We traveled quickly along the winding trail of the Buret Hei and in two days began to make the elevations of the mountain pass between the valleys of the Buret Hei and Kharga.  The trail was not only very steep but was also littered with fallen larch trees and frequently intercepted, incredible as it may seem, with swampy places where the horses mired badly.  Then again we picked our dangerous road over cobbles and small stones that rolled away under our horses’ feet and bumped off over the precipice nearby.  Our horses fatigued easily in passing this moraine that had been strewn by ancient glaciers along the mountain sides.  Sometimes the trail led right along the edge of the precipices where the horses started great slides of stones and sand.  I remember one whole mountain covered with these moving sands.  We had to leave our saddles and, taking the bridles in our hands, to trot for a mile or more over these sliding beds, sometimes sinking in up to our knees and going down the mountain side with them toward the precipices below.  One imprudent move at times would have sent us over the brink.  This destiny met one of our horses.  Belly down in the moving trap, he could not work free to change his direction and so slipped on down with a mass of it until he rolled over the precipice and was lost to us forever.  We heard only the crackling of breaking trees along his road to death.  Then with great difficulty we worked down to salvage the saddle and bags.  Further along we had to abandon one of our pack horses which had come all the way from the northern border of Urianhai with us.  We first unburdened it but this did not help; no more did our shouting and threats.  He only stood with his head down and looked so exhausted that we realized he had reached the further bourne of his land of toil.  Some Soyots with us examined him, felt of his muscles on the fore and hind legs, took his head in their hands and moved it from side to side, examined his head carefully after that and then said: 

“That horse will not go further.  His brain is dried out.”  So we had to leave him.

That evening we came to a beautiful change in scene when we topped a rise and found ourselves on a broad plateau covered with larch.  On it we discovered the yurtas of some Soyot hunters, covered with bark instead of the usual felt.  Out of these ten men with rifles rushed toward us as we approached.  They informed us that the Prince of Soldjak did not allow anyone to pass this way, as he feared the coming of murderers and robbers into his dominions.

“Go back to the place from which you came,” they advised us with fear in their eyes.

I did not answer but I stopped the beginnings of a quarrel between an old Soyot and one of my officers.  I pointed to the small stream in the valley ahead of us and asked him its name.

“Oyna,” replied the Soyot.  “It is the border of the principality and the passage of it is forbidden.”