The interpreter he had with him was an untrustworthy sort of fellow, and the camp was full of half-wild natives, good enough men in their way, but as troublesome and mischievous as boys. This state of affairs in the main camp made it essential that, instead of sleeping where he shot, Littledale should return to camp every evening.
On the first day he rose at 2 a.m., and, guided by a native over some extremely bad going, reached the hunters’ camp by 6 a.m. Here Littledale left his guide and went on with the hunters, who were up and ready for him.
That first day Littledale saw a band of tûr feeding on a slope above his party, but as the day grew older the band made for the crags, and, in spite of all the hunters’ efforts, reached their regular haunt on an inaccessible ledge and lay down there. An attempt to get at them by making a wide détour only resulted in moving the game, although the hint of man’s proximity conveyed to them by some eddy of wind was not sufficiently strong to make them move far or fast. However, it was enough to render any further attempt useless that day; so that, after making another détour and killing a chamois on his road home, Littledale reached his camp and turned in by 8 p.m. Next morning he and his guide were delayed at starting by the mountain mists, which hid everything, so that they did not reach the hunters’ camp until 6.30 a.m. Going at once to the spot at which they had seen the tûr the day before, they hunted high and low without success, and then took a line along a ridge, which they stuck to until it grew so steep and dangerous that the guides showed signs of striking and Littledale had to give the order for ‘home.’ On their way back the party saw their old friends the tûr far away below them, with such a yawning gulf between them and the hunters as to render any attempt to reach them that day absolutely hopeless. That night Littledale reached camp at 9 p.m., and at 2 a.m. next day was again on foot. But on this third day the tûr were not upon their usual ground, and, weary with incessant early rising, hard work and hope deferred, the hunters gave way for a time to disappointment. But honest hard work generally gets its reward, if there is only enough of it, and as Littledale’s glass swept slowly over the crags and snow-fields round the point on which he lay, luck turned, and lo! there was the herd not half a mile away in a place where they could apparently be stalked with ease, whilst even the wind for once was in the right direction.
At first all went well; too well, Littledale thought. Experience had taught him that such luck could not last. Nor did it. When the stalk seemed almost at an end and success assured, he came to a sheet of snow at least 100 yards in width, set between him and the tûr, and within full view of the latter.
In vain he sought for a way round, or for some covert, however small, behind which there would be some chance of crawling across; but it was no use, there was absolutely no way for him except across that glaring white patch in full view of his game. It seemed, after all his hard work, too cruelly tantalising even for that sport of which the Russian says that it is ‘harder than slavery’; but, unfortunately, there was no help for it, so there the hunters lay, the game almost within range of them, and yet hopelessly inaccessible. As they lay silently watching, the heat which exercise had generated in their bodies slowly oozed away, the wind began to twist and shift dangerously, so that at any moment they might expect to have their presence betrayed, and down below the mist-wreaths began to gather. All at once one of these detached itself from the rest and came floating up towards the peaks. Nearer and nearer it crept up the mountain-side, until, to Littledale’s inexpressible delight, it rested for one moment upon that odious snow-patch.
That was all that was wanted, and in a moment Littledale and his companions had taken advantage of it, had flitted like ghosts through the shifting veil before it had time to pass on, and had thrown themselves, with a sigh of thankfulness, behind a huge boulder on the other side of the snow-field. They were only just in time, for as they gained their shelter the little mist floated off the snow, and the tûr, which were still above the party, began to show unmistakable signs of uneasiness.
From the boulder Littledale tried to worm himself still nearer to his quarry, but as he did so, first one and then the whole herd got slowly up, one big fellow standing, broadside on, upon a little pinnacle above the rest. Putting up the 150 yards sight, and taking the foresight very fine, as the shot was uphill, Littledale pressed the trigger, and the great ram sprang from the rock with a stagger which looked as if he had got his death-wound.
As the first beast left it, another big ram took his place upon the rock, and as the left barrel rang out he too vanished on the other side of the rock.
Uncertain as to the result of his shots, Littledale hurried to the spot, to find one tûr in extremis and the other gone.
However, the hunter, following at his leisure, pointed out the second beast, dead, within ten or fifteen yards of the first. The fact that Mr. Littledale (no novice, mind you) overlooked the second dead beast, although so close to him, gives some idea of the way in which a tûr’s rusty hide matches his surroundings.