"Great. That cream horse is mine. A friend stabled him for me. His name is Kula."
"Ah, Kula. A horseman among horsemen. Everyone knows Kula. "
"Glad he's so popular. Know where he went? I gotta find him-fast!"
"Come," the Mongol stablehand said, leading Remo back outside. He pointed west, saying, "See those freaking gers?"
"You mean yurts?"
"Only Russians call them yurts," the Mongol said contemptuously.
"The gers, sure," Remo said. "I see them."
"Go there. You will find Kula in one of those. That is a true Mongol hotel. Not like this ugly concrete thing."
"Well, what do you expect from the Genghis Khan Hotel?"
"Lord Genghis was a great man," the Mongol retorted seriously. "His was the greatest empire in history, and his memory was too long suppressed by the Russians. What do Russians know? They think Lenin was a hero-Lenin could not ride a camel, never mind a horse."
"I heard Genghis destroyed every city that stood up to him," Remo pointed out, "putting everyone to the sword."
The Mongol sighed happily. "Yes," he said wistfully. "That was our Lord Genghis. A fine role model for our children." "Uh-huh," Remo said dryly. "Saddle my horse for me?"
"At once."
Remo gave the man a buck as his horse was brought out. He got on and galloped off.
The Mongol watched him with expert interest. He had never seen an American ride before. They rode better than Russians, but not so good as Mongols. But who could ride like a Mongol other than another Mongol?
Remo rode through the cluster of gers. He was in a rush, so he called out Kula's name as he picked his way along.
A wicker door spanked open and the Mongol came out, blinking sleep from his narrow eyes.
"Remo!" he exploded. "What are you doing here?"
"I need your help. The Chinese Army's coming this way by rail. They're out to stop that Mongol army. And they're moving south. I gotta stop that train."
"Wait. I will gather good riders."
"No time," Remo said. "Just point me toward the rail line."
"It goes through this very city. We are on the Trans-Mongolian Railway. We must ride south to meet these food-growers who think they are warriors."
"Then let's ride!" Remo said anxiously.
"One moment," Kula said. He ducked back into his ger and an excited Mongolian argument filtered out. Remo waited impatiently.
Kula soon returned, trailed by two Mongolians in padded dels carrying curved bows.
They looked at Remo and asked Kula several hot questions. Kula replied in kind. Remo said, "Shake a leg! Every minute counts!"
"I am coming," Kula said. He shot a final order to the others, who abruptly split in two directions.
Kula saddled up and joined Remo.
"We ride," he said. "Others will follow."
"What was that all about?" Remo asked after they had turned their horses around and started away.
"I tell them I follow you, the white tiger. They do not believe me when I speak of your mighty feats."
Their cantering horses put the gers behind them.
"Let's go!" Remo shouted.
They galloped across the plain. Remo rode like a man born in the saddle. He didn't notice. He was thinking of Chiun to the north, the troop train to the south, and Fang Yu, wherever she was, whatever she was doing.
He put her out of his thoughts. The desert stretched before him, endless and uncaring.
He had a job to do. Personal stuff could wait.
Chapter 26
The railbed was half-buried in snow.
"Looks impassable," Remo remarked when Kula pointed out a section that the wind had blown clear of snow.
"In winter, it often is," Kula remarked. "But the Chinese will not let snow stop them. They are like ants. They will ride so far, and their soldiers will dig out each section of track. Then go on."
Kula dismounted, saying, "I will show you a trick." He went over to a section of track and took one rail between his strong teeth.
"Hear any popping?" Remo asked, looking down the line. It was hard to believe that under this snowscape lay a desert.
Kula released the rail. "You know this trick?" he asked in surprise.
"I've seen it in a million movies."
Kula nodded. "That is where we Mongolians learned of it too. And no," he said, straightening, "I hear nothing."
He remounted, and they rode on, following the tracks.
"We are only two," Kula pointed out. "How will two men stop a train loaded with Chinese soldiers?"
"Let me worry about that," Remo said grimly.
Kula noted the determination in the American's face.
They rode, every so often pausing to listen for vibrations on the rails. But they lay cold, devoid of vibration.
A white disturbance on the horizon that might have been rolling low-lying clouds caught Remo's attention.
"You have geysers in the desert?" he asked.
"No."
"Then it's train time."
It was a black troop train, they saw as it came around a long shallow bend in the railbed. A black steam engine pulled it along, sending billows of white steam into the clear blue.
Remo counted ten T-55 tanks on flatcars and a quartet of armored personnel carriers. The rest were passenger cars, loaded no doubt with PLA regulars.
Kula looked back over his shoulder. His gonglike face reflected metallic disappointment as it swiveled back to the train.
"They will not arrive in time," he said simply.
"Won't need them," Remo retorted, getting off his cream pony. Leading the horse, he went to the railbed.
Kula sauntered up. He took the reins from Remo. Then Remo sank to his knees.
He laid both hands on the nearest rail. It was cold to the touch. He warmed it with quick back-and-forth rubbing motions. Friction. Then he felt along the rail until he found a seam where the rails were welded together.
As Kula watched, his eyes often cast in the direction of the huffing steam engine, Remo made a spearhead with his right hand. He brought it up. Then sharply down.
The crack of cold metal separating made Kula, for all his Mongol poise, jump in his saddle.
Remo clambered over to the other rail. He repeated his chopping action. Another crack.
Then, quickly, because he could feel the vibration of the approaching train in the very air as well as from the rail, Remo moved down the track to the next set of weld seams.
Crack! Crack! The welds broke free. Remo touched the separated rails. The vibration was absent. The rails were no longer linked to the system.
Remo looked up. The train was bearing down. He expected a train whistle but there was none. The Twenty-seventh Army wasn't about to signal its encroachment into Outer Mongolia-or think twice about running over a lone man on the rails.
"Want to lend a hand?" Remo suggested calmly.
Kula jumped off his pony with alacrity. He got a grip on one rail while Remo pulled up each spike with his hands. Kula shouldered it off to one side while Remo attacked the other set of spikes. The other rail clanged as it found a new place in the snow.
Remo looked at the empty section of track and then to the train.
"Not enough," he decided. He moved ahead. Two more weld seams released under his chopping blows. Two more rails were shoved to one side.
Then, recovering their horses' reins, Remo and Kula walked as far away from the maimed section of track as they could.
Dong Gungwu clutched the throttle of the JS 2-8-2 Mikado steam engine tightly. He reluctantly put his head out the open window at times. It was harsh, this Mongolian wind. Also, he feared the legendary Mongol bowmen, the scourges of this barbarous land.
Dong Gungwu happened to poke his head out in time to see two Mongols on the railbed ahead. He left the whistle alone. He was under orders. He did not like the thought of driving troops-especially the despised Twenty-seventh Army-into foreign territory, but his job was good and he preferred this to the Beijing Lockup or a public beheading as a counterrevolutionary.