Rick felt the same way. Now that the end of the trail was in sight, excitement was rising within him. He was anxious to find his Hindu friend and to find at the same time answers to some of the mysteries they had encountered. "Let's hurry," he said impatiently. Sing shouted at the bearers and the party took a narrow trail that dipped into the valley. Scotty rode ahead with Sing, and his rifle was ready for instant use. Rick and Zircon brought up the rear, their own rifles held ready. They had taken no chances since the fight on the hilltop. Worthington Ko had been left afoot far behind them, but there was no assurance his friends hadn't come to the rescue with horses. Rick kept glancing behind him, just in case of an attack from the rear. They had reached the rim of the valley by midmorning. All through the day they made their way down the mountain, reaching the valley floor about three in the afternoon. Another two hours of steady travel took them past the yurts of Tibetan herders--conical tents made of horsehair felt. The stolid Tibetans watched them pass, no interest in their beady eyes. Then, as darkness began to set in, they reached the monastery. Korse Lenken towered above them, already shaded in twilight. From somewhere within the great pile they heard the tinkle of bells, then the deep tones of a mighty gong. Lamas, priests in yellow robes, walked past with bowed heads. Some of them spun their prayer wheels and intoned the Buddhist ritual. _Om Mani Padme Hum. Hail, the jewel in the lotus!_ The jewel, of course, was the Lord Buddha. They watched the pageant for a few moments, enthralled. Then Zircon commanded Sing. "Find someone you can talk to. We'll want to see the High Lama." Sing nodded. "I will go into the monastery. The bearers will find a place to camp." He issued orders in Chinese. The bearers scattered at once, searching for a suitable place to pitch camp. The three Americans sat their horses and watched the activities around the great monastery, too interested even to talk. Rick saw countless yellow robes on the various balconies. There must be thousands of monks, he thought. And there were an equal number of Tibetans, many of them already busy at cooking fires near the base of the gray stone buildings. He smelled mutton cooking, and the acrid, unpleasant odor he had learned to identify with yak butter. Hot buttered tea was a Tibetan staple. He had tried it on the trail, because he was interested in everything, even yak butter. But he didn't think it would ever take the place of ice cream in his affections. One of the bearers came back and motioned to them. They followed as he led the pack mules to a place in the shelter of a great rock. The other bearers were foraging for wood. In a few moments a fire was going and camp was being set up.