The Big Markhor 47 



and brilliancy. Below the crests immaculate 

 snow-fields faintly reflected in their shadows the 

 intense blue of the sky above. The silence was 

 only broken by the deep gurgling of the torrent 

 near our camp under thick ice, and by the cries of 

 a flock of ravens which were wheeling round and 

 round at an immense height above our heads. 



I was finishing the square meal with which a 

 wise man never omits, whatever the hour, to 

 strengthen the inner man before commencing a 

 day on the mountains, when Gul Sher, who had 

 been up before dark, walked into camp. He had 

 been up the opposite side of the valley with the 

 glasses to assure himself that our herd had not 

 moved during the night, and brought the welcome 

 news that the fifteen were together in the ravine 

 they had entered the previous evening, and that 

 the big one was with them. 



After warming the stalker with a bowl of hot 

 tea, the binding on of my Kashmiri grass shoes 

 (an unequalled form of footgear for snow) was 

 quickly completed, and we started off at a good 

 pace. When we were nearing the top of the scarp 

 overhanging our camp we heard above us the 

 curious loud snort given by an alarmed markhor. 

 A doe was staring at us from a rock a hundred 

 yards above, and somewhat in front of where we 

 had precipitately sat ourselves down. It was a 



