Thunder rumbled, and rain poured down in sheets.
Inside the hastily erected tent, the group was a little damp. They drank milk tea to warm themselves, smoked, and watched the curtain of rain.
"Samba, it's all because of your cursed mouth." Zhacuo raked at his hair. "If you hadn't been spouting nonsense, how could it have started raining less than half a day after we came in?"
"No matter how much I talk, isn't the rain decided by the mountain god? Why don't you blame the mountain god?" Samba replied irritably.
"That's because the mountain god doesn't like hearing you talk, so he made it rain. He's teaching you a lesson. Samba, I'm begging you—can you talk less from now on? Could you stop making the mountain god unhappy?"
Zhacuo looked utterly serious, and what he said nearly pissed Samba to death.
"I think it's you who keeps using the mountain god's name to say whatever you want, angering him." Samba snorted. "You should talk less too. Learn your lesson."
While they bickered and joked over here, He Qingyuan said, "This trip probably won't be easy either. Who knows how many more days we'll have to wander around in these mountains."
"We'll keep looking and see. Bolamula is huge, and they're not the only group out here hunting Tibetan antelope." Duojie sounded equally helpless, puffing on his cigarette even harder.
If they followed the tracks, these people could at most have taken down a small herd. But once the trail was lost, it could mean that another hundred, perhaps several hundred, sheep had fallen victim. Their wool grew thick in winter, and poachers were rampant. One group came in and killed dozens or over a hundred; then another group killed dozens or over a hundred. That was how the sheep