About twelve miles from Zain we saw from a ridge a snakelike lineof riders crossing the valley, which detachment we met half an hourlater on the shore of a deep, swampy stream. The group consistedof Mongols, Buriats and Tibetans armed with Russian rifles. At thehead of the column were two men, one of whom in a huge blackAstrakhan and black felt cape with red Caucasian cowl on hisshoulders blocked my road and, in a coarse, harsh voice, demandedof me: "Who are you, where are you from and where are you going?"I gave also a laconic answer. They then said that they were adetachment of troops from Baron Ungern under the command of CaptainVandaloff. "I am Captain Bezrodnoff, military judge."Suddenly he laughed loudly. His insolent, stupid face did notplease me and, bowing to the officers, I ordered my riders to move.

"Oh no!" he remonstrated, as he blocked the road again. "I cannotallow you to go farther. I want to have a long and seriousconversation with you and you will have to come back to Zain forit."I protested and called attention to the letter of ColonelKazagrandi, only to hear Bezrodnoff answer with coldness:

"This letter is a matter of Colonel Kazagrandi's and to bring youback to Zain and talk with you is my affair. Now give me yourweapon."But I could not yield to this demand, even though death werethreatened.

"Listen," I said. "Tell me frankly. Is yours really a detachmentfighting against the Boisheviki or is it a Red contingent?""No, I assure you!" replied the Buriat officer Vandaloff,approaching me. "We have already been fighting the Bolsheviki forthree years.""Then I cannot hand you my weapon," I calmly replied. "I broughtit from Soviet Siberia, have had many fights with this ............