About 2 p.m. the sowar sent forward meets us with water; but it is almost undrinkable.  Far better luck awaits us, however, farther along.  Sighting an Eimuck camel-rider in the distance, one of the sowars gives chase and halts him until we can come up.  Slung across his camel he has a skin of doke, the most welcome thing one can wish for under the circumstances.  Everybody helps himself liberally of the refreshing beverage, shrinking the Eimuck’s supply very perceptibly.  The Eimuck joins heartily with our party in laughing at the altered contour of the pliant skin, as pointed out jocularly by Mohammed Ahzim Khan, bids us “salaam aleykum,” and pursues his way across country.

During the afternoon we cross several well-worn trails; though evidently but little used of late, they have seen much travel.  My escort explains that they are daman trails, in other words the trails worn by Turkoman raiders passing back and forth on their man-stealing expeditions, before their subjugation by the Russians.

By and by we emerge from a belt of low hills, and descend into a broad, level plain.  A few miles off to the right can be seen the Heri Rood, its sinuous course plainly outlined by a dark fringe of jungle.  Some miles ahead the village-fortress of Kafir Kaleh is visible.  A horseman comes galloping across the plain to intercept us.  Mohammed Ahzim Khan produces his written orders concerning my delivery at Karize and reads it to the new arrival.  Thereupon ensues a long explanation, which ends in, our turning about and following the new-comer across the trailless plain toward the Heri Rood.

“What’s up now?” I wonder; but the only intelligible reply I get in reply to queries is that we are going to camp in the jungle.  Misgivings as to possible foul play mingle with speculations regarding this person’s mission, as I follow in the wake of the Afghans.

We camp on a plot of rising ground that elevates us above the overflow, and shortly after our arrival we are visited by a band of nomads who are hunting through the jungle with greyhounds, Mohammed Ahzim Khan informs me that both baabs, and palangs (panthers) are to be found along the Heri Rood.

Luxuriant beds of the green stuff known in the United States as lamb’s-quarter, abound, and I put one of the sowars to gathering some with the idea of cooking it for supper.  None of our party know anything about its being good to eat, and Mohammed Ahzim Khan shakes his head vigorously in token of disapproval.  A nomad visitor, however, corroborates my statement about its edibleness, and fills our chief with wonderment that I should know something in common with an Afghan nomad, that he, a resident of the country, knows nothing about.  By way of stimulating his wonderment still further, I proceed to call off the names of the various nomad tribes inhabiting Afghanistan, together with their locations.

“Where did you learn all this.” he queries, evidently suspicious that I have been picking up altogether too much information.