"You are looking fit now," Tsengel said through his son.

"Feeling fit as well," Pitt replied. The food, liquids, and rest had quickly revitalized the two men and they felt surprisingly refreshed.

"My wife's cooking. It is an elixir," the man grinned. Tying their horses to the hitching rope then washing at a bucket of soapy water, he led them back into the ger. Another meal of mutton and dried cheese awaited them, accompanied by cooked noodles. This time, Pitt and Giordino consumed the meal with much less relish. The airag was produced earlier and poured in larger quantities, consumed out of small ceramic bowls that never seemed to empty.

"You have an impressive herd," Giordino remarked, complimenting his host. "How many head?"

"We own one hundred thirty camels and five horses," Tsengel replied. "A satisfactory herd, yet it is a quarter the size of what we once owned on the other side of the border."

"In Chinese Inner Mongolia?"

"Yes, the so-called autonomous region, which has become little more than another Chinese province."

Tsengel looked into the fire with a glint of anger in his eyes.

"Why did you leave?"

Tsengel nodded toward a faded black-and-white photograph on the altar, which showed a boy on a horse and an older man holding the reins. The penetrating eyes of the boy revealed it was a young Tsengel, alongside his own father.

"At least five generations of my ancestors have herded on the eastern fields of the Gobi. My father owned a herd of over two thousand camels at one time. But those days have vanished in the winds.

There is no place for a simple herder in those lands anymore. The Chinese bureaucrats keep commandeering the land without regard to its natural balance. Time and again, we have been pushed out of our ancestral grazing lands and forced to drive our herds to the harshest portions of the desert.

Meanwhile, they suck the water out wherever they can, for the noble cause of industrializing the state. As a result, the grasslands are disappearing right under their noses. The desert is growing day by day, but it is a dead desert. The fools will not see it until the sands begin to consume their capital of Beijing, by which time it will be too late. For my family's sake, I had no choice but to cross the border. The grazing conditions are sparse, but at least the herder is still respected here," he said proudly.

Pitt took another sip of the bitter-tasting airag as he studied the old photograph.

"It is always a crime to take away a man's livelihood," he said.

His gaze drifted over to a framed print mounted at the back of the altar. The portrait of a rotund man with a stringy goatee peered back, drawn in an ancient stylized hand.

"Tsengel, who is that on the altar?"

"The Yuan emperor, Kublai. Most powerful ruler of the world, yet benevolent friend of the common man," Tsengel replied, as if the emperor were still alive.

"Kublai Khan?" Giordino asked.

Tsengel nodded. "It was a far better time when the Mongol ruled China," he added wistfully.

"It is a much different world today, I'm afraid," Pitt said.

The airag was taking its toll on Tsengel, who had consumed several bowls of the potent brew. His eyes grew glassy and his emotions more visceral as the mare's milk disappeared down his throat. Finding the geopolitical conversation becoming a little too sensitive for the man, Pitt tried to change the subject.

"Tsengel, we stumbled upon a strange sight in the desert before the sandstorm struck. It was an artificial village surrounded by wooden camels. Do you know the place?"

Tsengel responded by laughing with a throaty guffaw.

"Ah, yes, the richest herdsmen in the Gobi. Only his mares don't produce a drop of milk," he smiled, taking another sip of airag.

"Who built it?" Giordino asked.

"A large crew of men appeared in the desert with equipment, pipe, and a digging machine. They dug tunnels under the surface that run for many kilometers. I was paid a small fee to direct their foreman to the nearest well. He told me that they worked for an oil company in Ulaanbaatar, but were sworn not to tell anyone of their work. Several of the crewmen who talked loudly had disappeared suddenly and the rest of the workers were very nervous. They quickly built the wooden camels and large tanks that look like gers, then the men vanished. The tanks in the village stand empty, collecting only dust from the wind.

That was many months ago, and I have seen no one return since. It is just like the others."

"Which others?" Pitt asked.

"There are three other camps of metal gers located near the border. They are all the same. They stand empty, but for the wooden camels."

"Are there existing oil wells or oil drilling in the area?" Pitt asked.

Tsengel thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I have seen oil wells in China many years ago, but none in this area."

"Why do you think they disguise the storage tanks and surround them with wooden livestock?"

"I do not know. Some say that the metal gers were built by a wealthy herder to capture the rains and that the water will be used to bring back the grasslands. A shaman claims the wooden animals are an homage, placed in appeasement for the desecration of the desert that occurred by their underground digging.

Others say it is the work of a tribe of madmen. But they are all wrong. It is simply the work of the powerful, who wish to exploit the wealth of the desert. Why do they disguise their efforts? Why else but to disguise their evil hearts."

The airag had nearly finished Tsengel off. He slurped the remains of his bowl, then rose uneasily to his feet and bid his guests and family good night. Staggering over to one of the beds, he collapsed onto the covers and was snoring loudly minutes later. Pitt and Giordino helped the others clean up the remains of the meal, then strode outside for a dose of fresh air.

"It still doesn't make any sense," Giordino said, gazing at the night sky. "Why hide some empty oil tanks out in the desert to collect dust?"

"Maybe there is something more important than the storage tanks that is being hidden."

"What might that be?"

"Perhaps," Pitt replied, kicking his toe into the ground, "the source of the oil."

-30-

Despite Tsengel's loud snoring, Pitt and Giordino slept soundly in the ger, the boy Noyon giving up his bed to sleep on pillows on the floor. Everyone awoke at sunup and shared a breakfast of tea and noodles. Tsengel had arranged for Pitt and Giordino to accompany Noyon to the nearby village, where the local children were shuttled to a monastery for schooling three days a week.

Pitt and Giordino would hop a ride with Noyon to the monastery, where a supply truck from Ulaanbaatar was known to make semiregular visits.

Slipping some dusty bills into her hand, Pitt thanked Ariunaa for the food and comfort, then said good-bye to Tsengel.

"We cannot repay your kindness and generosity."

"The door to a herder's ger is always open. Be well in your travels, and think kindly on occasion of your friends in the Gobi."

The men shook hands, then Tsengel galloped off to tend his herd. Pitt, Giordino, and Noyon mounted three of the stout horses and loped off toward the north.

"Your father is a good man," Pitt said as he watched Tsengel's dusty trail disappear over the horizon.