One of the horses tethered in the trees wickered and Jaya rose to investigate. Whispers came out of the darkness, and she returned with three Tibetans who eagerly accepted servings of the stew she had made. The two men, judging by their sheepskin vests and caps, were herders. The third, a sturdy woman of perhaps forty years, nodded at Shan as she accepted her bowl from Jaya. He had a vague sense that he knew her but could not put a name to her face. Only when one of the herders added sticks from the bundle of fuel he had carried into the camp did Shan make the connection, for the flames illuminated the big leather bag she kept at her side, clearly showing the painted image of Menla, the Medicine Buddha. The woman was the nurse who usually roamed the Yangkar hills.

The matronly Tibetan woman remained silent as Jaya filled a small pot with stew and kept her head bent down in a melancholy expression. She did not eat, only murmured her gratitude to Jaya, picked up the pot and a bundle of incense that had been left near the fire, and stepped back into the shadows behind the wall of black felt.

Ten minutes later a Tibetan man in the denim clothing of the construction workers appeared at the edge of the trees and Jaya and Lhakpa quickly stepped to his side, speaking with him in urgent, worried tones. Shan slipped behind the felt wall. At the end of the rows of artifacts, past a bend in the mountain, he discovered a smaller campfire. The nurse and two other Tibetans sat there, one an older man with long, ragged, graying hair that hung about his shoulders, the other a squarely built woman who was working a strand of prayer beads. The man looked up and cocked his head as if hearing Shan’s approach.

The two women gasped as he stepped out of the darkness. The man’s leathery face lifted in a small, uncertain smile, though he did put one hand on the carved staff that leaned on a tree beside him.

“He was talking with Lhakpa,” the nurse explained to her companions.

“I was hoping to get better acquainted with the hail chaser,” Shan said, nodding to the old man.

“The constable of Yangkar,” the nurse added in warning. The other woman grabbed the pot of stew and fled into the night.

The hail chaser spoke in the quiet voice of a lama. “Come share our fire, Constable.” As Shan moved to sit on one of the flat stones by the flames, the nurse rose, lifted her medicine bag and a smaller, bulging leather bag of the kind used for collecting yak dung for fires, and disappeared in the direction of the other woman.

“Such an effect you have on women,” the old Tibetan said with a low chuckle.