Only in the eyes of Norba and his followers did she detect the triumph born of realization that nothing now stood between him and tribal control. Nothing but a slender woman, alien to their land, and Kulan, her fourteen-year-old son.

There was no time to worry now, nor was there time for grief. If ever they were to escape, it must be at once, for it was unlikely such opportunity would again offer itself.

It had been fifteen years since the plane in which she was leaving China crashed in the mountains near Tosun Nor, killing all on board but herself. Now, as if decreed by fate, another had come, and this one landed intact.

Shambe had brought the news as Lok-sha lay dying, for long ago the far-ranging hunter had promised if ever another plane landed, he would first bring the news to her.

If the fierce Go-log tribesmen learned of the landing, they would kill the survivors and destroy the plane. To enter the land of the Go-log was to die.

It was a far land of high, grass plateaus, snowcapped mountains, and rushing streams. There among the peaks were born three of the greatest rivers of Asia—the Yellow, the Yangtze, and the Mekong—and there the Go-log lived as they had lived since the time of Genghis Khan.

Splendid horsemen and savage fighters, they lived upon their herds of yaks, fat-tailed sheep, horses, and the plunder reaped from caravans bound from China to Tibet.

Anna Doone, born on a ranch in Montana, had taken readily to the hard, nomadic life of the Go-log. She had come to China to join her father, a medical missionary, and her uncle, a noted anthropologist. Both were killed in Kansu by the renegade army that had once belonged to General Ma. Anna, with two friends, attempted an escape in an old plane.

Riding now toward this other aircraft, she recalled the morning when, standing beside her wrecked plane, she had first watched the Go-log approach. She was familiar with their reputation for killing interlopers, but she had a Winchester with a telescopic sight and a .45-caliber Colt revolver.

Despite her fear, she felt a burst of admiration for their superb horsemanship as they raced over the plain. Seeing the rifle ready in her hands, they drew up sharply, and her eyes for the first time looked upon Lok-sha.

Only a little older than her own twenty-one years, he was a tall man with a lean horseman’s build, and he laughed with pure enjoyment when she lifted the rifle. She was to remember that laugh for a long time, for the Go-log were normally a somber people.

Lok-sha had the commanding presence of the born leader of men, and she realized at once that if she were to survive, it would be because he wished it.

He spoke sharply in his own tongue, and she replied in the dialect of Kansu, which fortunately he understood.

“It is a fine weapon,” he said about the rifle.

“I do not wish to use it against the Go-log. I come as a friend.”

“The Go-log have no friends.”

A small herd of Tibetan antelope appeared on the crest of a low ridge some three hundred yards away, looking curiously toward the crashed plane.

She had used a rifle since she was a child, killing her first deer when only eleven. Indicating the antelope, she took careful aim and squeezed off her shot. The antelope bounded away, but one went to its knees, then rolled over on its side.

The Go-log shouted with amazement, for accurate shooting with their old rifles was impossible at that range. Two of the riders charged off to recover the game, and she looked into the eyes of the tall rider.

“I have another such rifle, and if we are friends, it is yours.”

“I could kill you and take them both.”

She returned his look.
“They,”
she said, indicating the others, “might take it from me. You would not, for you are a man of honor, and I would kill you even as they killed me.”

She had no doubt of her position, and her chance of ever leaving this place was remote. Whatever was done, she must do herself.

He gestured toward the wreck. “Get what you wish, and come with us.”

Her shooting had impressed them, and now her riding did also, for these were men who lived by riding and shooting. Lok-sha, a
jyabo
or king of the Go-log people, did not kill her. Escape being impossible, she married him in a Buddhist ceremony, and then to satisfy some Puritan strain within her, she persuaded Tsan-Po, the lama, to read over them in Kansu dialect the Christian ceremony.

Fortunately, the plane had not burned, and from it she brought ammunition for the rifles, field glasses, clothing, medicines, and her father’s instrument case. Best of all, she brought the books that had belonged to her father and uncle.

Having often assisted her father, she understood the emergency treatment of wounds and rough surgery. This knowledge became a valuable asset and solidified her position in the community.

As soon as Anna’s son was born, she realized the time would come when, if they were not rescued, he would become
jyabo,
so she began a careful record of migration dates, grass conditions, and rainfall. If it was in her power, she was going to give him the knowledge to be the best leader possible.

Lok-sha was sharply interested in all she knew about the Chinese to the east, and he possessed the imagination to translate the lessons of history into the practical business of command and statecraft. The end had come when his horse, caught on a severe, rocky slope, had fallen, crushing Lok-sha’s chest.

She had been happy in the years she’d spent as his wife, certainly she was better off than she would have been as a refugee in the civil war that gripped much of China or as a prisoner of the Japanese. But as happy as she had learned to be, as safe as she had finally found herself, Anna never forgot her home, nor ceased to long for the day when she might return.

Now, her thoughts were interrupted by Shambe’s appearance. “The plane is nearby,” he said, “and there are two men.”

Shambe was not only Lok-sha’s best friend, but leader of the Ku-ts’a, the bodyguard of the
jyabo,
a carefully selected band of fighting men.

They rode now, side by side, Kulan, Shambe, and herself. “You will leave with the flying men?” Shambe asked. “And you will take the
jyabo
also?”

Startled, Anna Doone glanced at her son, riding quietly beside her. Of course…what had she been thinking of? Her son, Kulan, was
jyabo
now…king of six thousand tents, commander of approximately two thousand of the most dangerous fighting men in Asia!

But it was ridiculous. He was only fourteen. He should be in school, thinking about football or baseball. Yet fourteen among the Go-log was not fourteen among her own people. Lok-sha, against her bitter protests, had carried Kulan into battle when he was but six years old, and during long rides over the grasslands had taught him what he could of the arts of war and leadership.

Her son
jyabo
? She wished to see him a doctor, a scientist, a teacher. It was preposterous to think of him as king of a savage people in a remote land. Yet deep within her something asked a question:
How important would baseball be to a boy accustomed to riding a hundred miles from dawn to dusk, or hunting bighorn sheep among the highest peaks?

“We shall regret your going,” Shambe said sincerely, “you have been long among us.”

And she would regret losing him, too, for he had been a true friend. She said as much, said it quietly and with sincerity.

When she heard of the plane, her thoughts had leaped ahead, anticipating their homecoming. She had taken notes of her experiences and could write a book, and she could lecture. Kulan was tall and strong and could receive the education and opportunities that he had missed.

Yet she had sensed the reproof in Shambe’s tone; Shambe, who had been her husband’s supporter in his troubles with Norba, a chief of a minor division of the Khang-sar Go-log.

Over their heads the sky was fiercely blue, their horses’ hooves drummed upon the hard, close-cropped turf…there were few clouds. Yes…these rides would be remembered. Nowhere were there mountains like these, nowhere such skies.

When they came within sight of the plane, the two men sprang to their feet, gripping their rifles.

She drew up. “I am Anna Doone, and this is Kulan, my son.”

The older man strode toward her. “This is amazing! The State Department has been trying to locate you and your family for years! You are the niece of Dr. Ralph Doone, are you not?”

“I am.”

“My name is Schwarzkopf. Your uncle and I were associated during his work at the Merv Oasis.” He glanced at Shambe, and then at Kulan. “Your son, you said?”

She explained the crashed plane, her marriage to Lok-sha, his death, and her wish to escape. In turn, they told her of how they had seized the plane and escaped from the Communist soldiers. Their landing had been made with the last of their fuel.

“If there was fuel, would you take us with you?”

“Take you? But of course!” Schwarzkopf ’s eyes danced with excitement that belied his sixty-odd years. “What an opportunity! Married to a Go-log chieftain! So little is known of them, you understand! Their customs, their beliefs…we must arrange a grant. I know just the people who—”

“If it’s all the same to you, Doc,” his companion interrupted, “I’d like to get out of here.” He looked up at Anna Doone. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you mentioned fuel. Is there some gas around here somewhere?”

“Several months ago my husband took a convoy bound for an airfield in Tibet. He captured several trucks loaded with gasoline. They are hidden only a few miles away.” She paused. “I can drive a truck.”

Yet, first she must return to the Go-log encampment to meet with the elders and the fighting men of the Khang-sar. Kulan, as
jyabo,
must be present. It would be improper and even dangerous if she were not present also, for a decision was to be made on the move to new grazing grounds, and there might also be some question as to leadership.

The time had come for the Khang-sar to return to their home in the Yur-tse Mountains, and the thought brought a pang, for these were the loveliest of mountains, splendid forests and lakes in a limestone range near the head of the Yellow River.

“Whatever you do,” she warned, “you must not leave the vicinity of the plane. Start no fires, and let no metal flash in the sun. When our meeting is over, Shambe will remain near you until Kulan and I can come.”

She swung her horse around. “If you are found, neither Kulan nor I could protect you.”

“Kulan?” The younger man looked at the boy in surprise.

Kulan sat straight in the saddle. “I am now
jyabo,
” he replied sternly, “but our people think all outsiders are the enemy.”

When they had gone some distance, Kulan sighed and said, “The machine is small. There will be no room for Deba.”

She knew how much he loved the horse. “No, Kulan, there will be no room, but you would not wish to take him away. He was bred to this country, and loves it.”

“I love it, too,” Kulan replied simply.

She started to speak, but the horse herd was before them, and beyond were the felt yurts of the camp. Tsan-Po awaited them before their own tent. With Lok-sha gone, the Khang-sar Go-log would have need of the old man’s shrewd advice.

Kulan waved a hand at the encampment. “How would we live in your country?”

“Life is very different there, Kulan, and much easier. You might become a fine scholar and lead a good life.”

“If that is what you wish. I shall do my best, for both you and my father have taught me obedience. Only sometimes,” his voice tightened, “sometimes I shall think of Deba and these grasslands, and of Amne Machin, the God Mountain.”

For the first time she felt doubt, but quickly dismissed it. Of course she was doing the right thing. Once he was adjusted to life in civilization, he would be as happy there. True, he was mature for his years, as boys were apt to be among the Go-log. It was natural that he would miss Deba, and he would miss Shambe, as she would. Shambe had been a second father to him, even as Tsan-Po had been. The old lama had taught Kulan much that was beyond her.

Yet, how long she had dreamed of going home! Of luxuriating in a warm tub, conversing in English for hours on end, and the good, fireside talk of people who were doing things in the larger world of art, science, and scholarship. She longed for a life where she did not have to live with the fear that her son might die from something as silly as a tooth infection or as serious as the bullet from the rifle of a Communist soldier.

She was thirty-six, soon to be thirty-seven, and if she ever wanted a relationship with another man, it could not be here, where she had once been the wife of a king. Nor could she wait for too many years after the rough life on the steppes, a life that had been good to her so far, but was bound to leave her a windburned and arthritic old woman.

What Dr. Schwarzkopf had said was true. Her experience was unique. A book might sell…she could make a contribution to anthropology, and even to geographical knowledge. As for Kulan, he would do well in America. He was tall and wide-shouldered, and would be a handsome man with his olive skin, his dark, curly hair and truly magnificent dark eyes. There was a touch of the exotic about him that was romantic, and at fourteen he was already stronger than most men.

A
S SHE ENTERED
the yurt, she sensed trouble in the air. Shambe was beside her, but when had he not been present when she needed him?

All of the Khang-sar Go-log chieftains were there. Tsemba was the chief of two hundred tents and an important man whose opinion counted for much. Beside him were old Kunza, Gelak, and of course, Norba.

Norba was a towering big man with one muscular shoulder bare, as was the custom, his broad-bladed sword slung in its scabbard between his shoulder blades. His coterie of followers was close around him, confident now that Lok-sha was dead.

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