I took my box of medicines and my groaning, cursing, wounded Kalmuck to interpret for me.
"Give that devil some cyanide of potassium," urged my companions.
But I devised another scheme.
We were led to the wounded chief.

There he lay on the saddle cloths among the rocks, represented to us to be a Tibetan but I at once recognized him from his cast of countenance to be a Sart or Turcoman, probably from the southern part of Turkestan.

He looked at me with a begging and frightened gaze.

Examining him, I found the bullet had passed through his chest from left to right, that he had lost much blood and was very weak.

Conscientiously I did all that I could for him.