198 By Mountain, Lake, and Plain 



I had had with me on the former trip was not 

 available, owing to a rather characteristic incident. 

 He had recently been for a hunting tour alone, in 

 the course of which he had wounded a stag, and 

 was running up when a shot was fired from cover 

 close by, which took off one of his fingers. A 

 Turkoman, of course, who had thought to make 

 a double bag with one shot, as the Persians say, 

 ham khina ham khazina (at once revenge and 

 booty). The Kurd fled, and his enemy took the 

 quarry. 



The ground we tried this time was a continu- 

 ation westward of the range I was on before, 

 a long ridge separated from the main chain by 

 a deep gorge through which the Gurgan stream 

 flows on its way to the Caspian. From the crest 

 one gets a fine outlook. On the southern side, far 

 below, lies a flat, dust-coloured plain, with the 

 fortified post of Kabat-i-Karabil stuck down in 

 the middle like a tiny pile of toy bricks. Beyond, 

 a mass of JchaJci mountains softened into a dim 

 purple by miles of hazy air. To the north, ridge 

 after ridge of hills fading away into a horizonless 

 mist. Our own hog's-back, running west, trended 

 gradually upwards to a prominent, broad-bosomed 

 hill that reared its wooded slopes up to a magni- 

 ficent bluff that overhung the Gurgan defile. It 

 was all ideal sheep-ground, with outlines undulat- 



