“Not as good as Yankling Sahib.” The Ao-chung man took a pull at the whisky-bottle and passed it over. “Now hear me—unless any other man thinks he knows more.” The challenge was not taken up. “We go to Shamlegh when the moon rises. There we will fairly divide the baggage between us. I am content with this new little rifle and all its cartridges.” “Are the bears only bad on thy holding? said a mate, sucking at the pipe. “No; but musk-pods are worth six rupees apiece now, and thy women can have the canvas of the tents and some of the cooking-gear. We will do all that at Shamlegh before dawn. Then we all go our ways, remembering that we have never seen or taken service with these Sahibs, who may, indeed, say that we have stolen their baggage.” “That is well for thee, but what will our Rajah say?” “Who is to tell him? Those Sahibs, who cannot speak our talk, or the Babu, who for his own ends gave us money? Will _he_ lead an army against us? What evidence will remain? That we do not need we shall throw on Shamlegh-midden, where no man has yet set foot.” “Who is at Shamlegh this summer?” The place was only a grazing centre of three or four huts.” “The Woman of Shamlegh. _She_ has no love for Sahibs, as we know. The others can be pleased with little presents; and here is enough for us all.” He patted the fat sides of the nearest basket. “But—but—” “I have said they are not true Sahibs. All their skins and heads were bought in the bazar at Leh. _I_ know the marks. I showed them to ye last march.” “True. They were all bought skins and heads. Some had even the moth in them.” That was a shrewd argument, and the Ao-chung man knew his fellows. “If the worst comes to the worst, I shall tell Yankling Sahib, who is a man of a merry mind, and he will laugh. We are not doing any wrong to any Sahibs whom we know. _They_ are priest-beaters. They frightened us. We fled! Who knows where we dropped the baggage? Do ye think Yankling Sahib will permit down-country police to wander all over the hills, disturbing his game? It is a far cry from Simla to Chini, and farther from Shamlegh to Shamlegh-midden.” “So be it, but I carry the big _kilta_. The basket with the red top that the Sahibs pack themselves every morning.” “Thus it is proved,” said the Shamlegh man adroitly, “that they are Sahibs of no account. Who ever heard of Fostum Sahib, or Yankling Sahib, or even the little Peel Sahib that sits up of nights to shoot serow—I say, who, ever heard of these Sahibs coming into the hills without a down-country cook, and a bearer, and—and all manner of well-paid, high-handed and oppressive folk in their tail? How can they make trouble? What of the _kilta?_” “Nothing, but that it is full of the Written Word—books and papers in which they wrote, and strange instruments, as of worship.” “Shamlegh-midden will take them all.”