But it was no wolf, they saw as the pony picked itself up, the Chinese clinging to the saddle.
They laughed at Zhang Zingzong and called him a clumsy food grower.
Laughing, Boldbator ordered the group to press on.
"Hold," said the Master of Sinanju suddenly. He angled his horse-Boldbator's horse, really-over to the spot where the pony had stumbled. His hazel eyes narrowed as he raked the stiff sands with his cold gaze.
Boldbator joined him. "What do you know?" he asked anxiously.
"No horse stumbles on mere sand."
"Perhaps hot ash from his cigarette caused the pony to falter." But Boldbator saw that Zhang Zingzong's lips still clung to a half-smoked butt.
The Master of Sinanju dismounted. He knelt in the Gobi gravel, which cracked under his feet like a thin layer off ice.
His clawlike hand went into the sand and rooted around. He inhaled sharply, a gasp, half-surprise and half-joy.
"What do you feel?" demanded Boldbator as the Mongols drew their horses into a protective circle.
Chiun shrugged. "Gather the horses," he said suddenly. "Have them form four lines, like the spokes of a mighty wheel."
It took some lusty shouting and shoving on Boldbator's part, but the horsemen were finally mustered into position.
"Now have them walk in a circle," Chiun commanded.
The horsemen obeyed Boldbator's lung-splitting order. They guided their steeds-mares and stallions alike-around and around like satellites orbiting an unknowable world.
The horses wore down the crust of frozen sand until it no longer made its whispery complaint. Soon the gentle rise and fall became a pocked flatness, and still the horses promenaded.
Boldbator stood off from the equine wheel with Chiun, Zhang, and the camel. He held the reins of their mounts.
"We will have to camp soon," he muttered, casting an eye to the sun-gored western horizon.
"We will camp here," Chiun replied. "The dragon lies here."
"Where?" Boldbator asked, looking over the growing circle in the gravellike sand.
"The next horse to stumble will show us."
Two horses stumbled, actually. One, and in quick succession, the other.
"Stop!" Chiun cried. "All of you. Dismount!"
The Mongols stopped in place, retaining their perfect wheellike formations.
Boldbator followed the Master of Sinanju into the perfectly arrayed lines of horsemen. He lit a yak-butter tallow to provide light as Chiun knelt in the sand.
A hump of dirty brown bone stood up from a pock of sand. Boldbator touched it carefully.
"It feels like stone," he announced. "Truly, these are the bones of a fierce dragon."
"Order your Mongols to uncover every last rib," the Master of Sinanju commanded.
And with pride in his voice, Boldbator did as he was told. Gladly he did this, for a mere day ago he had been a young Mongol pounding the steppe in frustration and loneliness, but tonight he was a leader of warriors, the next khan.
They uncovered the dragon with their bare hands. Its thick ribs were cracked and broken. No shred of flesh or hide clung to them. The dragon had died an impossibly long time ago. It had a very long neck and a long tail. Its midsection was unusually stout.
"This dragon is strangely formed," Darum remarked as it lay naked under scores of raised tallows. The light was fitful and haunting.
"No doubt it is Chinese," Boldbator grunted. "No Mongol dragon would let itself grow fat like this one."
Oblivious of this, the Master of Sinanju ranged around the exposed skeleton, his mouth compressed in thought, his eyes like slits of steel, cold and implacable.
He stopped at the skull of the dragon. It was blunt-toothed for a dragon, Boldbator noted. Others remarked on this too.
But the Master of Sinanju paid them no heed. He knelt before the dragon's skull and with delicate fingers brushed the remnants of sand from the narrow stone brow.
His whisking nails exposed incised markings on the petrified bone. In silence he regarded them.
No one disturbed him.
At length the Master of Sinanju stood up and turned to face the expectant Mongol cavalrymen.
"Hear me, descendants of the Golden Horde!" he proclaimed. "Take to your mounts, for we ride to Karakorum!"
And giving a lusty shout of triumph, the descendants of Genghis Khan roared their approval with one voice.
All save Boldbator. Upon hearing the name of the ancient seat of Mongol power, he began weeping with joy.
They were riding into history. All this in a mere day.
Chapter 21
Remo snapped awake at the tentative rapping on his hotel door.
He eased off the bed and floated to the rough-hewn panel, feeling refreshed and alert, asking, "Who is it?"
"Fang Yu."
He opened the door and the Chinese girl slipped in, shutting it quickly after her.
"Trouble?" Remo asked.
"The dead man has caused it," she whispered. "We cannot wait. We must ride north tonight."
"Lead the way," Remo said.
They went out, sneaking from the hotel the back way.
It was snowing, and snowing hard.
Fang Yu led Remo to what he took to be a Mongolian tavern.
Inside the solid oak door, it was exactly that--a saloon.
Wide bronze faces regarded them with a kind of curious indifference. Fang Yu looked around, then nodded. She strode boldly over to a corner table, Remo following, his eyes swiveling around the room. If there was going to be trouble, he wanted to be ready.
Fang Yu presented Remo to a thick-necked Mongolian man who sat nursing a cup of steaming-hot wine. He wore a black leather vest and quiltlike pants. His face had all the color and expression of a bronze gong.
Fang Yu rattled off a quick burst of Chinese.
"Speak English," the Mongol said brusquely. "I do not wish our conversation to be overheard. There are many ears here, three times as many as there are heads to carry them."
"This is the man," Fang Yu repeated in English.
"Can he not speak for himself?" the Mongol grunted thickly.
"Call me Remo."
"I am called Kula- Can you ride, one called Remo?"
"Yes."
"You lie!" Kula the Mongol spat. "This Chinese girl tells me you cannot."
"I can learn," Remo said confidently.
Kula grunted. "The price is double."
"What?" Fang Yu demanded hotly. "We agreed on price!"
Kula took a sip from his cup, never taking his eyes off Remo. "He cannot ride, so he must be taught. It will slow us."
"I told you he cannot ride!" Fang Yu spat.
"But he lied to me. Lying adds to the risk. If he lies about one thing, why not another? The price is double," Kula repeated, draining his cup.
Remo drew Fang Yu out of earshot of the sullen-eyed Mongol. "Forget it," he said. "We don't need this guy."
"We do," Fang Yu said. "He is Kula-the bandit chief of this province. Without him, there is no safe passage."
"We'll make our own safe passage," Remo said loudly enough to be overheard.
The Mongol laughed at that. "I like him," Kula burst out. "But the price is still double."
"Very well," Fang Yu said reluctantly. "We pay. Five hundred yuan."
"Done!" said Kula the Mongol, slapping his cup on the age-stained table. "We ride now. Come."
The Mongol stood up, hitching up his leather belt. A short dagger dangled from it by a silver chain. Gesturing, he led them to a rear door and into an adjoining stable. Horses neighed at their approach.
"Have you no better clothes, white foreigner?" Kula demanded. "The steppe winds will lift the skin off your meat in sheets and split the muscles from your bones."
"I lost my luggage in Hong Kong," Remo said sourly.
"The Chinese are looking for a murderer," Kula rumbled throatily. "Since you will ride a Mongol horse, you must dress like a Mongol."
"No chance," Remo said.