XXXVI. MARKHOR (_Capra megaceros_ vel _Falconeri_)
_Native names: Cashmere, ‘Markhor’; Ladak, ‘Rache’; Aster, ‘Boom’_
Whether this king among goats deserves his name of ‘snake-eater’ or not is hardly likely to be settled. Shikaris all believe that markhor do eat snakes, some going as far as to say that they suck the snakes out of their holes, and swallow them like macaroni; and Colonel Kinloch supports the theory.
But though some hundreds of markhor have been shot by Europeans, the fact has hitherto not been proved; and the writer ventures in all humility to suggest that the tale is derived from some old legend, and refers, in spite of the Persian name which may have become corrupted, to the long snake-like horns.
Be this as it may, an old markhor swaggering along a ledge on a precipitous hillside, with his long black beard and white mane floating down to his knees, showing off every inch of his beautiful horns--as no beast knows better how to do, except perhaps a really big stag in the rutting season--is one of the most glorious sights in the Himalayas.
The beast looks such a gentleman with his lean head and small ears, his powerful back and quarters, and his dignified carriage. Alas! it is all looks! His smell is something fearful, and manners he has none. Ibex and burrel can be trusted, when they are lying down after their morning feed, at all events not to move far; but markhor, no. You may watch a flock feeding till late in the morning, and they will lie down comfortably, apparently for the day; you begin your stalk with everything in your favour; suddenly there is a clatter of stones and a cloud of dust, you peep over a spur, and see the whole flock galloping wildly down the hill. After going half a mile, they probably pull up, begin feeding again, and again stretch themselves out on the ground as if nothing had happened. This little manœuvre probably necessitates your climbing painfully back to the top of the ridge, and starting your stalk afresh, the intervening ground being impracticable. Once more you try, leaving a man on the top of the hill to watch and signal what the beasts do. You stalk carefully on; the watcher makes no sign; you creep on the last hundred yards, to the exact spot you wish to reach, and there is nothing. You search the ground as far as you can get, and there are only a few footprints leading over impassable ground; you climb back again, probably the only way you can go, vowing vengeance on the watcher, and he tells you that the markhor lay quiet till you were beginning your last crawl in--every second he expected to hear the shot: suddenly they jumped up and disappeared, and owing to the steepness of the ground he could not tell which way they had gone. This sort of thing will happen over and over again, particularly in Astor.
