A FEROCIOUS FLY 73 



small cave, nicely floored with grass, where he sat and 

 potted the markhor ; the spring was just below, so the 

 game approached within ten yards of his gun muzzle. 

 It is not surprising that the markhor disappear so fast 

 when such murderous practices are followed. 



The next was a blank day ; we moved again, and 

 camped in a small patch under a splendid pine, just 

 opposite the rock where I had spent such an uncomfort- 

 able night before I got the 47 -inch markhor. This 

 was the pleasantest camp I had in the valley, and my 

 happiness would have been complete but for the attacks 

 of a ferocious little fly. It was hardly big enough to see, 

 but wherever it stung it left a minute blood-spot that 

 itched dreadfully. 



Next morning saw us making our way straight up from 

 camp for the ridge above — a stiff ascent of two hours — 

 where we had to remain an hour till the sun fell on the 

 other slope. This delay is always disagreeable, as it is 

 generally cold and windy, and there is seldom any 

 protection. One dare not move down the other side as 

 the wind is blowing downwards, and every head of game, 

 down to the bottom of the valley, would scent you before 

 you had gone a hundred yards. When the sun has 

 warmed the hillside, the current is changed, and the winds 

 blow upwards. You are then safe, and may walk up to 

 a bear, and pull him by the ear before blowing his brains 

 out. If the day is cloudy, however, you may as well give 

 up stalking — the wind is everywhere. The shikari con- 

 stantly halts, pulls some fluff from his woollen coat, and 

 floats it away on the wind, watching the tiny speck 

 anxiously. Then call patience to your aid, and wait, sit, sleep, 

 do anything but move about. A cloudy day in the hunting 

 grounds of Kashmir must give the recording angel above 

 a busy time of it. At nine o'clock we descended the next 



