The truck engine blew after they forded the first river.
There were nomad people herding down below them and they took their mules because there was no choice and they loaded what they could and tried to hide the rest. They left the rice, the warm clothes, and took most of the ammunition.
The pass was high as humans go. Wind whipped gravel broke the skin of their faces and the cold broke through every barrier they made. They did not stop for night, did not rest, did not eat. When a mule died they left it where it lay. Left its load on it. When a man died they murmured a sacred word and left him too.
On the third day they found refugees crouching in the rocks. One woman's wail tore at the wind. Dead child at her breast.
``Do not give up,'' the leader said, ``our minds must be more certain, our hearts more fierce and our courage greater as our strength diminishes.'' He told them of the ammunition on the dead mules, the guns on the dead men just miles behind them.
``Do not run. Fight!'' he said. But only madness stared out of the eyes of the old men and the children and the woman's wails continued unabated.
In the valley the rebels awaited the arrival of supplies. Hemmed in by gunfire, the high pass was their only hope. Rice. Ammunition. Felt liners for their broken boots. Promises made in the last communication. They watched the snow clouds of winter on the pass and hope began to fade.
On the high pass the travelers gasped for air. Even the birds, wind-blown off course, were dying around them. And the men died too, one by one and their animals with them and the screaming snow impacted their nostrils, their eyes, as they died. One man among them died standing. He was found months later frozen still.
You will have seen the photograph of course.