

October first the specimens started southward on camel back. Kublai
Khan, my pony, went with them, while we left in the Chinese
Government motor cars. For two hundred miles we rushed over the same
plains which, a few months earlier, we had laboriously crossed with
our caravan. Every spot was pregnant with delightful memories. At
this well we had camped for a week and hunted antelope; in that
ragged mass of rocks we had killed a wolf; out on the Turin plain we
had trapped twenty-six marmots in an enormous colony.

Those had been glorious days and our hearts were sad as we raced
back to Peking and civilization. But one bright spot remained--we
need not yet leave our beloved East! Far to the south, in
brigand-infested mountains on the edge of China, there dwelt a herd
of bighorn sheep, the _argali_ of the Mongols. Among them was a great
ram, and we had learned his hiding place. How we got him is another
story.



CHAPTER XIII

THE PASSING OF MONGOLIAN MYSTERY

I know of no other country about which there is so much
_misinformation_ as about Mongolia. Because the Gobi Desert
stretches through its center the popular conception appears to be
that it is a waste of sand and gravel incapable of producing
anything. In the preceding chapters I have attempted to give a
picture of the country as we found it and, although our interests
were purely zological, I should like to present a few notes
regarding its commercial possibilities, for I have never seen a land
which is readily accessible and is yet so undeveloped.

Every year the Far East is becoming increasingly important to the
Western World, and especially to the people of the United States,
for China and its dependencies is the logical place for the
investment of American capital. It is the last great undeveloped
field, and I am interested in seeing the American business man
appreciate the great opportunities which await him in the Orient.

It is true that the Gobi Desert is a part of Mongolia, but only in
its western half is it a desolate waste; in the eastern section it
gradually changes into a rolling plain covered with "Gobi sage
brush" and short bunch grass. When one looks closely one sees that
the underlying soil is very fine gravel and sand.

There is little water in this region except surface ponds, which are
usually dry in summer, and caravans depend upon wells. The water in
the desert area contains some alkali but, except in a few instances,
the impregnation is so slight that it is not especially disagreeable
to the taste. Mr. Larsen told me that there is no part of the
country between Kalgan and Urga in which water cannot be found
within ten or twenty feet of the surface. I am not prepared to say
what this arid region could be made to produce. Doubtless, from the
standpoint of agriculture it would be of little importance but sheep
and goats could live upon its summer vegetation, I am sure.

It is difficult to say where the Gobi really begins or ends when
crossing it between Kalgan and Urga, for the grasslands both on the
south and north merge so imperceptibly into the arid central part
that there is no real "edge" to the desert; however, it is safe to
take Panj-kiang as the southern margin, and Turin as the northern
limit, of the Gobi. Both in the north and south the land is rich and
fertile--much like the plains of Siberia or the prairies of Kansas
and Nebraska.

Such is the eastern Gobi from June to mid-September. In the winter,
when the dried vegetation exposes the surface soil, the whole aspect
of the country is changed and then it does resemble the popular
conception of a desert. But what could be more desertlike than our
north China landscape when frost has stripped away the green
clothing of its hills and fields?

The Chinese have already demonstrated the agricultural possibilities
in the south and every year they reap a splendid harvest of oats,
wheat, millet, buckwheat and potatoes. On the grass-covered
meadowlands, both north and south of the Gobi, there are vast herds
of sheep, goats, cattle and horses, but they are only a fraction of
the numbers which the pasturage could support. The cattle and sheep
which are exported through China can be sent to Kalgan "on the
hoof," for since grass is plentiful, the animals can graze at night
and travel during the day. This very materially reduces the cost of
transportation.

Besides the great quantities of beef and mutton which could be
raised and marketed in the Orient, America or Europe, thousands of
pounds of wool and camel hair could be exported. Of course both of
these articles are produced at the present time, but only in limited
quantities. In the region where we spent the summer, the Mongols
sometimes do not shear their sheep or camels but gather the wool
from the ground when it has dropped off in the natural process of
shedding. Probably half of it is lost, and the remainder is full of
dirt and grass which detracts greatly from its value. Moreover, when
it is shipped the impurities add at least twenty per cent to its
weight, and the high cost of transportation makes this an important
factor. Indeed, under proper development the pastoral resources of
Mongolia are almost unlimited.

The Turin-Urga region has another commercial asset in the enormous
colonies of marmots which inhabit the country for hundreds of miles
to the north, east and west. The marmots are prolific breeders--each
pair annually producing six or eight young--and, although their fur
is not especially fine, it has always been valuable for coats.
Several million marmot pelts are shipped every year from Mongolia,
the finest coming from Uliassutai in the west, and were American
steel traps introduced the number could be doubled.

Urga is just being discovered as a fur market. Many skins which have
been taken well across the Russian frontier are sold in Urga, and as
the trade increases it will command a still wider area. Wolves,
foxes, lynx, bear, wildcats, sables, martens, squirrels and marmots
are brought in by thousands; and great quantities of sheep, goat,
cow and antelope hides are sent annually to Kalgan. Several foreign
fur houses of considerable importance already have their
representatives in Urga and more are coming every year. The
possibilities for development in this direction are almost
boundless, and I believe that within a very few years Urga will
become one of the greatest fur markets of the Orient.

As in the south the Chinese farmer cultivates the grasslands of the
Mongols, so in the north the Chinese merchant has assumed the trade.
Many firms in Peking and Tientsin have branches in Urga and make
huge profits in the sale of food, cloth and other essentials to the
Mongols and foreigners and in the export of furs, skins and wool. It
is well-nigh impossible to touch business in Mongolia at any point
without coming in contact with the Chinese.

All work not connected with animals is assumed by Chinese, for the
Mongols are almost useless for anything which cannot be done from
the back of a horse. Thus the Chinese have a practical monopoly and
they exercise all their prerogatives in the enormous prices which
they charge for the slightest service. Mongols and foreigners suffer
together in this respect, but there is no alternative--the Chinaman
can charge what he pleases, for he knows full well that no one else
will do the work.

Although there is considerable mineral wealth in northern Mongolia,
up to the present time very little prospecting has been done. For
several years a Russian company has carried on successful operations
for gold at the Yero mines, between Urga and Kiakhta on the Siberian
frontier, but they have had to import practically all their labor
from China. We often passed Chinese in the Gobi Desert walking
across Mongolia pushing a wheelbarrow which contained all their
earthly belongings. They were on their way to the Yero mines for the
summer's work; in the fall they would return on foot the way they
had come. Now that Mongolia is once more a part of the Chinese
Republic, the labor problem probably will be improved for there will
certainly be an influx of Chinese who are anxious to work.

Transportation is the greatest of all commercial factors in the
Orient and upon it largely depends the development of any country.
In Mongolia the problem can be easily solved. At the present time it
rests upon camel caravans, ox and pony carts and upon automobiles
for passengers. Camel traffic begins in September and is virtually
ended by the first of June. Then their places on the trail are taken
by ox- and pony carts. Camels make the journey from Kalgan to Urga
in from thirty to fifty days, but the carts require twice as long.
They travel slowly, at best, and the animals must be given time to
graze and rest. Of course, they cannot cross the desert when the
grass is dry, so that transportation is divided by the
season--camels in winter and carts in summer. Each camel carries
from four hundred and fifty to five hundred pounds, and the charges
for the journey from Kalgan to Urga vary with conditions at from five
to fifteen cents (silver) per _cattie_ (one and one-third pounds).
Thus, by the time goods have reached Urga, their value has increased
tremendously.

I can see no reason why motor trucks could not make the trip and am
intending to use them on my next expedition. Between Panj-kiang and
Turin, the first and third telegraph stations, there is some bad
going in spots, but a well made truck with a broad wheel base and a
powerful engine certainly could negotiate the sand areas without
difficulty. After Turin, where the Gobi may be said to end, the road
is like a boulevard.

The motor service for passengers which the Chinese Government
maintains between Kalgan and Urga is a branch of the Peking-Suiyuan
Railway and has proved successful after some initial difficulties
due to careless and inexperienced chauffeurs. Although the service
badly needs organization to make it entirely safe and comfortable,
still it has been effective even in its crude form.

At the present time a great part of the business which is done with
the Mongols is by barter. The Chinese merchants extend credit to the
natives for material which they require and accept in return cattle,
horses, hides, wool, etc., to be paid at the proper season. In
recent years Russian paper _rubles_ and Chinese silver have been the
currency of the country, but since the war Russian money has so
depreciated that it is now practically valueless. Mongolia greatly
needs banking facilities and under the new political conditions
undoubtedly these will be materially increased.

A great source of wealth to Mongolia lies in her magnificent forests
of pine, spruce, larch and birch which stretch away in an almost
unbroken line of green to far beyond the Siberian frontier. As yet
but small inroads have been made upon these forests, and as I stood
one afternoon upon the summit of a mountain gazing over the miles of
timbered hills below me, it seemed as though here at least was an
inexhaustible supply of splendid lumber. But no more pernicious term
was ever coined than "inexhaustible supply!" I wondered, as I
watched the sun drop into the somber masses of the forest, how long
these splendid hills would remain inviolate. Certainly not many
years after the Gobi Desert has been crossed by lines of steel, and
railroad sheds have replaced the gold-roofed temples of sacred Urga.

We are at the very beginning of the days of flying, and no land
which contains such magnificent spruce can keep its treasure boxes
unspoiled for very long. Even as I write, aeroplanes are waiting in
Peking to make their first flight across Mongolia. The desert nomads
have not yet ceased to wonder at the motor cars which cover as many
miles of plain in one day as their camels cross in ten. But what
_will_ they think when twenty men leave Kalgan at noon and dine in
Urga at seven o'clock that night! Seven hundred miles mean very
little to us now! The start has been made already and, after all, it
is largely that which counts. The automobile has come to stay, we
know; and motor trucks will soon do for freight what has already
been done for passengers, not only from Kalgan to Urga, but west to
Uliassutai, and on to Kobdo at the very edge of the Altai Mountains.
Few spots in Mongolia need remain untouched, if commercial calls are
strong enough.

Last year the first caravans left Feng-chen with wireless equipment
for the eighteen hundred mile journey across Mongolia to Urumchi in
the very heart of central Asia. Construction at Urga is well
advanced and it will soon begin at Kashgar. When these stations are
completed Kobdo in Mongolia, Hami in Chinese Turkestan and Sian-fu
in Shensi will see wireless shafts erected; and old Peking will be
in touch with the remotest spots of her far-flung lands at any time
by day or night.

These things are not idle dreams--they are hard business facts
already in the first stages of accomplishment. Why, then, should the
railroad be long delayed? It may be built from Kalgan to Urga, or by
way of Kwei-hua-cheng--either route is feasible. It will mean a
direct connection between Shanghai, China's greatest port, and
Verkhin Udinsk on the Trans-Siberian Railroad via Tientsin, Peking,
Kalgan, Urga, Kiakhta. It will shorten the trip to London by at
least four days for passengers and freight. It will open for
settlement and commercial development a country of boundless
possibilities and unknown wealth which for centuries has been all
but forgotten.

Less than seven hundred years ago Mongolia well-nigh ruled the
world. Her people were strong beyond belief, but her empire crumbled
as quickly as it rose, leaving to posterity only a glorious
tradition and a land of mystery. The tradition will endure for
centuries; but the motor car and aeroplane and wireless have
dispelled the mystery forever.



CHAPTER XIV

THE GREAT RAM OF THE SHANSI MOUNTAINS

Away up in northern China, just south of the Mongolian frontier, is
a range of mountains inhabited by bands of wild sheep. They are
wonderful animals, these sheep, with horns like battering-rams. But
the mountains are also populated by brigands and the two do not form
an agreeable combination from the sportsman's standpoint.

In reality they are perfectly nice, well-behaved brigands, but
occasionally they forget their manners and swoop down upon the
caravan road less than a dozen miles away. This is done only when
scouts bring word that cargo valuable enough to make it worth while
is about to pass. Each time the brigands make a foray a return raid
by Chinese soldiers can be expected. Occasionally these are real,
"honest-to-goodness" fights, and blood may flow on both sides, but
the battle sometimes takes a different form.

With bugles blowing, the soldiers march out to the hills. Through
"middle men" the battle ground has been agreed upon, and a "David"
is chosen from the soldiers to meet the "Goliath" of the brigands.
But David is particularly careful to leave his gun behind, and to
have his "sling" well stuffed with rifle shells. Goliath advances to
the combat armed only with a bag of silver dollars. Then an even
trade ensues--a dollar for a cartridge--and the implement of war
changes hands.

[Illustration: Cave Dwellings in North Shansi Province]

[Illustration: An Asiatic Wapiti]

[Illustration: Harry R. Caldwell and a Mongolian Bighorn]

The soldiers return to the city with bugles sounding as merrily as
when they left. The commander sends a report to Peking of a
desperate battle with the brigands. He says that, through the
extreme valor of his soldiers, the bandits have been dispersed and
many killed; that hundreds of cartridges were expended in the fight;
therefore, kindly send more as soon as possible.

All this because the government has an unfortunate way of forgetting
to pay its soldiers in the outlying provinces. When no money is
forthcoming and none is visible on the horizon, it is not surprising
that they take other means to obtain it. "Battles" of this type are
by no means exceptions--they are more nearly the rule in many
provinces of China.

But what has all this to do with the wild sheep? Its relation is
very intimate, for the presence of brigands in those Shansi
mountains has made it possible for the animals to exist, The hunting
grounds are only five days' travel from Peking and many foreigners
have turned longing eyes toward the mountains. But the brigands
always had to be considered. Since Sir Richard Dane, formerly Chief
Inspector of the Salt Gabelle, and Mr. Charles Coltman were driven
out by the bandits in 1913, the Chinese Government has refused to
grant passports to foreigners who wished to shoot in that region.
The brigands themselves cannot waste cartridges at one dollar each
on the sheep, so the animals have been allowed to breed unmolested.

Nevertheless, there are not many sheep there. They are the last
survivors of great herds which once roamed the mountains of north
China. The technical name of the species is _Ovis commosa_ (formerly
_O. jubata_) and it is one of the group of bighorns known to
sportsmen by the Mongol name of _argali_. In size, as well as
ancestry, the members of this group are the grandfathers of all the
sheep. The largest ram of our Rocky Mountains is a pygmy compared
with a full-grown _argali_. Hundreds of thousands of years ago the
bighorns, which originated in Asia, crossed into Alaska by way of
the Bering Sea, where there was probably a land connection at that
time From Alaska they gradually worked southward, along the
mountains of the western coast, into Mexico and Lower California. In
the course of time, changed environment developed different species;
but the migration route from the Old World to the New is there for
all to read.

The supreme trophy of a sportsman's life is the head of a Mongolian
bighorn sheep. I think it was Rex Beach who said, "Some men can
shoot but not climb. Some can climb but not shoot. To get a sheep
you must be able to climb and shoot, too."

For its Hall of Asiatic Life, the American Museum of Natural History
needed a group of _argali_. Moreover, we wanted a ram which would
fairly represent the species, and that meant a very big one. The
Reverend Harry R. Caldwell, with whom I had hunted tiger in south
China, volunteered to get them with me. The brigands did not worry
us unduly, for we both have had considerable experience with Chinese
bandits and we feel that they are like animals--if you don't tease
them, they won't bite. In this case the "teasing" takes the form of
carrying anything that they could readily dispose of--especially
money. I decided that my wife must remain in Peking. She was in open
rebellion but there was just a possibility that the brigands might
annoy us, and we had determined to have those sheep regardless of
consequences.

Although we did not expect trouble, I knew that Harry Caldwell could
be relied upon in any emergency. When a man will crawl into a
tiger's lair, a tangle of sword grass and thorns, just to find out
what the brute has had for dinner; when he will walk into the open
in dim light and shoot, with a .22 high-power rifle, a tiger which
is just ready to charge; when he will go alone and unarmed into the
mountains to meet a band of brigands who have been terrorizing the
country, it means that he has more nerve than any one man needs in
this life!

After leaving the train at Feng-chen, the journey was like all
others in north China; slow progress with a cart over atrocious
roads which are either a mass of sticky mud or inches deep in fine
brown dust. We had four days of it before we reached the mountains
but the trip was full of interest to us both, for along the road
there was an ever-changing picture of provincial life. To Harry it
was especially illuminating because he had spent nineteen years in
south China and had never before visited the north. He began to
realize what every one soon learns who wanders much about the Middle
Kingdom--that it is never safe to generalize in this strange land.
Conditions true of one region may be absolutely unknown a few
hundred miles away. He was continually irritated to find that his
perfect knowledge of the dialect of Fukien Province was utterly
useless. He was well-nigh as helpless as though he had never been in
China, for the languages of the north and the south are almost as
unlike as are French and German. Even our "boys" who were from
Peking had some difficulty in making themselves understood, although
we were not more than two hundred miles from the capital.

Instead of hills thickly clothed with sword grass, here the slopes
were bare and brown. We were too far north for rice; corn, wheat,
and _kaoliang_ took the place of paddy fields. Instead of
brick-walled houses we found dwellings made of clay like the "adobe"
of Mexico and Arizona. Sometimes whole villages were dug into the
hillside and the natives were cave dwellers, spending their lives
within the earth.

All north China is spread with _loess_. During the Glacial Period,
about one hundred thousand years ago, when in Europe and America
great rivers of ice were descending from the north, central and
eastern Asia seems to have suffered a progressive dehydration. There
was little moisture in the air so that ice could not be formed.
Instead, the climate was cold and dry, while violent winds carried
the dust in whirling clouds for hundreds upon hundreds of miles,
spreading it in ever thickening layers over the hills and plains.
Therefore, the "Ice Age" for Europe and America was a "Dust Age" for
northeastern Asia.

The inns were a constant source of interest to us both. Their
spacious courtyards contrasted strangely with the filthy "hotels" of
southern China. In the north all the traffic is by cart, and there
must be accommodation for hundreds of vehicles; in the south where
goods are carried by boats, coolies, or on donkey back, extensive
compounds are unnecessary. Each night, wherever we arrived, we found
the courtyard teeming with life and motion. Line after line of laden
carts wound in through the wide swinging gates and lined up in
orderly array; there was the steady "crunch, crunch, crunch" of
feeding animals, shouts for the _jonggweda_ (landlord), and
good-natured chaffing among the carters. In the great kitchen, which
is also the sleeping room, over blazing fires fanned by bellows, pots
of soup and macaroni were steaming. On the two great _kangs_ (bed
platforms), heated from below by long flues radiating outward from
the cooking fires, dozens of _mafus_ were noisily sucking in their
food or already snoring contentedly, rolled in their dusty coats.

Many kinds of folk were there; rich merchants enveloped in splendid
sable coats and traveling in padded carts; peddlers with packs of
trinkets for the women; wandering doctors selling remedies of herbs,
tonics made from deerhorns or tigers' teeth, and wonderful potions
of "dragons' bones." Perhaps there was a Buddhist priest or two, a
barber, or a tailor. Often a professional entertainer sat
cross-legged on the _kang_ telling endless stories or singing for
hours at a time in a high-pitched, nasal voice, accompanying himself
upon a tiny snakeskin violin. It was like a stage drama of
concentrated Chinese country life.

Among this polyglot assembly perhaps there may be a single man who
has arrived with a pack upon his back. He is indistinguishable from
the other travelers and mingles among the _mafus_, helping now and
then to feed a horse or adjust a load. But his ears and eyes are
open. He is a brigand scout who is there to learn what is passing on
the road. He hears all the gossip from neighboring towns as well as
of those many miles away, for the inns are the newspapers of rural
China, and it is every one's business to tell all he knows. The
scout marks a caravan, then slips away into the mountains to report
to the leader of his band. The attack may not take place for many
days. While the unsuspecting _mafus_ are plodding on their way, the
bands are hovering on the outskirts among the hills until the time
is ripe to strike.

I have learned that these brigand scouts are my best protection, for
when a foreigner arrives at a country inn all other subjects of
conversation lose their interest. Everything about him is discussed
and rediscussed, and the scouts discover all there is to know.
Probably the only things I ever carry which a bandit could use or
dispose of readily, are arms and ammunition. But two or three guns
are hardly worth the trouble which would follow the death of a
foreigner. The brigands know that there would be no sham battle with
Chinese soldiers in that event, for the Legations at Peking have a
habit of demanding reparation from the Government and insisting that
they get it.

As a _raison d'tre_ for our trip Caldwell and I had been hunting
ducks, geese, and pheasants industriously along the way, and not
even the "boys" knew our real destination.

We had looked forward with great eagerness to the Tai Hai, a large
lake, where it was said that water fowl congregated in thousands
during the spring and fall. We reached the lake the second night
after leaving Feng-cheng. Darkness had just closed about us when we
crossed the summit of a high mountain range and descended into a
narrow, winding cut which eventually led us out upon the flat plains
of the Tai Hai basin. While we were in the pass a dozen flocks of
geese slipped by above our heads, flying very low, the "wedges"
showing black against the starlit sky.

With much difficulty we found an inn close beside the lake and,
after a late supper, snuggled into our fur bags to be lulled to
sleep by that music most dear to a sportsman's heart, the subdued
clamor of thousands of waterfowl settling themselves for the night.

At daylight we dressed hurriedly and ran to the lake shore. Harry
took a station away from the water at the base of the hills, while I
dropped behind three conical mounds which the natives had
constructed to obtain salt by evaporation.

I was hardly in position before two geese came straight for me.
Waiting until they were almost above my head, I knocked down both
with a right and left. The shots put thousands of birds in motion.
Flock after flock of geese rose into the air, and long lines of
ducks skimmed close to the surface, settling away from shore or on
the mud flats near the water's edge.

No more birds came near me, and in fifteen minutes I returned to the
inn for breakfast. Harry appeared shortly after with only a mallard
duck, for he had guessed wrong as to the direction of the flight,
and was entirely out of the shooting.

When the carts had started at eight o'clock Harry and I rode down
the shore of the lake to the south, with Chen to hold our horses.
The mud flats were dotted with hundreds of ruddy sheldrakes, their
beautiful bodies glowing red and gold in the sunlight. A hundred
yards from shore half a dozen swans drifted about like floating snow
banks, and ducks and geese by thousands rose or settled in the lake.
We saw a flock of mallards alight in the short marsh grass and when
I fired at least five hundred greenheads, yellow-nibs, and pintails
rose in a brown cloud.

Crouched behind the salt mounds, we had splendid shooting and then
rode on to join the carts, our ponies loaded with ducks and geese.
The road swung about to the north, and we saw geese in tens of
thousands coming into the lake across the mountain passes from their
summer breeding grounds in Mongolia and far Siberia. Regiment after
regiment swept past, circled away to the west, and dropped into the
water as though at the command of a field marshal.

Although we were following the main road to Kwei-hua-cheng, a city
of considerable importance not far from the mountains which
contained the sheep, we had no intention of going there. Neither did
we wish to pass through any place where there might be soldiers, so
on the last day's march we left the highway and followed an
unimportant trail to the tiny village of Wu-shi-tu, which nestles
against the mountain's base. Here we made our camp in a Chinese
house and obtained two Mongol hunters. We had hoped to live in
tents, but there was not a stick of wood for fuel. The natives burn
either coal or grass and twigs, but these would not keep us warm in
an open camp.

About the village rose a chaotic mass of saw-toothed mountains cut,
to the east, by a stupendous gorge. We stood silent with awe, when
we first climbed a winding, white trail to the summit of the
mountain and gazed into the abysmal depths. My eye followed an eagle
which floated across the chasm to its perch on a projecting crag;
thence, down the sheer face of the cliff a thousand feet to the
stream which has carved this colossal canon from the living rock.
Like a shining silver tracing it twisted and turned, foaming over
rocks and running in smooth, green sheets between vertical walls of
granite. To the north we looked across at a splendid panorama of
saw-toothed peaks and ragged pinnacles tinted with delicate shades
of pink and lavender. Beneath our feet were slabs of pure white
marble and great blocks of greenish feldspar. Among the peaks were
deep ravines and, farther to the east, rolling uplands carpeted with
grass. There the sheep are found.

We killed only one goral and a roebuck during the first two days,
for a violent gale made hunting well-nigh impossible. On the third
morning the sun rose in a sky as blue as the waters of a tropic sea,
and not a breath of air stirred the silver poplar leaves as we
crossed the rocky stream bed to the base of the mountains north of
camp. Fifteen hundred feet above us towered a ragged granite ridge
which must be crossed ere we could gain entrance to the grassy
valleys beyond the barrier.

We had toiled halfway up the slope, when my hunter sank into the
grass, pointed upward, and whispered, "_pan-yang_" (wild sheep).
There, on the very summit of the highest pinnacle, stood a
magnificent ram silhouetted against the sky. It was a stage
introduction to the greatest game animal in all the world.

Motionless, as though sculptured from the living granite, it gazed
across the valley toward the village whence we had come. Through my
glasses I could see every detail of its splendid body--the wash of
gray with which many winters had tinged its neck and flanks, the
finely drawn legs, and the massive horns curling about a head as
proudly held as that of a Roman warrior. He stood like a statue for
half an hour, while we crouched motionless in the trail below; then
he turned deliberately and disappeared.

When we reached the summit of the ridge the ram was nowhere to be
seen, but we found his tracks on a path leading down a knifelike
outcrop to the bottom of another valley. I felt sure that he would
turn eastward toward the grassy uplands, but Na-mon-gin, my Mongol
hunter, pointed north to a sea of ragged mountains. We groaned as we
looked at those towering peaks; moreover, it seemed hopeless to hunt
for a single animal in that chaos of ravines and canons.

We had already learned, however, that the Mongol knew almost as much
about what a sheep would do as did the animal itself. It was
positively uncanny. Perhaps we would see a herd of sheep half a mile
away. The old fellow would seat himself, nonchalantly fill his pipe
and puff contentedly, now and then glancing at the animals. In a few
moments he would announce what was about to happen, and he was
seldom wrong.

Therefore, when he descended to the bottom of the valley we accepted
his dictum without a protest. At the creek bed Harry and his young
hunter left us to follow a deep ravine which led upward a little to
the left, while Na-mon-gin and I climbed to the crest by way of a
precipitous ridge.

Not fifteen minutes after we parted, Harry's rifle banged three
times in quick succession, the reports rolling out from the gorge in
majestic waves of sound. A moment later the old Mongol saw three
sheep silhouetted for an instant against the sky as they scrambled
across the ridge. Then a voice floated faintly up to me from out the
caon.

"I've got a f-i-n-e r-a-m," it said, "a b-e-a-u-t-y," and even at
that distance I could hear its happy ring.

"Good for Harry," I thought. "He certainly deserved it after his
work of last night;" for on the way home his hunter had seen an
enormous ram climbing a mountain side and they had followed it to
the summit only to lose its trail in the gathering darkness. Harry
had stumbled into camp, half dead with fatigue, but with his
enthusiasm undiminished.

When Na-mon-gin and I had reached the highest peak and found a trail
which led along the mountain side just below the crest, we kept
steadily on, now and then stopping to scan the grassy ravines and
valleys which radiated from the ridge like the ribs of a giant fan.
At half past eleven, as we rounded a rocky shoulder, I saw four
sheep feeding in the bottom of a gorge far below us.

Quite unconscious of our presence, they worked out of the ravine
across a low spur and into a deep gorge where the grass still showed
a tinge of green. As the last one disappeared, we dashed down the
slope and came up just above the sheep. With my glasses I could see
that the leader carried a fair pair of horns, but that the other
three rams were small, as _argali_ go.

Lying flat, I pushed my rifle over the crest and aimed at the
biggest ram. Three or four tiny grass stems were directly in my line
of sight, and fearing that they might deflect my bullet, I drew back
and shifted my position a few feet to the right.

One of the sheep must have seen the movement, although we were
directly above them, and instantly all were off. In four jumps they
had disappeared around a bowlder, giving me time for only a hurried
shot at the last one's white rump-patch. The bullet struck a few
inches behind the ram, and the valley was empty.

Looking down where they had been so quietly feeding only a few
moments before, I called myself all known varieties of a fool. I
felt very bad indeed that I had bungled hopelessly my first chance
at an _argali_. But the sympathetic old hunter patted me on the
shoulder and said in Chinese, "Never mind. They were small ones
anyway--not worth having." They were very much worth having to me,
however, and all the light seemed to have gone out of the world. We
smoked a cigarette, but there was no consolation in that, and I
followed the hunter around the peak with a heart as heavy as lead.

Half an hour later we sat down for a look around. I studied every
ridge and gully with my glasses without seeing a sign of life. The
four sheep had disappeared as completely as though one of the
yawning ravines had swallowed them up; the great valley bathed in
golden sunlight was deserted and as silent as the tomb.

I was just tearing the wrapper from a piece of chocolate when the
hunter touched me on the arm and said quietly, "_Pan-yang li la_" (A
sheep has come). He pointed far down a ridge running out at a right
angle to the one on which we were sitting, but I could see nothing.
Then I scanned every square inch of rock, but still saw no sign of
life.

The hunter laughingly whispered, "I can see better than you can even
with your foreign eyes. He is standing in that trail--he may come
right up to us."

I tried again, following the thin, white line as it wound from us
along the side of the knifelike ridge. Just where it vanished into
space I saw the sheep, a splendid ram, standing like a statue of
gray-brown granite and gazing squarely at us. He was fully half a
mile away, but the hunter had seen him the instant he appeared.
Without my glasses the animal was merely a blur to me, but the
marvelous eyes of the Mongol could detect its every movement.

"It is the same one we saw this morning," he said. "I was sure we
would find him over here. He has very big horns--much better than
those others."

That was quite true; but the others had given me a shot and this
ram, splendid as he was, seemed as unobtainable as the stars. For an
hour we watched him. Sometimes he would turn about to look across
the ravines on either side and once he came a dozen feet toward us
along the path. The hunter smoked quietly, now and then looking
through my glasses. "After a while he will go to sleep," he said,
"then we can shoot him."

I must confess that I had but little hope. The ram seemed too
splendid and much, much too far away. But I could feast my eyes on
his magnificent head and almost count the rings on his curling
horns.

A flock of red-legged partridges sailed across from the opposite
ridge, uttering their rapid-fire call and alighted almost at our
feet. Then each one seemed to melt into the mountain side, vanishing
like magic among the grass and stones. I wondered mildly why they
had concealed themselves so suddenly, but a moment later there
sounded a subdued whir, like the motor of an aeroplane far up in the
sky. Three shadows drifted over, and I saw three huge black eagles
swinging in ever lowering circles about our heads. I knew then that
the partridges had sought the protection of our presence from their
mortal enemies, the eagles.

When I looked at the sheep again he was lying down squarely in the
trail, lazily raising his head now and then to gaze about. The
hunter inspected the ram through my glasses and prepared to go. We
rolled slowly over the ridge and then hurried around to the
projecting spur at the end of which the ram was lying.

The going was very bad indeed. Pieces of crumbled granite were
continually slipping under foot, and at times we had to cling like
flies to a wall of rock with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet below
us. Twice the Mongol cautiously looked over the ridge, but each time
shook his head and worked his way a little farther. At last he
motioned me to slide up beside him. Pushing my rifle over the rock
before me, I raised myself a few inches and saw the massive head and
neck of the ram two hundred yards away. His body was behind a rocky
shoulder, but he was looking squarely at us and in a second would be
off.

I aimed carefully just under his chin, and at the roar of the
high-power shell, the ram leaped backward. "You hit him," said the
Mongol, but I felt he must be wrong; if the bullet had found the
neck he would have dropped like lead.

Never in all my years of hunting have I had a feeling of such
intense surprise and self-disgust. I had been certain of the shot
and it was impossible to believe that I had missed. A lump rose in
my throat and I sat with my head resting on my hands in the
uttermost depths of dejection.

And then the impossible happened! Why it happened, I shall never
know. A kind Providence must have directed the actions of the sheep,
for, as I raised my eyes, I saw again that enormous head and neck
appear from behind a rock a hundred yards away; just that head with
its circlet of massive horns and the neck--nothing more. Almost in a
daze I lifted my rifle, saw the little ivory bead of the front sight
center on that gray neck, and touched the trigger. A thousand echoes
crashed back upon us. There was a clatter of stones, a confused
vision of a ponderous bulk heaving up and back--and all was still.
But it was enough for me; there could be no mistake this time. The
ram was mine.

The sudden transition from utter dejection to the greatest triumph
of a sportsman's life set me wild with joy. I yelled and pounded the
old Mongol on the back until he begged for mercy; then I whirled him
about in a war dance on the summit of the ridge. I wanted to leap
down the rocks where the sheep had disappeared but the hunter held
my ann. For ten minutes we sat there waiting to make sure that the
ram would not dash away while we were out of sight in the ravine
below. But I knew in my heart that it was all unnecessary. My bullet
had gone where I wanted it to go and that was quite enough. No sheep
that ever walked could live with a Mannlicher ball squarely in its
neck.

When we finally descended, the animal lay halfway down the slope,
feebly kicking. What a huge brute he was, and what a glorious head!
I had never dreamed that an _argali_ could be so splendid. His horns
were perfect, and my hands could not meet around them at the base.

Then, of course, I wanted to know what had happened at my first
shot. The evidence was there upon his face. My bullet had gone an
inch high, struck him in the corner of the mouth, and emerged from
his right cheek. It must have been a painful wound, and I shall
never cease to wonder what strange impulse brought him back after he
had been so badly stung. The second ball had been centered in the
neck as though in the bull's-eye of a target.

The skin and head of the sheep made a pack weighing nearly one
hundred pounds, and the old Mongol groaned as he looked up at the
mountain barriers which separated us from camp. On the summit of the
first ridge we found the trail over which we had passed in the
morning. Half an hour later the hunter jerked me violently behind a
ledge of rock. "_Pan-yang_," he whispered, "there, on the mountain
side. Can't you see him?" I could not, and he tried to point to it
with my rifle. Just at that instant what I had supposed to be a
brown rock came to life in a whirl of dust and vanished into the
ravine below.

We waited breathlessly for perhaps a minute--it seemed hours--then
the head and shoulders of a sheep appeared from behind a bowlder. I
aimed low and fired, and the animal crumpled in its tracks. A second
later two rams and a ewe dashed from the same spot and stopped upon
the hillside less than a hundred yards away. Instinctively I sighted
on the largest but dropped my rifle without touching the trigger.
The sheep was small, and even if we did need him for the group we
could not carry his head and skin to camp that night. The wolves
would surely have found his carcass before dawn, and it would have
been a useless waste of life.

The one I had killed was a fine young ram. With the skin, head, and
parts of the meat packed upon my shoulders we started homeward at
six o'clock. Our only exit lay down the river bed in the bottom of a
great caon, for in the darkness it would have been dangerous to
follow the trail along the cliffs. In half an hour it was black
night in the gorge. The vertical walls of rock shut out even the
starlight, and we could not see more than a dozen feet ahead.

I shall never forget that walk. After wading the stream twenty-eight
times I lost count. I was too cold and tired and had fallen over too
many rocks to have it make the slightest difference how many more
than twenty-eight times we went into the icy water. The
hundred-pound pack upon my back weighed more every hour, but the
thought of those two splendid rams was as good as bread and wine.

Harry was considerably worried when we reached camp at eleven
o'clock, for in the village there had been much talk of bandits.
Even before dinner we measured the rams and found that the horns of
the one he had killed exceeded the published records for the species
by half an inch in circumference. The horns were forty-seven inches
in length, but were broken at the tips; the original length was
fifty-one inches; the circumference at the base was twenty inches.
Moreover, mine was not far behind in size.

As I snuggled into my fur sleeping bag that night, I realized that
it had been the most satisfactory hunting day of my life. The
success of the group was assured, with a record ram for the central
figure. We had three specimens already, and the others would not be
hard to get.

The next morning four soldiers were waiting in the courtyard when we
awoke. With many apologies they informed us that they had been sent
by the commander of the garrison at Kwei-hua-cheng to ask us to go
back with them. The mountains were very dangerous; brigands were
swarming in the surrounding country; the commandant was greatly
worried for our safety. Therefore, would we be so kind as to break
camp at once.

We told them politely, but firmly, that it was impossible for us to
comply with their request. We needed the sheep for a great museum in
New York, and we could not return without them. As they could see
for themselves our passports had been properly vised by the Foreign
Office in Peking, and we were prepared to stay.

The soldiers returned to Kwei-hua-cheng, and the following day we
were honored by a visit from the commandant himself. To him we
repeated our determination to remain. He evidently realized that we
could not be dislodged and suggested a compromise arrangement. He
would send soldiers to guard our house and to accompany us while we
were hunting. We assented readily, because we knew Chinese soldiers.
Of course, the sentinel at the door troubled us not at all, and the
ones who were to accompany us were easily disposed of. For the first
day's hunt with our guard we selected the roughest part of the
mountain, and set such a terrific pace up the almost perpendicular
slope that before long they were left far behind. They never
bothered us again.



CHAPTER XV

MONGOLIAN _ARGALI_

Although we had seen nearly a dozen sheep where we killed our first
three rams, the mountains were deserted when Harry returned the
following morning. He hunted faithfully, but did not see even a
roebuck; the sheep all had left for other feeding grounds. I
remained in camp to superintend the preparation of our specimens.

The next day we had a glorious hunt. By six o'clock we were climbing
the winding, white trail west of camp, and for half an hour we stood
gazing into the gloomy depths of the stupendous gorge, as yet
unlighted by the morning sun. Then we separated, each making toward
the grassy uplands by different routes.

Na-mon-gin led me along the summit of a broken ridge, but,
evidently, he did not expect to find sheep in the ravines, for he
kept straight on, mile after mile, with never a halt for rest. At
last we reached a point where the plateau rolled away in grassy
waves of brown. We were circling a rounded hill, just below the
crest, when, not thirty yards away, three splendid roe deer jumped
to their feet and stood as though frozen, gazing at us; then, with a
snort, they dashed down the slope and up the other side. They had
not yet disappeared, when two other bucks crossed a ridge into the
bottom of the draw. It was a sore trial to let them go, but the old
hunter had his hand upon my arm and shook his head.

Passing the summit of the hill, we sat down for a look around.
Before us, nearly a mile away, three shallow, grass-filled valleys
dropped steeply from the rolling meadowland. Almost instantly
through my binoculars caught the moving forms of three sheep in the
bottom of the central draw. "_Pan-yang_," I said to the Mongol.
"Yes, yes, I see them," he answered. "One has very big horns." He
was quite right; for the largest ram carried a splendid head, and
the other was by no means small. The third was a tiny ewe. The
animals wandered about nibbling at the grass, but did not move out
of the valley bottom. After studying them awhile the hunter
remarked, "Soon they will go to sleep. We'll wait till then. They
would hear or smell us if we went over now."

I ate one of the three pears I had brought for tiffin and smoked a
cigarette. The hunter stretched himself out comfortably upon the
grass and pulled away at his pipe. It was very pleasant there, for
we were protected from the wind, and the sun was delightfully warm.
I watched the sheep through the glasses and wondered if I should
carry home the splendid ram that night. Finally the little ewe lay
down and the others followed her example.

We were just preparing to go when the hunter touched my arm.
"_Pan-yang_," he whispered. "There, coming over the hill. Don't move."
Sure enough, a sheep was trotting slowly down the hillside in our
direction. Why he did not see or smell us, I cannot imagine, for the
wind was in his direction. But he came on, passed within one hundred
feet, and stopped on the summit of the opposite swell. What a shot!
He was so close that I could have counted the rings on his
horns--and they were good horns, too, just the size we wanted for the
group. But the hunter would not let me shoot. His heart was set upon
the big ram peacefully sleeping a mile away.

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" is a motto which I
have followed with good success in hunting, and I was loath to let
that _argali_ go even for the prospect of the big one across the
valley. But I had a profound respect for the opinion of my hunter.
He usually guessed right, and I had found it safe to follow his
advice.

So we watched the sheep walk slowly over the crest of the hill. The
Mongol did not tell me then, but he knew that the animal was on his
way to join the others, and his silence cost us the big ram. You may
wonder how he knew it. I can only answer that what that Mongol did
not know about the ways of sheep was not worth learning. He seemed
to think as the sheep thought, but, withal, was a most intelligent
and delightful companion. His ready sympathy, his keen humor, and
his interest in helping me get the finest specimens of the animals I
wanted, endeared him to me in a way which only a sportsman can
understand. His Shansi dialect and my limited Mandarin made a
curious combination of the Chinese language, but we could always
piece it out with signs, and we never misunderstood each other on
any important matter.

We had many friendly differences of opinion about the way in which
to conduct a stalk, and his childlike glee when he was proved
correct was most refreshing. One morning I got the better of him,
and for days he could not forget it. We were sitting on a hillside,
and with my glasses I picked up a herd of sheep far away on the
uplands. "Yes," he said, "one is a very big ram." How he could tell
at that distance was a mystery to me, but I did not question his
statement for he had proved too often that his range of sight was
almost beyond belief.

We started toward the sheep, and after half a mile I looked again.
Then I thought I saw a grasscutter, and the animals seemed like
donkeys. I said as much but the hunter laughed. "Why, I saw the
horns," he said. "One is a big one, a _very_ big one." I stopped a
second time and made out a native bending over, cutting grass. But I
could not convince the Mongol. He disdained my glasses and would not
even put them to his eyes. "I don't have to--I _know_ they are
sheep," he laughed. But I, too, was sure. "Well, we'll see," he
said. When we looked again, there could be no mistake; the sheep
were donkeys. It was a treat to watch the Mongol's face, and I made
much capital of his mistake, for he had so often teased me when I
was wrong.

But to return to the sheep across the valley which we were stalking
on that sunlit Thursday noon. After the ram had disappeared we made
our way slowly around the hilltop, whence he had come, to gain a
connecting meadow which would bring us to the ravine where the
_argali_ were sleeping. On the way I was in a fever of indecision.
Ought I to have let that ram go? He was just what we wanted for the
group, and something might happen to prevent a shot at the others.
It was "a bird in the hand" again, and I had been false to the motto
which had so often proved true.

Then the "something" I had feared did happen. We saw a grasscutter
with two donkeys emerge from a ravine on the left and strike along
the grassy bridge five hundred yards beyond us. If he turned to the
right across the upper edge of the meadows, we could whistle for our
sheep. Even if he kept straight ahead, possibly they might scent
him. The Mongol's face was like a thundercloud. I believe he would
have strangled that grasscutter could he have had him in his hands.
But the Fates were kind, and the man with his donkeys kept to the
left across the uplands. Even then my Mongol would not hurry. His
motto was "Slowly, slowly," and we seemed barely to crawl up the
slope of the shallow valley which I hoped still held the sheep.

On the summit of the draw the old hunter motioned me behind him and
cautiously raised his head. Then a little farther. Another step and
a long look. He stood on tiptoe, and, settling back, quietly
motioned me to move up beside him.

Just then a gust of wind swept across the hilltop and into the
ravine. There was a rush of feet, a clatter of sliding rock, and
three _argali_ dashed into view on the opposite slope. They stopped
two hundred yards away. My hunter was frantically whispering, "One
more. Don't shoot. Don't shoot." I was at a loss to understand, for
I knew there were only three sheep in the draw. The two rams both
seemed enormous, and I let drive at the leader. He went down like
lead--shot through the shoulders. The two others ran a few yards and
stopped again. When I fired, the sheep whirled about but did not
fall. I threw in another shell and held the sight well down. The
"putt" of a bullet on flesh came distinctly to us, but the ram stood
without a motion.

The third shot was too much, and he slumped forward, rolled over,
and crashed to the bottom of the ravine. All the time Na-mon-gin was
frantically whispering, "Not right. Not right. The big one. The big
one." As the second sheep went down I learned the reason. Out from
the valley directly below us rushed a huge ram, washed with white on
the neck and shoulders and carrying a pair of enormous, curling
horns. I was too surprised to move. How could four sheep be there,
when I knew there were only three!

Usually I am perfectly cool when shooting and have all my excitement
when the work is done, but the unexpected advent of that ram turned
on the thrills a bit too soon. I forgot what I had whispered to
myself at every shot, "Aim low, aim low. You are shooting down
hill." I held squarely on his gray-white shoulder and pulled the
trigger. The bullet just grazed his back. He ran a few steps and
stopped. Again I fired hurriedly, and the ball missed him by the
fraction of an inch. I saw it strike and came to my senses with a
jerk; but it was too late, for the rifle was empty. Before I could
cram in another shell the sheep was gone.

Na-mon-gin was absolutely disgusted. Even though I had killed two
fine rams, he wanted the big one. "But," I said, "where did the
fourth sheep come from? I saw only three." He looked at me in
amazement. "Didn't you know that the ram which walked by us went
over to the others?" he answered. "Any one ought to have known that
much."

Well, I hadn't known. Otherwise, I should have held my fire. Right
there the Mongol read me a lecture on too much haste. He said I was
like every other foreigner--always in a rush. He said a lot of other
things which I accepted meekly, for I knew that he was right. I
always _am_ in a hurry. Missing that ram had taken most of the joy
out of the others; and to make matters worse, the magnificent animal
stationed himself on the very hillside where we had been sitting
when we saw them first and, with the little ewe close beside him,
watched us for half an hour.

Na-mon-gin glared at him and shook his fist. "We'll get you
to-morrow, you old rabbit," he said; and then to me, "Don't you care.
I won't eat till we kill him."

For the next ten minutes the kindly old Mongol devoted himself to
bringing a smile to my lips. He told me he knew just where that ram
would go; we couldn't have carried in his head anyway; that it would
be much better to save him for to-morrow; and that I had killed the
other two so beautifully that he was proud of me.

I continued to feel better when I saw the two dead _argali_. They
were both fine rams, in perfect condition, with beautiful horns. One
of them was the sheep which had walked so close to us; there was no
doubt of that, for I had been able to see the details of his "face
and figure." Every _argali_ has its own special characters which are
unmistakable. In the carriage of his head, the curve of his horns,
and in coloration, he is as individual as a human being.

While we were examining the sheep, Harry and his hunter appeared
upon the rim of the ravine. They brought with them, on a donkey, the
skin and head of a fine two-year-old ram which he had killed an hour
earlier far beyond us on the uplands. It fitted exactly into our
series, and when we had another big ram and two ewes, the group
would be complete.

Poor Harry was hobbling along just able to walk. He had strained a
tendon in his right leg the previous morning, and had been enduring
the most excruciating pain all day. He wanted to stay and help us
skin the sheep, but I would not let him We were a long way from
camp, and it would require all his strength to get back at all.

At half-past four we finished with the sheep, and tied the skins and
much of the meat on the two donkeys which Harry had commandeered.
Our only way home lay down the river bed, for in the darkness we
could not follow the trail along the cliffs. By six o'clock it was
black night in the gorge.

The donkeys were our only salvation, for by instinct--it couldn't
have been sight--they followed the trail along the base of the
cliffs. By keeping my hands upon the back of the rearmost animal,
and the two Mongols close to me, we got out of the caon and into
the wider valley. When we reached the village I was hungry enough to
eat chips, for I had had only three pears since six o'clock in the
morning, and it was then nine at night.

Harry, limping into camp just after dark, had met my cousin,
Commander Thomas Hutchins, Naval Attache of the American Legation,
and Major Austin Barker of the British Army, whom we had been
expecting. They had reached the village about ten o'clock in the
morning and spent the afternoon shooting hares near a beautiful
temple which Harry had discovered among the hills three miles from
camp. The boys had waited dinner for me, and we ate it amid a gale
of laughter--we were always laughing during the five days that Tom
and Barker were with us.

Harry was out of the hunting the next day because his leg needed a
complete rest. I took Tom out with me, while Barker was piloted by
an old Mongol who gave promise of being a good hunter. Tom and I
climbed the white trail to the summit of the ridge, while Barker
turned off to the left to gain the peaks on the other side of the
gorge. Na-mon-gin was keen for the big ram which I had missed the
day before. He had a very definite impression of just where that
sheep was to be found, and he completely ignored the ravines on
either side of the trail.

Not half a mile from the summit of the pass, the Mongol stopped and
said, "_Pan-yang_-on that ridge across the valley." He looked again
and turned to me with a smile. "It is the same ram," he said. "I
knew he would be here." Sure enough, when I found the sheep with my
glasses, I recognized our old friend. The little ewe was with him,
and they had been joined by another ram carrying a circlet of horns,
not far short of the big fellow's in size.

For half an hour we watched them while the Mongols smoked. The sheep
were standing on the very crest of a ridge across the river, moving
a few steps now and then, but never going far from where we first
discovered them. My hunter said that soon they would go to sleep,
and in less than half an hour they filed down hill into the valley;
then we, too, went down, crossed a low ridge, and descended to the
river's edge. The climb up the other side was decidedly stiff, and
it was nearly an hour before we were peering into the ravine where
the sheep had disappeared. They were not there, and the hunter said
they had gone either up or down the valley--he could not tell which
way.

We went up first, but no sheep. Then we crossed to the ridge where
we had first seen the _argali_ and cautiously looked over a ledge of
rocks. There they were, about three hundred yards below, and on the
alert, for they had seen Tom's hunter, who had carelessly exposed
himself on the crest of the ridge. Tom fired hurriedly, neglecting
to remember that he was shooting down hill, and, consequently,
overshot the big ram. They rushed off, two shots of mine falling
short at nearly four hundred yards as they disappeared behind a
rocky ledge.

My Mongol said that we might intercept them if we hurried, and he
led me a merry chase into the bottom of the ravine and up the other
side. The sheep were there, but standing in an amphitheater formed
by inaccessible cliffs. I advocated going to the ridge above and
trying for a shot, but the hunter scoffed at the idea. He said that
they would surely scent or hear us long before we could see them.

Tom and his Mongol joined us in a short time, and for an hour we lay
in the sunshine waiting for the sheep to compose themselves. It was
delightfully warm, and we were perfectly content to remain all the
afternoon amid the glorious panorama of encircling peaks.

At last Na-mon-gin prepared to leave. He indicated that we were to
go below and that Tom's hunter was to drive the sheep toward us.
When we reached the river, the Mongol placed Tom behind a rock at
the mouth of the amphitheater. He took me halfway up the slope, and
we settled ourselves behind two bowlders.

I was breathing hard from the strenuous climb, and the old fellow
waited until I was ready to shoot; then he gave a signal, and Tom's
hunter appeared at the very summit of the rocky amphitheater.
Instantly the sheep were on the move, running directly toward us.
They seemed to be as large as elephants, for never before had I been
as close to a living _argali_. Just as the animals mounted the crest
of a rocky ledge, not more than fifty yards away, Na-mon-gin
whistled sharply, and the sheep stopped as though turned to stone.

"Now," he whispered, "shoot." As I brought my rifle to the level it
banged in the air. I had been showing the hunters how to use the
delicate set-trigger, and had carelessly left it on. The sheep
instantly dashed away, but there was only one avenue of escape, and
that was down hill past me. My second shot broke the hind leg of the
big ram; the third struck him in the abdomen, low down, and he
staggered, but kept on. The sheep had reached the bottom of the
valley before my fourth bullet broke his neck.

Tom opened fire when the other ram and the ewe appeared at the mouth
of the amphitheater, but his rear sight had been loosened in the
climb down the cliff, and his shots went wild. It was hard luck, for
I was very anxious to have him kill an _argali_.

The abdomen shot would have finished the big ram eventually, and I
might have killed the other before it crossed the creek; but
experience has taught me that it is best to take no chances with a
wounded animal in rough country such as this. I have lost too many
specimens by being loath to finish them off when they were badly
hit.

[Illustration: Where the Bighorn Sheep Are Found]

[Illustration: A Mongolian Roebuck]

My ram was a beauty. His horns were almost equal to those of the
record head which Harry had killed on the first day, but one of them
was marred by a broken tip. The old warrior must have weathered
nearly a score of winters and have had many battles. But his new
coat was thick and fine--the most beautiful of any we had seen. As
he lay in the bottom of the valley I was impressed again by the
enormous size of an _argali's_ body. There was an excellent
opportunity to compare it with a donkey's, for before we had
finished our smoke, a Mongol arrived driving two animals before him.
The sheep was about one-third larger than the donkey, and with his
tremendous neck and head must have weighed a great deal more.

After the ram had been skinned Tom and I left the men to pack in the
meats skin, and head, while we climbed to the summit of the pass and
wandered slowly home in the twilight. Major Barker came in shortly
after we reached the village. He was almost done, for his man had
taken him into the rough country north of camp. A strenuous day for
a man just from the city, but Barker was enthusiastic. Even though
he had not killed a ram, he had wounded one in the leg and had
counted twenty sheep--more than either Harry or I had seen during
the entire time we had been at Wu-shi-tu.

When we awoke at five o'clock in the morning, Torn stretched himself
very gingerly and remarked that the only parts of him which weren't
sore were his eyelids! Harry was still _hors de combat_ with the
strained tendon in his leg, and I had the beginning of an attack of
influenza. Barker admitted that his joints "creaked" considerably;
still, he was full of enthusiasm. We started off together but
separated when six miles from camp. He found sheep on the uplands
almost at once, but did not get a head. Barker was greatly
handicapped by using a special model U.S. Army Springfield rifle,
which weighed almost as much as a machine gun, and could not have
been less fitted for hunting in rough country. No man ever worked
harder for an _argali_ than he did, and he deserved the best head in
the mountains. By noon I was burning with fever and almost unable to
drag myself back to camp. I arrived at four o'clock, just after Tom
returned. He had not seen a sheep.

The Major hunted next day, but was unsuccessful, and none of us went
to the mountains again, for I had nearly a week in bed, and Harry
was only able to hobble about the court. On the 28th of October, Tom
and Barker left for Peking. Harry and I were sorry to have them
leave us. I have camped with many men in many countries of the
world, but with no two who were better field companions. Neither
Harry nor I will ever forget the happy days with them.

It was evident that I could not hunt again for at least a week,
although I could sit a horse. We had seven sheep, and the group was
assured; therefore, we decided to shift camp to the wapiti country,
fifty miles away hoping that by the time we reached there, we both
would be fit again.



CHAPTER XVI

THE "HORSE-DEER" OF SHANSI

All the morning our carts had bumped and rattled over the stones in
a somber valley one hundred and fifty _li_ from where we had killed
the sheep [Footnote: A _li_ equals about one-third of a mile]. With
every mile the precipitous cliffs pressed in more closely upon us
until at last the gorge was blocked by a sheer wall of rock. Our
destination was a village named Wu-tai-hai, but there appeared to be
no possible place for a village in that narrow caon.

We were a quarter of a mile from the barrier before we could
distinguish a group of mud-walled huts, seemingly plastered against
the rock like a collection of swallows' nests. No one but a Chinese
would have dreamed of building a house in that desolate place. It
was Wu-tai-hai, without a doubt, and Harry and I rode forward to
investigate.

At the door of a tiny hut we were met by one of our Chinese
taxidermists. He ushered us into the court and, with a wave of his
hand, announced, "This is the American Legation." The yard was a
mass of straw and mud. From the gaping windows of the house bits of
torn paper fluttered in the wind; inside, at one end of the largest
room, was a bed platform made of mud; at the other, a fat mother hog
with five squirming "piglets" sprawled contentedly on the dirt
floor. Six years before Colonel (then Captain) Thomas Holcomb, of
the United States Marine Corps, had spent several days at this but
while hunting elk. Therefore, it will be known to Peking Chinese
until the end of time as the "American Legation."

An inspection of the remaining houses in the village disclosed no
better quarters, so our boys ousted the sow and her family, swept
the house, spread the _kang_ and floor with clean straw, and pasted
fresh paper over the windows. We longed to use our tents, but there
was nothing except straw or grass to burn, and cooking would be
impossible. The villagers were too poor to buy coal from
Kwei-hua-cheng, forty miles away, and there was not a sign of wood on
the bare, brown hills.

At the edge of the _kang_, in these north Shansi houses, there is
always a clay stove which supports a huge iron pot. A hand bellows
is built into the side of the stove, and by feeding straw or grass
with one hand and energetically manipulating the bellows with the
other, a fire sufficient for simple cooking is obtained.

Except for a few hours of the day the house is as cold as the yard
outside, but the natives mind it not at all. Men and women alike
dress in sheepskin coats and padded cotton trousers. They do not
expect to remove their clothing when they come indoors, and warmth,
except at night, is a nonessential in their scheme of life. A system
of flues draws the heat from the cooking fires underneath the
_kang_, and the clay bricks retain their temperature for several
hours.

At best the north China natives lead a cheerless existence in
winter. The house is not a home. Dark, cold, dirty, it is merely a
place in which to eat and sleep. There is no home-making instinct in
the Chinese wife, for a centuries' old social system, based on the
Confucian ethics, has smothered every thought of the privileges of
womanhood. Her place is to cook, sew, and bear children; to reflect
only the thoughts of her lord and master--to have none of her own.

Wu-tai-hai was typical of villages of its class in all north China;
mud huts, each with a tiny courtyard, built end to end in a corner
of the hillside. A few acres of ground in the valley bottom and on
the mountain side capable of cultivation yield enough wheat, corn,
turnips, cabbages, and potatoes to give the natives food. Their life
is one of work with few pleasures, and yet they are content because
they know nothing else.

Imagine, then, what it meant when we suddenly injected ourselves
into their midst. We had come from a world beyond the mountains--a
world of which they had sometimes heard, but which was as unreal to
them as that of another planet. Europe and America were merely
names. A few had learned from passing soldiers that these strange
men in that dim, far land had been fighting among themselves and
that China, too, was in some vague way connected with the struggle.

But it had not affected them in their tiny rock-bound village. Their
world was encompassed within the valley walls or, in its uttermost
limits, extended to Kwei-hua-cheng, forty miles away. They knew,
even, that a "fire carriage" running on two rails of steel came
regularly to Feng-chen, four days' travel to the east, but few of
them had ever seen it. So it was almost as unreal as stories of the
war and aeroplanes and automobiles.

All the village gathered at the "American Legation" while we
unpacked our carts. They gazed in silent awe at our guns and cameras
and sleeping bags, but the trays of specimens brought forth an
active response. Here was something that was a part of their own
life--something they could understand. Mice and rabbits like these
they had seen in their own fields; that weasel was the same kind of
animal which sometimes stole their chickens. They pointed to the
rocks when they saw a red-legged partridge, and told us there were
many there; also pheasants.

Why we wanted the skins they could not understand, of course. I told
them that we would take them far away across the ocean to America
and put them in a great house as large as that hill across the
valley; but they smilingly shook their heads. The ocean meant
nothing to them, and as for a house as large as a hill--well, there
never could be such a place. They were perfectly sure of that.

We had come to Wu-tai-hai to hunt wapiti--_ma-lu_ (horse-deer) the
natives call them--and they assured us that we could find them on
the mountains behind the village. Only last night, said one of the
men, he had seen four standing on the hillside. Two had antlers as
long as that stick, but they were no good now--the horns were
hard--we should have come in the spring when they were soft. Then each
pair was worth $150, at least, and big ones even more. The doctors
make wonderful medicine from the horns--only a little of it would
cure any disease no matter how bad it was. They themselves could not
get the _ma-lu_, for the soldiers had long since taken away all
their guns, but they would show us where they were.

It was pleasant to hear all this, for we wanted some of those wapiti
very badly, indeed. It is one of the links in the chain of evidence
connecting the animals of the Old World and the New--the problem
which makes Asia the most fascinating hunting ground of all the
earth.

When the early settlers first penetrated the forests of America they
found the great deer which the Indians called "wapiti." It was
supposed for many years that it inhabited only America, but not long
ago similar deer were discovered in China, Manchuria, Korea,
Mongolia, Siberia, and Turkestan, where undoubtedly the American
species originated. Its white discoverers erroneously named the
animal "elk," but as this title properly belongs to the European
"moose," sportsmen have adopted the Indian name "wapiti" to avoid
confusion. Of course, changed environment developed different
"species" in all the animals which migrated from Asia either to
Europe or America, but their relationships are very close, indeed.

The particular wapiti which we hoped to get at Wu-tai-hai
represented a species almost extinct in China. Because of relentless
persecution when the antlers are growing and in the "velvet" and
continual cutting of the forests only a few individuals remain in
this remote corner of northern Shansi Province. These will soon all
be killed, for the railroad is being extended to within a few miles
of their last stronghold, and sportsmen will flock to the hills from
the treaty ports of China.

Our first hunt was on November first. We left camp by a short cut
behind the village and descended to the bowlder-strewn bed of the
creek which led into a tremendous gorge. We felt very small and
helpless as our eyes traveled up the well-nigh vertical walls to the
ragged edge of the chasm a thousand feet above us. The mightiness of
it all was vaguely depressing, and it was with a distinct feeling of
relief that we saw the caon widen suddenly into a gigantic
amphitheater. In its very center, rising from a ragged granite
pedestal, a pinnacle of rock, crowned by a tiny temple, shot into
the air. It was three hundred feet, at least, from the stream bed to
the summit of the spire--and what a colossal task it must have been
to transport the building materials for the temple up the sheer
sides of rock! The valley sinners must gain much merit from the
danger and effort involved in climbing there to worship.

Farther on we passed two villages and then turned off to the right
up a tributary valley. We were anxiously looking for signs of
forest, but the only possible cover was in a few ravines where a
sparse growth of birch and poplar bushes, not more than six or eight
feet high, grew on the north slope. Moreover, we could see that the
valley ended in open rolling uplands.

[Illustration: The Head of the Record Ram]

[Illustration: Map of Mongolia and China, Showing Route of Second
Asiatic Expedition in Broken Lines]

Turning to Na-mon-gin, I said, "How much farther are the _ma-lu_?"
"Here," he answered. "We have already arrived. They are in the
bushes on the mountain side."

Caldwell and I were astounded. The idea of looking for wapiti in
such a place seemed too absurd! There was hardly enough cover
successfully to conceal a rabbit, to say nothing of an animal as
large as a horse. Nevertheless, the hunters assured us that the
_ma-lu_ were there, and we began to take a new interest in the birch
scrub. Almost immediately we saw three roebuck near the rim of one
of the ravines, their white rump-patches showing conspicuously as
they bobbed about in the thin cover. We could have killed them
easily, but the hunters would not let us shoot, for we were after
larger game.

A few moments later we separated, Harry keeping on up the main
valley, while my hunter and I turned into a patch of brush directly
above us. We had not gone fifty yards when there was a crash, a rush
of feet, and four wapiti dashed through the bushes. The three cows
kept straight on, but the bull stopped just on the crest of the
ridge directly behind a thick screen of twigs. My rifle was sighted
at the huge body dimly visible through the branches. In a moment I
would have touched the trigger, but the hunter caught my arm,
whispering frantically, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

Of course I knew it was a long chance, for the bullet almost
certainly would have been deflected by the twigs, but those splendid
antlers seemed very near and very, very desirable. I lowered my
rifle reluctantly, and the bull disappeared over the hill crest
whence the cows had gone.

"They'll stop in the next ravine," said the hunter, but when we
cautiously peered over the ridge the animals were not there--nor
were they in the next. At last we found their trail leading into the
grassy uplands; but the possibility of finding wapiti, these animals
of the forests, on those treeless slopes seemed too absurd even to
consider. Yet, the old Mongol kept straight on across the rolling
meadow.

Suddenly, off at the right, Harry's rifle banged three times in
quick succession--then an interval, and two more shots. Ten seconds
later three wapiti cows showed black against the sky line. They were
coming fast and straight toward us. We flattened ourselves in the
grass, lying as motionless as two gray bowlders, and a moment later
another wapiti appeared behind the cows. As the sun glistened on his
branching antlers there was no doubt that he was a bull, and a big
one, too.

The cows were headed to pass about two hundred yards above us and
behind the hill crest. I could easily have reached the summit where
they, would have been at my mercy, but lower down the big bull also
was coming, and the hunter would not let me move. "Wait, wait," he
whispered, "we'll surely get him. Wait, we can't lose him."

"What about that ravine?" I answered. "He'll go into the cover. He
will never come across this open hillside. I'm going to shoot."

"No, no, he won't turn there. I am sure he won't." The Mongol was
right. The big fellow ran straight toward us until he came to the
entrance to the valley. My heart was in my mouth as he stopped for
an instant and looked down into the cover. Then, for some strange
reason, he turned and cane on. Three hundred yards away he halted
suddenly, swung about, and looked at the ravine again as if half
decided to go back.

He was standing broadside, and at the crash of my rifle we could
hear the soft thud of the bullet striking flesh; but without a sign
of injury he ran forward and stopped under a swell of ground. I
could see just ten inches of his back and the magnificent head. It
was a small target at three hundred yards, and I missed him twice.
With the greatest care I held the little ivory bead well down on
that thin brown line, but the bullet only creased his back. It was
no use--I simply could not hit him. Running up the hill a few feet,
I had his Whole body exposed, and the first shot put him down for
good.

With a whoop of joy my old Mongol dashed down the steep slope. I had
never seen him excited while we were hunting sheep, but now he was
wild with delight. Before he had quieted we saw Harry coming over
the hill where the wapiti had first appeared. He told us that he had
knocked the bull down at long range and had expected to find him
dead until he heard me shooting. We found where his bullet had
struck the wapiti in the shoulder, yet the animal was running as
though untouched.

I examined the bull with the greatest interest, for it was the first
Asiatic wapiti of this species that I had ever seen. Its splendid
antlers carried eleven points but they were not as massive in the
beam or as sharply bent backward at the tips as are those of the
American elk. Because of its richer coloration, however, it was
decidedly handsomer than any of the American animals.

But the really extraordinary thing was to find the wapiti there at
all. It seemed as incongruous as the first automobile that I saw
upon the Gobi Desert, for in every other part of the world the
animal is a resident of the park-like openings in the forests. Here
not a twig or bush was in sight, only the rolling, grass-covered
uplands. Undoubtedly these mountains had been wooded many years ago,
and as the trees were cut away, the animals had no alternative
except to die or adapt themselves to almost plains conditions. The
sparse birch scrub in the ravines still afforded them limited
protection during the day, but they could feed only at night. It was
a case of rapid adaptation to changed environment such as I have
seen nowhere else in all the world.

The wapiti, of course, owed their continued existence to the fact
that the Chinese villagers of the valley had no firearms; otherwise,
when the growing antlers set a price upon their heads, they would
all have been exterminated within a year or two.



CHAPTER XVII

WAPITI, ROEBUCK, AND GORAL

After the first day we left the "American Legation" and moved camp
to one of two villages at the upper end of the valley about a mile
nearer the hunting grounds. There were only half a dozen huts, but
they were somewhat superior to those of Wu-tai-hai, and we were able
to make ourselves fairly comfortable. The usual threshing floor of
hard clay adjoined each house, and all day we could hear the steady
beat, beat, beat, of the flails pounding out the wheat.

The grain was usually freed from chaff by the simple process of
throwing it into the air when a brisk wind was blowing, but we saw
several hand winnowing machines which were exceedingly ingenious and
very effective. The wheat was ground between two circular stones
operated by a blindfolded donkey which plodded round and round tied
to a shaft. Of course, had the animal been able to see he would not
have walked continuously in a circle without giving trouble to his
master.

Behind our new house the cliffs rose in sheer walls for hundreds of
feet, and red-legged partridges, or chuckars, were always calling
from some ledge or bowlder. We could have excellent shooting at
almost any hour of the day and often picked up pheasants, bearded
partridges, and rabbits in the tiny fields across the stream.
Besides the wapiti and roebuck, goral were plentiful on the cliffs
and there were a few sheep in the lower valley. Altogether it was a
veritable game paradise, but one which I fear will last only a few
years longer.

We found that the wapiti were not as easy to kill as the first day's
hunt had given us reason to believe. The mountains, separated by
deep ravines, were so high and precipitous that if the deer became
alarmed and crossed a valley it meant a climb of an hour or more to
reach the crest of the new ridge. It was killing work, and we
returned to camp every night utterly exhausted.

The concentration of animal life in these scrub-filled gorges was
really extraordinary, and I hope that a "game hog" never finds that
valley. Probably in no other part of China can one see as many
roebuck in a space so limited. It is due, of course, to the unusual
conditions. Instead of being scattered over a large area, as is
usual in the forest where there is an abundance of cover, the
animals are confined to the few ravines in which brush remains. The
surrounding open hills isolate them almost as effectively as though
they were encircled by water; when driven from one patch of cover
they can only run to the next valley.

The facility with which the roebuck and wapiti had adapted
themselves to utterly new conditions was a continual marvel to me,
and I never lost the feeling of surprise when I saw the animals on
the open hillside or running across the rolling, treeless uplands.
Had an elephant or a rhinoceros suddenly appeared in place of a
deer, it would not have seemed more incongruous.

After we had killed the first wapiti we did not fire a shot for two
days, even though roebuck were all about us and we wanted a series
for the Museum. This species, _Capreolus bedfordi_, is smaller both
in body and in antlers than the one we obtained in Mongolia and
differs decidedly in coloration.

On the second hunt I, alone, saw forty-five roebuck, and Harry, who
was far to the north of me, counted thirty-one. The third day we
were together and put out at least half as many. During that time we
saw two wapiti, but did not get a shot at either. Both of us were
becoming decidedly tired of passing specimens which we wanted badly
and decided to go for roebuck regardless of the possibility of
frightening wapiti by the shooting. Na-mon-gin and the other hunters
were disgusted with our decision, for they were only interested in
the larger game. For the first two drives they worked only
half-heartedly, and although seventeen deer were put out of one
ravine, they escaped without giving us a shot.

Harry and I held a council of war with the natives and impressed
upon them the fact that we were intending to hunt roebuck that day
regardless of their personal wishes. They realized that we were not
to be dissuaded and prepared to drive the next patch of cover in a
really businesslike manner.

Na-mon-gin took me to a position on the edge of a projecting rock to
await the natives. As they appeared on the rim of the ravine we saw
five roe deer move in the bushes where they had been asleep. Four of
them broke back through the line of beaters, but one fine buck came
straight toward us. He ran up the slope and crossed a rock-saddle
almost beneath me, but I did not fire until he was well away on the
opposite hillside; then he plunged forward in his tracks, dead.

Without moving from our position we sent the men over the crest of
the mountain to drive the ravines on the other side. The old Mongol
and I stretched out upon the rock and smoked for half an hour, while
I tried to tell him in my best Chinese--which is very bad--the story
of a bear hunt in Alaska. I had just killed the bear, in my
narrative, when we saw five roebuck appear on the sky line. They
trotted straight toward Harry, and in a moment we heard two shots in
quick succession. I knew that meant at least one more deer.

Five minutes later we made out a roebuck rounding the base of the
spur on which we sat. It seemed no larger than a brown rabbit at
that distance, but the animal was running directly up the bottom of
the ravine which we commanded. It was a buck carrying splendid
antlers and we watched him come steadily on until he was almost
below us.

Na-mon-gin whispered, "Don't shoot until he stops"; but it seemed
that the animal would cross the ridge without a pause. He was almost
at the summit when he halted for an instant, facing directly away
from us. I fired, and the buck leaped backward shot through the
neck.

Na-mon-gin was in high good humor, for I had killed two deer with
two shots. Harry brought a splendid doe which he had bored neatly
through the body as it dashed at full speed across the valley below
him. Even the old Mongol had to admit that the wapiti could not have
been greatly disturbed by the shooting, and all the men were as
pleased as children. There was meat enough for all our boys as well
as for the beaters.

Our next day's hunt was for goral on the precipitous cliffs north of
camp. Goral belong to a most interesting group of mammals known as
the "goat-antelopes" because of the intermediate position which they
occupy between the true antelope and the goats. The takin, serow,
and goral are the Asiatic members of this sub-family, the
_Rupicaprinae_, which is represented in America by the so-called
Rocky Mountain goat and in Europe by the chamois. The goral might be
called the Asiatic chamois, for its habits closely resemble those of
its European relative.

I had killed twenty-five goral in Yn-nan on the first Asiatic
expedition and, therefore, was not particularly keen, from the
sporting standpoint, about shooting others. But we did need several
specimens, since the north China goral represents a different
species, _Nemorhaedus caudatus_, from the one we had obtained in
Yn-nan, which is _N. griseus_.

Moreover, Harry was exceedingly anxious to get several of the
animals for he had not been very successful with them. He had shot
one at Wu-shi-tu, while we were hunting sheep, and after wounding
two others at Wu-tai-hai had begun to learn how hard they are to
kill.

The thousand-foot climb up the almost perpendicular cliff was one of
the most difficult bits of going which we encountered anywhere in
the mountains, and I was ready for a rest in the sun when we reached
the summit. Although my beaters were not successful in putting out a
goral, we heard Harry shoot once away to the right; and half an hour
later I saw him through my binoculars accompanied by one of his men
who carried a goral on his shoulders.

On the way Harry disturbed a goral which ran down the sheer wall
opposite to us at full speed, bouncing from rock to rock as though
made of India rubber. It was almost inconceivable that anything
except a bird could move along the face of that cliff, and yet the
goral ran apparently as easily as though it had been on level
ground. I missed it beautifully and the animal disappeared into a
cave among the rocks. Although I sent two bullets into the hole,
hoping to drive out the beast, it would not move. Two beaters made
their way from above to within thirty feet of the hiding place and
sent down a shower of dirt and stones, but still there was no sign
of action. Then another native climbed up from below at the risk of
his life, and just as he gained the ledge which led to the cave the
goral leaped out. The Mongol yelled with fright, for the animal
nearly shoved him off the rocks and dashed into the bottom of the
ravine where it took refuge in another cave.

I would not have taken that thousand-foot climb again for all the
gorals in China, but Harry started down at once. The animal again
remained in its cave until a beater was opposite the entrance and
then shot out like an arrow almost into Harry's face. He was so
startled that he missed it twice.

I decided to abandon goral hunting for that day. Na-mon-gin took me
over the summit of the ridge with two beaters and we found roebuck
at once. I returned to camp with two bucks and a doe. In the lower
valley I met Harry carrying a shotgun and accompanied by a boy
strung about with pheasants and chuckars. After losing the goral he
had toiled up the mountain again but had found only two roebuck, one
of which he shot.

Our second wapiti was killed on November seventh. It was a raw day
with an icy wind blowing across the ridges where we lay for half an
hour while the beaters bungled a drive for twelve roebuck which had
gone into a scrub-filled ravine. The animals eluded us by running
across a hilltop which should have been blocked by a native, and I
got only one shot at a fox. The report of my rifle disturbed eight
wapiti which the beaters discovered as they crossed the uplands in
the direction of another patch of cover a mile away.

It was a long, cold walk over the hills against the biting wind, and
after driving one ravine unsuccessfully Harry descended to the
bottom of a wide valley, while I continued parallel with him on the
summit of the ridge. Three roebuck suddenly jumped from a shallow
ravine in front of me, and one of them, a splendid buck, stopped
behind a bush. It was too great a temptation, so I fired; but the
bullet went to pieces in the twigs and never reached its mark. Harry
saw the deer go over the hill and ran around the base of a rocky
shoulder just in time to intercept three wapiti which my shot had
started down the ravine. He dropped behind a bowlder and let a cow
and a calf pass within a few yards of him, for he saw the antlers of
a bull rocking along just behind a tiny ridge. As the animal came
into view he sent a bullet into his shoulder, and a second ball a
few inches behind the first. The elk went down but got to his feet
again, and Harry put him under for good with a third shot in the
hip.

Looking up he saw another bull, alone, emerging from a patch of
cover on the summit of the opposite slope four hundred yards away.
He fired point-blank, but the range was a bit too long and his
bullet kicked up a cloud of snow under the animal's belly.

I was entirely out of the race on the summit of the hill, for the
nearest wapiti was fully eight hundred yards away. Harry's bull was
somewhat smaller than the first one we had killed, but had an even
more beautiful coat.

We were pretty well exhausted from the week's strenuous climbing and
spent Sunday resting and looking after the small mammal work which
our Chinese taxidermists had been carrying on under my direction.

Monday morning we were on the hunting grounds shortly after sunrise.
At the first drive a beautiful buck roe deer ran out of a ravine
into the main valley where I was stationed. Suddenly he caught sight
of us where we sat under a rock and stopped with head thrown up and
one foot raised. I shall never forget the beautiful picture which he
made standing there against the background of snow with the sun
glancing on his antlers. Before I could shoot he was off at top
speed bounding over the bushes parallel to us. My first shot just
creased his back, but the second caught him squarely in the
shoulder, while he was in mid-air, turning him over in a complete
somersault.

A few moments later we saw the two beaters on the hill run toward
each other excitedly and felt sure they had seen something besides
roebuck. When they reached us they reported that seven wapiti had
run out directly between them and over the ridge.

The climb to the top of the mountain was an ordeal. It was the
highest ridge on that side of the valley and every time we reached
what appeared to be the crest, another and higher summit loomed
above us. We followed the tracks of the animals into a series of
ravines which ran down on the opposite side of the mountain and
tried a drive. It was too large a territory for our four beaters,
and the animals escaped unobserved up one of the valleys. Na-mon-gin
and I sat on the hillside for an hour in the icy wind. We were both
shaking with cold and I doubt if I could have hit a wapiti if it had
stopped fifty feet away.

Harry saw a young elk go into a mass of birch scrub in the bottom of
the valley, and when he descended to drive it out, his hunter
discovered a huge bull walking slowly up a ravine not two hundred
yards from me but under cover of the hill and beyond my sight.

A little before dark we started home by way of a deep ravine which
extended out to the main valley. We were talking in a low tone and I
was smoking a cigarette--my rifle slung over my shoulder. Suddenly
Harry exclaimed, "Great Scott, Roy! There's a _ma-lu_."

On the instant his rifle banged, and I looked up just in time to see
a bull wapiti stop on an open slope of the ravine about ninety yards
away. Before I had unslung my rifle Harry fired again, but he could
not see the notch in his rear sight and both bullets went high.

Through the peep sight in my Mannlicher the animal was perfectly
visible, and when I fired, the bull dropped like lead, rolling over
and over down the hill. He attempted to get to his feet but was
unable to stand, and I put him down for good with a second shot. It
all happened so quickly that we could hardly realize that a day of
disappointment had ended in success.

On our way back to camp Harry and I decided that this would end our
hunt, for we had three fine bulls, and it was evident that only a
very few wapiti remained. The species is doomed to early extinction
for, with the advent of the railroad, the last stand which the elk
have made by means of their extraordinary adaptation to changed
conditions will soon become easily accessible to foreign sportsmen.
We at least could keep our consciences clear and not hasten the
inevitable day by undue slaughter. In western China other species of
wapiti are found in greater numbers, but there can be only one end
to the persecution to which they are subjected during the season
when they are least able to protect themselves.

It is too much to hope that China will make effective game laws
before the most interesting and important forms of her wild life
have disappeared, but we can do our best to preserve in museums for
future generations records of the splendid animals of the present.
Not only are they a part of Chinese history, but they belong to all
the world, for they furnish some of the evidence from which it is
possible to write the fascinating story of those dim, dark ages when
man first came upon the earth.



CHAPTER XVIII

WILD PIGS-ANIMAL AND HUMAN

Shansi Province is famous for wild boar among the sportsmen of
China. In the central part there are low mountains and deep ravines
thickly forested with a scrub growth of pine and oak. The acorns are
a favorite food of the pigs, and the pigs are a favorite food of the
Chinese--and of foreigners, too, for that matter. No domestic pork
that I have ever tasted can excel a young acorn-fed wild pig! Even a
full-grown sow is delicious, but beware of an old boar; not only is
he tough beyond description, but his flesh is so "strong" that it
annoys me even to see it cooked. I tried to eat some boar meat, once
upon a time--that is why I feel so deeply about it.

It is useless to hunt wild pig until the leaves are off the trees,
for your only hope is to find them feeding on the hillsides in the
morning or early evening. Then they will often come into the open or
the thin forests, and you can have a fair shot across a ravine or
from the summit of a hill. If they are in the brush it is well-nigh
impossible to see them at all. A wild boar is very clever at eluding
his pursuers, and for his size can carry off more lead and requires
more killing than any other animal of which I know. Therefore, you
may be sure of a decidedly interesting hunt. On the other hand, an
unsuspecting pig is easy to stalk, for his eyesight is not good; his
sense of smell is not much better; and he depends largely upon
hearing to protect him from enemies.

In Tientsin and Shanghai there are several sportsmen who year after
year go to try for record tusks--they are the real authorities on
wild boar hunting. My own experience has been limited to perhaps a
dozen pigs killed in Korea, Mongolia, Celebes, and various parts of
China.

Harry Caldwell and I returned from our bighorn sheep and wapiti hunt
on November 19. He was anxious to go with me for wild boar, but
business required his presence in Foochow, and Everett Smith, who
had been my companion on a trip to the Eastern Tombs the previous
spring, volunteered to accompany me. We left on November 28 by the
Peking-Hankow Railroad for Ping-ting-cho, arriving the following
afternoon at two o'clock. There we obtained donkeys for pack and
riding animals. All the traffic in this part of Shansi is by mules
or donkeys. As a result the inns are small, with none of the
spacious courtyards which we had found in the north of the province.
They were not particularly dirty, but the open coal fires which
burned in every kitchen sometimes drove us outside for a breath of
untainted air. How it is possible for human beings to exist in rooms
so filled with coal gas is beyond my knowledge. Of course, death
from gas poisoning is not unusual, but I suppose the natives have
become somewhat immune to its effects.

Our destination was a tiny village in the mountains about eight
miles beyond Ho-shun, a city of considerable size in the very center
of the province. Tai-yuan-fu, the capital, at the end of the
railway, is a famous place for pigs; but they have been hunted so
persistently in recent years that few remain within less than two or
three days' journey from the city.

It was a three days' trip from the railroad to Ho-shun, and there
was little of interest to distinguish the road from any other in
north China. It is always monotonous to travel with pack animals or
carts, for they go so slowly that you can make only two or three
miles an hour, at best. If there happens to be shooting along the
way, as there is in most parts of Shansi, it helps to pass the time.
We picked up a few pheasants, some chuckars, and a dozen pigeons,
but did not stop to do any real hunting until we entered a wooded
valley and established ourselves in a fairly comfortable Chinese but
at the little village of Kao-chia-chuang. On the way in we met a
party of Christian Brother missionaries who had been hunting in the
vicinity for five days. They had seen ten or twelve pigs and had
killed a splendid boar weighing about three hundred and fifty pounds
as well as two roebuck.

The mountains near the village had been so thoroughly hunted that
there was little chance of finding pigs, but nevertheless we decided
to stay for a day or two. I killed a two-year-old roebuck on the
first afternoon; and the next morning, while Smith and I were
resting on a mountain trail, one of our men saw an enormous wild
boar trot across an open ridge and disappear into a heavily forested
ravine. I selected a post on a projecting shoulder, while one
Chinese went with Smith to pick up the trail of the pig. There were
so many avenues of escape open to the boar that I had to remain
where it was possible to watch a large expanse of country.

Smith had not yet reached the bottom of the ravine when the native
who had remained with me suddenly began to gesticulate wildly and to
point to a wooded slope directly in front of us. He hopped about
like a man who has suddenly lost his mind and succeeded in keeping
in front of me so that I could see nothing but his waving arms and
writhing body. Finally seizing him by the collar, I threw him to the
ground so violently that he realized his place was behind me. Then I
saw the pig running along a narrow trail, silhouetted against the
snow which lay thinly on the shaded side of the hill.

He was easily three hundred and fifty yards away and I had little
hope of hitting him, but I selected an open patch beyond a bit of
cover and fired as he emerged. The boar squealed and plunged forward
into the bushes. A moment later he reappeared, zigzagging his way up
the slope and only visible through the trees when he crossed a patch
of snow. I emptied the magazine of my rife in a futile bombardment,
but the boar crossed the summit and disappeared.

We picked up his bloody trail and for two hours followed it through
a tangled mass of scrub and thorns. It seemed certain that we must
find him at any moment, for great red blotches stained the snow
wherever he stopped to rest. At last the trail led us across an open
ridge, and the snow and blood suddenly ceased. We could not follow
his footprints in the thick grass and abandoned the chase just
before dark.

Two more days of unsuccessful hunting convinced us that the
missionaries had driven the pigs to other cover. There was a region
twelve miles away to which they might have gone, and we shifted camp
to a village named Tziloa a mile or more from the scrub-covered
hills which we wished to investigate.

The natives of this part of the country were in no sense hunters.
They were farmers who, now that the crops were harvested, had plenty
of leisure time and were glad to roam the hills with us. Although
their eyesight was remarkable and they were able to see a pig twice
as far as we could, they had no conception of stalking the game or
of how to hunt it. When we began to shoot, instead of watching the
pigs, they were always so anxious to obtain the empty cartridge
cases that a wild scramble ensued after every shot. They were like
street boys fighting for a penny. It was a serious handicap for
successful hunting, and they kept me in such a state of irritation
that I never shot so badly in all my life.

We found pigs at Tziloa immediately. The carts went by road to the
village, while Smith and I, with two Chinese, crossed the mountains.
On the summit of a ridge not far from the village we met eight
native hunters. Two of them had ancient muzzle-loading guns but the
others only carried staves. Evidently their method of hunting was to
surround the pigs and drive them close up to the men with firearms.

We persuaded one of the Chinese, a boy of eighteen, with cross-eyes
and a funny, dried-up little face, to accompany us, for our two
guides wished to return that night to Kao-chia-chuang. He led us
down a spur which projected northward from the main ridge, and in
ten minutes we discovered five pigs on the opposite side of a deep
ravine. The sun lay warmly on the slope, and the animals were lazily
rooting in the oak scrub. They were a happy family--a boar, a sow,
and three half-grown piglets.

We slipped quietly among the trees until we were directly opposite
to them and not more than two hundred yards away. The boar and the
sow had disappeared behind a rocky corner, and the others were
slowly following so that the opportunity for a shot would soon be
lost. Telling Smith to take the one on the left, I covered another
which stood half facing me. At the roar of my rifle the ravine was
filled with wild squeals, and the pig rolled down the hill bringing
up against a tree. The boar rushed from behind the rock, and I fired
quickly as he stood broadside on. He plunged out of sight, and the
gorge was still!

Smith had missed his pig and was very much disgusted. The three
Chinese threw themselves down the slope, slipping and rolling over
logs and stones, and were up the opposite hill before we reached the
bottom of the ravine. They found the pig which I had killed and a
blood-splashed trail leading around the hill where the boar had
disappeared.

My pig was a splendid male in the rich red-brown coat of
adolescence. The bullet had struck him "amidships" and shattered the
hip on the opposite side. From the blood on the trail we decided
that I had shot the big boar through the center of the body about
ten inches behind the forelegs.

We had learned by experience how much killing a full-grown pig
required, and had no illusions about finding him dead a few yards
away, even though both sides of his path were blotched with red at
every step. Therefore, while the Chinese followed the trail, Smith
and I sprinted across the next ridge into a thickly forested ravine
to head off the boar.

We took stations several yards apart, and suddenly I heard Smith's
rifle bang six times in quick succession. The Chinese had disturbed
the pig from a patch of cover and it had climbed the opposite hill
slope in full view of Smith, who apparently had missed it every
time. Missing a boar dodging about among the bushes is not such a
difficult thing to do, and although poor Smith was too disgusted
even to talk about it, I had a good deal of sympathy for him.

We had little hope of getting the animal when we climbed to the
summit of the ridge and saw the tangle of brush into which it had
disappeared, but nevertheless we followed the trail which was still
showing blood. I was in front and was just letting myself down a
snow-covered bowlder, when far below me I saw a huge sow and a young
pig walking slowly through the trees. I turned quickly, lost my
balance, and slipped feet first over the rock into a mass of thorns
and scrub. A locomotive could not have made more noise, and I
extricated myself just in time to see the two pigs disappear into a
grove of pines. I was bleeding from a dozen scratches, but I climbed
to the summit of the ridge and dashed forward hoping to cut them off
if they crossed below me. They did not appear, and we tried to drive
them out from the cover into which they had made their way; but we
never saw them again. It was already beginning to grow dark and too
late to pick up the trail of the wounded boar, so we had to call it
a day and return to the village.

One of our men carried my shotgun and we killed half a dozen
pheasants on the way back to camp. The birds had come into the open
to feed, and small flocks were scattered along the valley every few
hundred yards. We saw about one hundred and fifty in less than an
hour, besides a few chuckars.

I have never visited any part of China where pheasants were so
plentiful as in this region. Had we been hunting birds we could have
killed a hundred or more without the slightest difficulty during the
time we were looking for pigs. We could not shoot, however, without
the certainty of disturbing big game and, consequently, we only
killed pheasants when on the way back to camp. During the day the
birds kept well up toward the summits of the ridges and only left
the cover in the morning and evening.

Our second hunt was very amusing, as well as successful. We met the
same party of Chinese hunters early in the morning, and agreed to
divide the meat of all the pigs we killed during the day if they
would join forces with us. Among them was a tall, fine-looking young
fellow, evidently the leader, who was a real hunter--the only one we
found in the entire region. He knew instinctively where the pigs
were, what they would do, and how to get them.

He led us without a halt along the summit of the mountain into a
ravine and up a long slope to the crest of a knifelike ridge. Then
he suddenly dropped in the grass and pointed across a caon to a
bare hillside. Two pigs were there in plain sight--one a very large
sow. They were fully three hundred yards away and on the edge of a
bushy patch toward which they were feeding slowly. Smith left me to
hurry to the bottom of the caon where he could have a shot at close
range if either one went down the hill, while I waited behind a
stone. Before he was halfway down the slope the sow moved toward the
patch of cover into which the smaller pig had already disappeared.
It must be then, if I was to have a shot at all. I fired rather
hurriedly and registered a clean miss. Both pigs, instead of staying
in the cover where they would have been safe, dashed down the open
slope toward the bottom of the caon. At my first shot all eight of
the Chinese had leaped for the empty rifle shell and were rolling
about like a pack of dogs after a bone. One of them struck my leg
just as I fired the second time and the bullet went into the air; I
delivered a broadside of my choicest Chinese oaths and the man drew
off. I sent three shots after the fleeing sow, but she disappeared
unhurt.

One shell remained in my rifle, and I saw the other pig running like
a scared rabbit in the very bottom of the caon. It was so far away
that I could barely see the animal through my sights, but when I
fired it turned a complete somersault and lay still; the bullet had
caught it squarely in the head.

Meanwhile, Smith was having a lively time with the old sow. He had
swung around a corner of rock just in time to meet the pig coming at
full speed from the other side not six yards away. He tried to check
himself, slipped, and sat down suddenly but managed to fire once,
breaking the animal's left foreleg. It disappeared into the brush
with Smith after it.

He began an intermittent bombardment which lasted half an hour.
_Bang_, _bang_, _bang_--then silence. _Bang_, _bang_,
_bang_--silence again. I wondered what it all meant and finally ran
down the bottom of the valley until I saw Smith opposite to me just
under the rim of the ravine. He was tearing madly through the brush
not far behind the sow. As the animal appeared for an instant on the
summit of a rise he dropped on one knee and fired twice. Then, I saw
him race over the hill, leaping the bushes like a roebuck. Once he
rolled ten feet into a mass of thorn scrub, but he was up again in
an instant, hurdling the brush and fallen logs, his eye on the pig.

It was screamingly funny and I was helpless with laughter. "Go it,
Smith," I yelled. "Run him down. Catch him in your hands." He had no
breath to waste in a reply, for just then he leaped a fallen log and
I saw the sow charge him viciously. The animal had been lying under
a tree, almost done, but still had life enough to damage Smith badly
if it had reached him. As the man landed on his feet, he fired again
at the pig which was almost on him. The bullet caught the brute in
the shoulder at the base of the neck and rolled it over, but it
struggled to its feet and ran uncertainly a few steps; then it
dropped in a little gully.

By the time I had begun to climb the bill Smith shouted that the pig
might charge again, and I kept my rifle ready, but the animal was
"all in." I circled warily and, creeping up from behind, drove my
hunting knife into its heart; even then it struggled to get at me
before it rolled over dead.

Smith was streaming blood from a score of scratches, and his clothes
were in ribbons, but his face was radiant. "I'd have chased the
blasted pig clear to Peking," he said. "All my shells are gone, but
I wasn't going to let him get away. If I hadn't kept that last
cartridge he'd have caught me, surely."

It was fine enthusiasm and, if ever a man deserved his game, Smith
deserved that sow. The animal had been shot in half a dozen places;
two legs were broken, and at least three of the bullets had reached
vital spots.

Still the brute kept on. Any one who thinks pigs are easy to kill
ought to try the ones in Shansi! The sow weighed well over three
hundred pounds, and it required six men to carry the two pigs into
camp. We got no more, although we saw two others, but still we felt
that the day had not been ill spent. As long as I live I shall never
forget Smith's hurdle race after that old sow.

Although I killed two roebuck, the next day I returned to camp with
rage in my heart. Smith and I had separated late in the afternoon,
and I was hunting with an old Chinese when we discovered three
pigs--a huge boar, a sow, and a shote--crossing an open hill. Crawling
on my face, I reached a rock not seventy yards from the animals. At
the first shot the boar pitched over the bluff into a tangle of
thorns, squealing wildly. My second bullet broke the shoulder of the
sow, and I had a mad chase through a patch of scrub, but finally lost
her.

When I returned to get the big boar I discovered my Chinese squatted
on his haunches in the ravine. He blandly informed me that the pig
could not be found. I spent the half hour of remaining daylight
burrowing in the thorn scrub without success. I learned later that
the native had concealed the dead pig under a mass of stones and
that during the night he and his _confrres_ had carried it away.
Moreover, after we left, they also got the sow which I had wounded.
Although at the time I did not suspect the man's perfidy,
nevertheless it was apparent that he had not kept his eyes on the
boar as I had told him to do; otherwise the pig could not possibly
have escaped.

We had one more day of hunting because Smith had obtained two weeks'
leave. The next morning dawned dark and cloudy with spurts of
hail--just the sort of weather in which animals prefer to stay
comfortably snuggled under a bush in the thickest cover. Consequently
we saw nothing all day except one roebuck, which I killed. It was
running at full speed when I fired, and it disappeared over the crest
of a hill without a sign of injury. Smith was waiting on the other
side, and I wondered why he did not shoot, until we reached the summit
and discovered the deer lying dead in the grass. Smith had seen the
buck plunge over the ridge, and just as he was about to fire, it
collapsed.

We found that my bullet had completely smashed the heart, yet the
animal had run more than one hundred yards. As it fell, one of its
antlers had been knocked off and the other was so loose that it
dropped in my hand when I lifted the head. This was on December 11.
The other bucks which I had killed still wore their antlers, but
probably they would all have been shed before Christmas. The growth
takes place during the winter, and the velvet is all off the new
antlers by the following May.

On the way back to camp we saw a huge boar standing on an open
hillside. Smith and I fired hurriedly and both missed a perfectly
easy shot. With one of the Chinese I circled the ridge, while Smith
took up the animal's trail. We arrived on the edge of a deep ravine
just as the boar appeared in the very bottom. I fired as it rushed
through the bushes, and the pig squealed but never hesitated. The
second shot struck behind it, but at the third it squealed again and
dived into a patch of cover. When we reached the spot we found a
great pool of blood and bits of entrails--but no pig. A broad red
patch led through the snow, and we followed, expecting at every step
to find the animal dead. Instead, the track carried us down the
hill, up the bottom of a ravine, and onto a hill bare of snow but
thickly covered with oak scrub.

While Smith and I circled ahead to intercept the pig, the Chinese
followed the trail. It was almost dark when we went back to the men,
who announced that the blood had ceased and that they had lost the
track. It seemed incredible; but they had so trampled the trail
where it left the snow that we could not find it again in the gloom.

Then Smith and I suspected what we eventually found to be true,
viz., that the men had discovered the dead pig and had purposely led
us astray. We had no proof, however, and they denied the charge so
violently that we began to think our suspicions were unfounded.

We had to leave at daylight next morning in order to reach Peking
before Smith's leave expired. Two days after we left, one of my
friends arrived at Kao-chia-chuang, where we had first hunted, and
reported that the Chinese had brought in all four of the pigs which
we had wounded. One of them, probably the boar we lost on the last
night, was an enormous animal which the natives said weighed more
than five hundred pounds. Of course, this could not have been true,
but it probably did reach nearly four hundred pounds.

What Smith and I said when we learned that the scoundrels had
cheated us would not look well in print. However, it taught us
several things about boar hunting which will prove of value in the
future. The Chinese can sell wild pig meat for a very high price
since it is considered to be a great delicacy. Therefore, if I wound
a pig in the future I shall, myself, follow its trail to the bitter
end. Moreover, I learned that, to knock over a wild boar and keep
him down for good, one needs a heavy rifle. The bullet of my 6.5 mm.
Mannlicher, which has proved to be a wonderful killer for anything
up to and including sheep, has not weight enough behind it to stop a
pig in its tracks. These animals have such wonderful vitality that,
even though shot in a vital spot, they can travel an unbelievable
distance. Next time I shall carry a rifle especially designed for
pigs and thieving Chinese!



CHAPTER XIX

THE GREAT PARK OF THE EASTERN TOMBS

The sunshine of an early spring day was flooding the flower-filled
courtyards of Duke Tsai Tse's palace in Peking when Dr. G. D.
Wilder, Everett Smith, and I alighted from our car at the huge
brass-bound gate. We came by motor instead of rickshaw, for we were
on an official visit which had been arranged by the American
Minister. We would have suffered much loss of "face" had we come in
any lesser vehicle than an automobile, for we were to be received by
a "Royal Highness," an Imperial Duke and a man in whose veins flowed
the bluest of Manchu blood. Although living in retirement, Duke Tsai
Tse is still a powerful and a respected man.

We were ushered through court after court into a large reception
hall furnished in semi-foreign style but in excellent taste. A few
moments later the duke entered, dressed in a simple gown of dark
blue silk. Had I met him casually on the street I should have known
he was a "personality." His high-bred features were those of a maker
of history, of a man who has faced the ruin of his own ambitions;
who has seen his emperor deposed and his dynasty shattered; but who
has lost not one whit of his poise or self-esteem. He carried
himself with a quiet dignity, and there was a royal courtesy in his
greeting which inspired profound respect. Had he been marked for
death in the revolution I am sure that he would have received his
executioners in the same calm way that he met us in the reception
hall. He listened with a courteous interest while we explained the
object of our visit. We had come, we told him, to ask permission to
collect natural history specimens in the great hunting park at the
_Tung Ling_, Eastern Tombs. Here, and at the _Hsi Ling_, or Western
Tombs, the Manchu emperors and their royal consorts sleep in
splendid mausoleums among the fragrant pines.

The emperors are buried at the lower end of a vast, walled park,
more than one hundred miles in length. True to their reverence for
the dead, the Chinese conquerors have never touched these sacred
spots, and doubtless will never do so. They belong unquestionably to
the Manchus, even if their dynasty has been overthrown by force of
arms. According to custom, some member of the royal court is always
in residence at the Eastern Tombs. This fact Tsai Tse gravely
explained, and said that he would commend us in a letter to Duke
Chou, who would be glad to grant us the privileges we asked. Then,
by touching his teacup to his lips, he indicated that our interview
was ended. With the same courtesy he would have shown to a visiting
diplomat he ushered us through the courtyards, while at each doorway
we begged him to return. Such is the custom in China. That same
afternoon a messenger from the duke arrived at my house in Wu Liang
Tajen Hutung bearing a letter beautifully written in Chinese
characters.

Everett Smith and I left next morning for the Eastern Tombs. We went
by brain to Tung-cho, twelve miles away, where a _mafu_ was waiting
with our ponies and a cart for baggage. The way to the _Tung Ling_
is a delight, for along it north China country life passes before
one in panoramic completeness. For centuries this road has been an
imperial highway. I could imagine the gorgeous processions that had
passed over it and the pomp and ceremony of the visits of the living
emperors to the resting places of the dead.

Most vivid of all was the picture in my mind of the last great
funeral only nine years ago. I could see the imperial yellow bier
slowly, solemnly, borne over the gray Peking hills. In it lay the
dead body of the Dowager Empress, Tz'u-hsi--most dreaded yet most
beloved--the greatest empress of the last century, the woman who
tasted of life and power through the sweetest joys to their bitter
core.

We spent the first night at an inn on the outskirts of a tiny
village. It was a clean inn, too--very different from those in south
China. The great courtyard was crowded with arriving carts. In the
kitchen dozens of tired _mafus_ were noisily gulping huge bowls of
macaroni, and others, stretched upon the _kang_, had already become
mere, shapeless bundles of dirty rags. After dinner Smith and I
wandered outside the court. An open-air theater was in full
operation a few yards from the inn, and all the village had gathered
in the street. But we were of more interest to the audience than the
drama itself, and in an instant a score of men and women had
surrounded us. They were all good-natured but frankly curious.
Finally an old man joined the crowd. "Why," said he, "there are two
foreigners!" Immediately the hum of voices ceased, for Age was
speaking. "They've got foreign clothes," he exclaimed; "and what
funny hats! It is true that foreign hats are much bigger than
Chinese caps, and they cost a lot more, too! See that gun the tall
one is carrying! He could shoot those pigeons over there as easily
as not--all of them with one shot--probably he will in a minute."

The old man continued the lecture until we strolled back to the inn.
Undoubtedly he is still discussing us, for there is little to talk
about in a Chinese village, except crops and weather and local
gossip.

We reached the Eastern Tombs in the late afternoon of the same day.
Emerging from a rocky gateway on the summit of a hill, we had the
whole panorama of the _Tung Ling_ spread out before us. It was like
a vast green sea where wave after wave of splendid forests rolled
away to the blue haze of distant mountains.

The islands in this forest-ocean were the yellow-roofed tombs, which
gave back the sun in a thousand points of golden light. After the
monotonous brown of the bare north China hills, the vivid green of
the trees was as refreshing as finding an unknown oasis in a sandy
desert. To the right was the picturesque village of Ma-lin-yu, the
residence of Duke Chou.

From the wide veranda of the charming temple which we were invited
to occupy we could look across the brown village to the splendid
park and the glistening yellow roofs of the imperial tombs. We found
next day that it is a veritable paradise, a spot of exquisite beauty
where profound artistic sentiment has been magnificently expressed.
Broad, paved avenues, bordered by colossal animals sculptured in
snow-white marble, lead through the trees to imposing gates of red
and gold. There is, too, a delightful appreciation of climax. As one
walks up a spacious avenue, passing through gate after gate, each
more magnificent than the last, one is being prepared by this
cumulative splendor for the tomb itself. One feels everywhere the
dignity of space. There is no smallness, no crowding. One feels the
greatness of the people that has done these things: a race that
looks at life and death with a vision as broad as the skies
themselves.

At the _Tung Ling_ Nature has worked hand in hand with man to
produce a harmonious whole. Most of the trees about the tombs have
been planted, but the work has been cleverly done. There is nothing,
glaringly artificial, and you feel as though you were in a
well-groomed forest where every tree has grown just where, in
Nature's scheme of things, it ought to be.

Although the tombs are alike in general plan, they are, at the same
time, as individual as were the emperors themselves. Each is a
subtle expression of the character of the one who sleeps beneath the
yellow roof. The tomb of Ch'ien-Lung, the artist emperor, lies not
far away from that of the Empress Dowager. Stately, beautiful in its
simplicity, it is an indication of his life and deeds. In striking
contrast is the palace built by the Empress for her eternal
dwelling. A woman of iron will, holding her place by force and
intrigue, a lover of lavish display--she has expressed it all in her
gorgeous tomb. The extravagance of its decoration and the wealth of
gold and silver seem to declare to all the world her desire to be
known even in death as the greatest of the great. It is said that
her tomb cost ten million dollars, and I can well believe it. But a
hundred years from now, when Ch'ien-Lung's mausoleum, like the
painting of an old master, has grown even more beautiful by the
touch of age, that of the Empress will be worn and tarnished.

Charmed with the calm, the peace, the exquisite beauty of the spot,
we spent a delightful day wandering among the red and gold
pavilions. But fascinating as were the tombs, we were really
concerned with the "hinterland," the hunting park itself. Sixty
miles to the north, but still within the walls, are towering
mountains and glorious forests; these were what we had come to see.

All day, behind three tiny donkeys, we followed a tortuous, foaming
stream in the bottom of a splendid valley, ever going upward. At
night we slept in the open, and next day crossed the mountain into a
forest of oak and pine sprinkled with silver birches. Hundreds of
wood-cutters passed us on the trail, each carrying a single log upon
his back. Before we reached the village of Shing Lung-shan we came
into an area of desolation. Thousands of splendid trees were lying
in a chaos of charred and blackened trunks. It was the wantonness of
it all that depressed and horrified me.

The reason was perfectly apparent. On every bit of open ground
Manchu farmers were at work with plow and hoe. The land was being
cleared for cultivation, regardless of all else. North China has
very little timber--so little, in fact, that one longs passionately
to get away from the bare hills. Yet in this forest-paradise the
trees were being sacrificed relentlessly simply to obtain a few more
acres on which the farmer could grow his crops. If it had to be
done--and Heaven knows it need not have been--the trees might have
been utilized for timber. Many have been cut, of course, but
thousands upon thousands have been burned simply to clear the
hillside.

At Shing Lung-shan we met our hunters and continued up the valley
for three hours. With every mile there were fewer open spaces; we
had come to a region of vast mountains, gloomy valleys, and heavy
forests. The scenery was superb! It thrilled me as did the mountains
of Yn-nan and the gorges of the Yangtze. Yet all this grandeur is
less than one hundred miles from Peking!

On a little ridge between two foaming streams we made our camp in
the forest. From the door of the tent we could look over the tops of
the trees into the blue distance of the valley; behind us was a wall
of forests broken only by the winding corridor of the mountain
torrent.

We had come to the _Tung Ling_ especially to obtain specimens of the
sika deer (_Cervus hortulorum_) and the Reeves's pheasant
(_Syrmaticus reevesi_). The former, a noble animal about the size of
our Virginia deer in America, has become exceedingly rare in north
China. The latter, one of the most beautiful of living birds, is
found now in only two localities--near Ichang on the Yangtze River,
and at the _Tung Ling_. When the forests of the Eastern Tombs have
been cleared this species will be extinct in all north China.

Early in the morning we left with six hunters. Our way led up the
bottom of the valley toward a mountain ridge north of camp. As we
walked along the trail, suddenly one of the hunters caught me by the
arm and whispered, "_Sang-chi_" (wild chicken). There was a whir of
wings, a flash of gold--and I registered a clean miss! The bird
alighted on the mountain side, and in the bliss of ignorance Smith
and I dashed after it. Ten minutes later we were exhausted from the
climb and the pheasant had disappeared. We learned soon that it is
useless to chase a Reeves's pheasant when it has once been flushed,
for it will invariably make for a mountain side, run rapidly to the
top, and, once over the summit, fly to another ridge.

On the way home I got my first pheasant, and an hour later put up
half a dozen. I should have had two more, but instead of shooting I
only stared, fascinated by the beauty of the thing I saw. It was
late in the afternoon and the sun was drawing oblique paths of
shimmering golden light among the trees. In a clearing near the
summit of a wooded shoulder I saw six pheasants feeding and I
realized that, by skirting the base of the ridge, I could slip up
from behind and force them to fly across the open valley. The stalk
progressed according to schedule. When I crossed the ridge there was
a whir of wings and six birds shot into the air not thirty feet
away. The sun, glancing on their yellow backs and streaming plumes,
transformed them into golden balls, each one with a comet-trail of
living fire.

The picture was so indescribably beautiful that I watched them sail
across the valley with the gun idle in my hands. Not for worlds
would I have turned one of those glorious birds into a crumpled mass
of flesh and feathers. For centuries the barred tail plumes, which
sometimes are six feet long, have been worn by Chinese actors, and
the bird is famous in their literature. It will be a real tragedy
when this species has passed out of the fauna of north China, as it
will do inevitably if the wanton destruction of the _Tung Ling_
forests is continued unchecked.

The next afternoon four sika deer gave me a hard chase up and down
three mountain ridges. Finally, we located the animals in a deep
valley, and I had an opportunity to examine them through my glasses.
Much to my disgust I saw that the velvet was not yet off the antlers
and that their winter coats were only partly shed. They were
valueless as specimens and forthwith I abandoned the hunt. Before
leaving Peking I had visited the zological garden to make sure that
the captive sika had assumed their summer dress and antlers. But at
the _Tung Ling_, spring had not yet arrived, and the animals were
late in losing their winter hair.

In summer the sika is the most beautiful of all deer. Its bright red
body, spotted with white, is, when seen among the green leaves of
the forest, one of the loveliest things in nature. We wished to
obtain a group of these splendid animals for the new Hall of Asiatic
Life in the American Museum of Natural History, but the specimens
had to be in perfect summer dress.

My hunter was disgusted beyond expression when I refused to shoot
the deer. The antlers of the sika when in the velvet are of greater
value to the natives than those of any other species. A good pair of
horns in full velvet sometimes sells for as much as $450. The
growing antlers are called _shueh-chiao_ (blood horns) by the
Chinese, who consider them of the highest efficacy as a remedy for
certain diseases: Therefore, the animals are persecuted relentlessly
and very few remain even in the _Tung Ling_.

The antlers of the wapiti are also of great value to the native
druggists, but strangely enough they care little for those of the
moose and the roebuck. Hundreds of thousand of deerhorns are sent
from the interior provinces of China to be sold in the large cities,
and the complete extermination of certain species is only a matter
of a few decades. Moreover, the female elk, just before the calving
season, receive unmerciful persecution, for it is believed that the
unborn fawns have great medicinal properties.

Since the roebuck at the _Tung Ling_ were in the same condition as
the sika, they were useless for our purposes. The goral, however,
which live high up on the rocky peaks, had not begun to shed their
hair, and they gave us good shooting. One beautiful morning Smith
killed a splendid ram just above our camp. We had often looked at a
ragged, granite outcrop, sparsely covered with spruce and pine
trees, which towered a thousand feet above us. We were sure there
must be goral somewhere on the ridge, and the hunters told us that
they had sometimes killed them there. It was a stiff climb, and we
were glad to rest when we reached the summit. The old hunter placed
Smith opposite an almost perpendicular face of rock and stationed me
beyond him on the other side. Three beaters had climbed the mountain
a mile below us and were driving up the ridge.

For half an hour I lay stretched out in the sun luxuriating in the
warmth and breathing in the fragrant odor of the pines. While I was
lazily watching a Chinese green woodpecker searching for grubs in a
tree near by, there came the faintest sound of a loosened pebble on
the cliff above my head. Instantly I was alert and tense. A second
later Smith's rifle banged once. Then all was still.

In a few moments he shouted to me that he had fired at a big goral,
but that it had disappeared behind the ridge and he was afraid it
had not been hit. The old hunter, however, had seen the animal
scramble into a tiny grove of pine trees. As it had not emerged, I
was sure the goral was wounded, and when the men climbed up the
cliff they found it dead, bored neatly through the center of the
chest.

Gorals, sika, and roebuck are by no means the only big game animals
in the _Tung Ling_. Bears and leopards are not uncommon, and
occasionally a tiger is killed by the natives. Among other species
is a huge flying squirrel, nearly three feet long, badgers, and
chipmunks, a beautiful squirrel with tufted ears which is almost
black in summer and now is very rare, and dozens of small animals.
But perhaps most interesting of all the creatures of these noble
forests are the only wild monkeys to be found in northeastern China.

The birds are remarkable in variety and numbers. Besides the
Reeves's pheasant, of which I have spoken, there are two other
species of this most beautiful family. One, the common ring-necked
pheasant, is very abundant; the other is the rare Pucrasia, a gray
bird with a dark-red breast, and a yellow striped head surmounted by
a conspicuous crest. It is purely a mountain form requiring a mixed
forest of pine and oak and, although more widely distributed than
the Reeves's pheasant, it occurs in comparatively few localities of
north China.

One morning as Smith and I were coming back from hunting we saw our
three boys perched upon a ledge above the stream peering into the
water. They called to us, "Would you like some fish?" "Of course,"
we answered, "but how can you get them?"

In a second they had slipped from the rock and were stripping off
their clothes. Then one went to the shallows at the lower end of the
pool and began to beat the surface with a leafy branch, while the
other two crouched on the bowlders in midstream. Suddenly, one of
the boys plunged his head and arms into the water and emerged with a
beautiful speckled trout clutched tightly in both hands. He had seen
the fish swim beneath the rock where it was cornered and had caught
it before it could escape.

For an hour the two boys sat like kingfishers, absolutely motionless
except when they dived into the water. Of course, they often missed;
but when we were ready to go home they had eight beautiful trout,
several of them weighing as much as two pounds. The stream was full
of fish, and we would have given worlds for a rod and flies.

Lu baked a loaf of corn bread in his curious little oven made from a
Standard Oil tin, and we found a jar of honey in our stores. Brook
trout fried in deep bacon fat, regular "southern style" corn bread
and honey, apple pie, coffee, and cigarettes--the "hardships of
camping in the Orient!"

When we had been in camp a week we awoke one morning to find a heavy
cloud of smoke drifting up the valley. Evidently a tremendous fire
was raging, and Smith and I set out at once on a tour of
investigation. A mile down the valley we saw the whole mountain side
ablaze. It was a beautiful sight, I admit, but the destruction of
that magnificent forest appalled us. Fortunately, the wind was
blowing strongly from the east, and there was no danger that the
fire might sweep northward in the direction of our camp. As we
emerged into a tiny clearing, occupied by a single log hut, we saw
two Chinese sitting on their heels, placidly watching the roaring
furnace across the valley.

With a good deal of excitement we asked them how the fire possibly
could have originated.

"Oh," said one, "we started it ourselves." "In the name of the five
gods why did you do it?" Smith asked. "Well, you see," returned the
Chinese, "there was quite a lot of brush here in our clearing and we
had to get rid of it. To-day the wind was right, so we set it on
fire."

"But don't you see that you have burned up that whole mountain's
side, destroyed thousands of trees, and absolutely ruined this end
of the valley?"

"Oh, yes, but never mind; it can't be helped," the native answered.
Then I exploded. I frankly confess that I cursed that Chinese and
all his ancestors; which is the only proper way to curse in China. I
assured him that he was an "old rabbit" and that his father and his
grandfather and his great-grandfather were rabbits. To tell a man
that he is even remotely connected with a rabbit is decidedly
uncomplimentary in China.

But when it was all said I had accomplished nothing. The man looked
at me in blank amazement as though I had suddenly lost my mind. He
had not the faintest idea that burning up that beautiful forest was
reprehensible in the slightest degree. To him and all his kind, the
only thing worth while was to clear that bit of land in the valley.
If every tree on the mountain was destroyed in the process, what
difference did it make? It would be done eventually, anyway. Land,
whether it be on a hill or in a valley, was made to grow crops and
to be cultivated by Chinese farmers.

The wanton destruction which is being wrought at the _Tung Ling_
makes me sick at heart. Here is one of the most beautiful spots in
all China, within less than one hundred miles of Peking, which is
being ruined utterly as fast as ax and fire can do the work. One can
travel the length and breadth of the whole Republic and not find
elsewhere so much glorious scenery in so small a space. Moreover, it
is the last sanctuary of much of north China's wild life. When the
forests of the _Tung Ling_ are gone, half a dozen species of birds
and mammals will become extinct. How much of the original flora of
north China exists to-day only in these forests I would not dare
say, for I am not a botanist, but it can be hardly less than the
fauna of which I know.

If China could but realize before it is too late how priceless a
treasure is being hewed and burned to nothingness and take the first
step in conservation by making a National Park of the Eastern Tombs!

Politically there are difficulties, it is true. The _Tung Ling_, and
all the surroundings, as I have said, belong unquestionably to the
Manchus, and they can do as they wish with their own. But it is
largely a question of money, and were the Republic to pay the price
for the forests and mountains beyond the Tombs it would not be
difficult to do the rest. No country on earth ever had a more
splendid opportunity to create for the generations of the present
and the future a living memorial to its glorious past.

THE END



INDEX [Topics only, page numbers not reproduced]

Aeroplanes

Altai Mountains

American Museum of Natural History, Asiatic Explorations of;
trustees of

Anderson, Dr. J. G., Mining Adviser to Chinese Republic

Anderson, Meyer and Co., assistance rendered to expedition by

Andrews, Yvette B., extract from "Journal" of

Antelope, description of hunt for; speed of

_Anthropoides virgo_

_Argali_

_Argul_, desert fuel

Asia

_Asia Magazine_

Asian plateau

Asiatic mammals

Asiatic zological explorations

Asses, wild (_Equus Hemionus_)

Atunzi

Avocets

Baikal Lake

Barker, Major Austin

Beach, Rex, quoted

Bear

Bennett, C. R.

Bernheimer, Mr. and Mrs. Charles L.

Bighorn sheep (_Argali_)

Boar

_Bogdo-ol_ (God's Mountain)

Bolsheviki

Bolshevism

Buriats

Burma

Bustard

Caldwell, Rev. Harry R.

Canadian Pacific Ocean Service, transportation to America of
collections by

_Capreolus bedfordi_

Caravans, camel

_Casarca casarca_

Castle, Rev. H.

Cathay

_Cervus hortulorum_

Cheetah

Che-kiang, Province of

Chen, Chinese taxidermist

Chinese

Chinese Turkestan

Chou, Duke

_Citellus mongolicus umbratus_

Coltman, Charles L., Mr. and Mrs.

Cranes; demoiselle

_Cricetulus_

Cunningham, Hon. E. S., American Consul General

_Cygnopsis cygnoides_

Czechs

Dane, Sir Richard

Da Wat Mountain, camped at foot of

Delco Electric lighting plant

De Tarascon, Tartarin

Dogs

Dorchy, Tserin

Ducks, mallard; ducks, shoveler

Eagles

Elk

_Equus hemionus_

_Equus prejevalski_

_Eulabeia indica_

_Fabalis anser_

Fauna, Mongolian

Faxon, H. C.

Feng-chen

Fuel

_Gazella gutturosa_

_Gazella prejevalski_

_Gazella subgutturosa_

Gazelles

Genghis Khan

Gillis, I. V.

Gobi Desert

God's Mountain (_Bogdo-ol_)

Goose, bar-headed; bean

Gophers (_Citellus mongolicus umbratus_)

Goral

Great Wall of China,

Grouse, sand

Guptil, A. M.

Hami

Hamster, desert (_Cricetulus_)

Hares

_Harper's Magazine_

Hei-ma-hou

Holcomb, Captain Thomas

Honan

Horses, wild (_Equus prejevalski_)

Ho-shun

Hsi Ling

Hsu Shu-tseng, General

Hupeh

Hutchins, C. T., Naval Attache, American Legation

Hutukhtu, the Living Buddha

Ibex

Irkutsk

Jackson, G. M., General Passenger Agent, Canadian Pacific Ocean
Service, appreciation for assistance in transportation of
collections by

Jardine, Matheson and Co., of Shanghai

Kalgan

Kang, Chinese taxidermist

Kang Hsi, Emperor

Kao-chia-chuang

Kendrick, J.

Khans

Kiakhta

Kobdo

Korostovetz, M.

Kublai Khan

Kwei-hua-cheng

Lake Baikal

Lama church

Lama City

Lamaism

Lamas; monastery of

Lapwing (_Vanellus vanellus_)

Lapwings

Larsen, F. A.

"Little Hsu"

Loo-choo Islands

Lucander, Mr. and Mrs.

Lucas, Dr. F. A., acknowledgment to

Lu, cook for expedition

Lung Chi'en, Emperor, tomb of

MacCallie, Mr. and Mrs. E. L.

Magyars

Mai-ma-cheng

Mallards

Ma-lin-yu, residence of Duke Chou

_Ma-lu_

Mamen, Mr. and Mrs. Oscar

Mammals, Asiatic

Manchu; dynasty of

Manchus

Mannlicher

_Marmota robusta_

Marmot; Mongols' method of capturing

Mauser

Meadow mice (_Microtus_)

Memorial addressed to President of Chinese Republic

_Microtus_

Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Mongolia, fauna of; religion of

Mongolian Trading Company

Mongols, dislike for the body of the dead; dress of; food of; manner
of riding of; manner of catching trout by; morals of; Southern

Motion picture photography

Motor cars; Ford; hunting from; troubles with

Musk deer

_Mustela_

Naha

Na-mon-gin, Mongol hunter

Nankou Pass

_Natural History_

_Nemorhaedus caudatus_

_Nemorhaedus griseus_

Olufsen, E. V.

Omsk

Orlow, A., Russian Diplomatic Agent

Osborn, Henry Fairfield

Outer Mongolia

_Ovis comosa_

_Ovis jubata_

Owen

Panj-kiang, telegraph station at

_Pan-yang_ wild sheep

Peck, Willys

Peking

Peking-Hankow Railroad

Peking Press, quoted from

Peking-Suiyuan Railway; motor service of

Perry, Commodore

Pheasant, Reeves's (_Syrmaticus reevesi_)

Photography, motion picture

Ping-ting-cho

Plover

_Pluvialis dominicus fulvus_

Polecat (_Mustela_)

Polo, Marco

Prayer wheels

President, Chinese Republic, Memorial addressed to, xiii

Price, Ernest B.

Prisons, description of

Pucrasia

Rat, kangaroo (_Alactaga mongolica_?)

Ravens

Red Army

Redheads

Reinsch, Paul S.

Rifles used on expedition; Mannlicher; Savage

Rockefeller Foundation

Roebuck

_Rupicaprinae_

Russia

Russian Consulate

Russians

Russo-Chinese

Sain Noin Khan

Savage rifle

Serow

Shanghai

Shansi Mountains

Shantung

Sheep, bighorn

Sheldrake (_Casarca casarca_)

Shensi

Sherwood, George H., assistance rendered to expedition by

Shing Lung-shan

Shuri, Palace

Sian-fu

Siberian frontier

Sika deer (_Cervus hortulorum_)

Skylarks

Smith, E. G.

Stefansson

Swan geese (_Cygnopsis cygnoides_)

_Syrmaticus reevesi_

Tabool

Tai Hai

Tai yuan-fu

Takin

Tanu Ulianghai

Tao Kwang, Emperor

Teal

Telegraph poles, method of protection of

Tenney, Dr. C. D.

Tent, American wall; Mongol

Terelche region

Terelche River

Terelche Valley

Tibet, vii

Tientsin

Tola River

Tola Valley

Tombs

Trans-Pacific Magazine

Trans-Siberian Railroad

Trout, manner of catching by Mongols

Tsai Tse, Duke, visit to palace of

Tung-cho

Tung-Ling; pheasants and deer found at

Turin; lamasery at

Tziloa, pigs found at

Tz'u-hsi, Dowager Empress, funeral of

Ude, telegraph station

Uliassutai

Urga, important fur market

Urumchi

Verkin Udinsk

Vole, meadow (_Microtus_)

Wai Chiao Pu, (Ministry of Foreign Affairs)

Wapiti

Warner, Langdon

Weatherall, M. E.

Weinz, Father, Belgian priest

Wells, description of

White Army

Wilder, Dr. George D.

Wireless station in course of erection

Wolf

Wu Liang Tajen Hutung

Wu-shi-tu

Wu-tai-hai

Yangsen, Loobitsan, Duke

Yero mines, gold found at

Yn-nan

Yurt, Mongol house, description of





End of Project Gutenberg's Across Mongolian Plains, by Roy Chapman Andrews

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS ***

***** This file should be named 29024-8.txt or 29024-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/0/2/29024/

Produced by Joseph Eros. This file was produced from
material generously made available by Google Books.


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
https://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations.  To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     https://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
