The Plant Hunters: Adventures Among the Himalaya Mountains. Майн Рид

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      The sight of this old acquaintance, as they termed the oak, had a cheering effect upon the Bavarian boys; and after supper they sat conversing upon the subject, determined as soon as it was day to look out for some of the living trees as further confirmation of the strange fact they had observed.

      They were about thinking of wrapping themselves up in their blankets, and retiring to rest, when an incident occurred that kept them awake for another hour or two.

Chapter Eight.

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      The Sambur Stag.

      “See!” cried Caspar, who was more sharp-eyed than Karl.

      “Look! look yonder! two lights, I declare!”

      “Indeed, yes,” replied Karl; “I see them—bright round lights! What can they be?”

      “An animal!” answered Caspar; “I can affirm that much. Some wild beast, I fancy!”

      They regarded the strange object with some uneasiness, for they knew they were in the haunts of dangerous wild beasts.

      “Maybe a tiger?” suggested Karl.

      “Or a panther?” added his brother.

      “I hope neither one nor the other,” said Karl.

      He was interrupted by Ossaroo, who had now observed the shining spots, and who with a single word reassured the whole party.

      “Samboo,” said the shikarree.

      Both knew that Ossaroo meant by “Samboo,” the great deer or stag known to Europeans as the sambur deer. It was the eyes of a deer, then, glancing back the blaze of the oak fagots, that had alarmed them.

      Their fears were suddenly changed to feelings of joy. They had a double motive for being pleased at the sight. To shoot and bring down the deer would be such excellent sport; besides, a fresh venison steak was a delicacy which both could appreciate.

      All of them, Ossaroo included, were too well accustomed to the habits of hunters to act rashly. Any sudden movement among them might frighten the game; and if it bounded off into the forest, or even turned its head, it could no longer be seen in the pitchy darkness that surrounded them. The shining eyes were all of it that were visible; and if the creature had but chosen to shut its eyes it might have stood there till the morning light, without the least chance of being aimed at.

      The animal, however, was too full of its own curiosity to adopt this precaution. Instead, it remained where it had been first observed—its great round orbs uncovered to their full extent and gleaming in the light like a pair of “bull’s-eyes.”

      Caspar in a whisper cautioned the others to remain silent and not to move hand or finger. He, himself, gradually dropped his arm, until he was able to grasp his large double-barrelled gun; and then, raising the piece slowly to a level, took aim and fired. He very prudently did not aim for the centre spot between the eyes. Had it been a bullet that was in his gun he might have done so; but he knew that his piece was only loaded with shot, and shot—even though they were “buckshot”—might not penetrate the hard thick skull of a stag so strong as the sambur. Instead of aiming for the eyes, therefore, he took sight at least a foot below them, and in a direct line below. He had already conjectured, from the even set of the eyes, that the deer was standing full front towards the camp-fire, and his object was to send the shot into its breast and throat.

      The instant after he had delivered the first barrel, although the shining eyes went out like the snuffing of candles, he fired the second, so as to take advantage of a random shot.

      He might have spared his load, for the first had done the business; and the noise of kicking and sprawling among the dry leaves told that the deer was knocked over, and, if not killed, at least badly wounded.

      The dog Fritz had already leaped forth; and before the hunters could procure a torch and reach the spot, the huge hound had seized the quarry by the throat, and finished its struggles by strangling it to death.

      They now dragged the carcass up to the light of the fire, and it was just as much as the three of them could manage—for the sambur deer is one of the largest animals of its kind, and the one that had fallen into their hands was a fine old buck, with a pair of immense antlered horns, of which no doubt in his lifetime he had been excessively proud.

      The sambur deer is one of the most distinguished of the deer tribe. Although not equal in size to the American wapiti (Cervus Canadensis), he is much superior to the stag or red-deer of Europe. He is an active, bold, and vicious animal; and, when bayed, a dangerous antagonist either to dogs or hunters. His coat is close, the hair harsh, of a brown colour, and slightly grizzled. Around the neck it is long and shaggy, but particularly upon the under line of the throat, where it forms a mane similar to that of the American wapiti. Another mane runs along the back of the neck, adding to the fierce bold appearance of the animal. A blackish band encircles the muzzle, and the usual “crupper mark” around the tail is small and of a yellowish colour.

      This is the description of the common sambur deer (Cervus hippelaphus) best known to Europeans, and among Anglo-Indian sportsmen called “stag”; but it is to be observed that in different parts of Asia there are many different species and varieties of the sambur. Zoologists usually class them in a group called Rusa; and one or other of this group may be found in every district of India from Ceylon to the Himalayas, and from the Indus to the islands of the Indian Archipelago. They haunt in timber, and usually by the banks of streams or other waters.

      America has long been regarded as the favourite region of the deer tribe, as Africa is the true home of the antelopes. This belief, however, seems to be rather an incorrect one, and has arisen, perhaps, from the fact that the American species are better known to Europeans. It is true that the largest of the deer—the moose (Cervus alces)—is an inhabitant of the American continent in common with Northern Europe and Asia; but the number of species on that continent, both in its northern and southern divisions, is very limited. When the zoology of the East—I mean of all those countries and islands usually included under the term East Indies—shall have been fully determined, we shall no doubt find not only twice, but three times the number of species of deer that belongs to America.

      When we consider the vast number of educated Englishmen—both in the array and in the civil service—who have idled away their lives in India, we cannot help wondering at the little that is yet known in relation to the fauna of the Oriental world. Most of the Indian officers have looked upon the wild animals of that country with the eye of the sportsman rather than of the naturalist. With them a deer is a deer, and a large ox-like animal a buffalo, or it may be a gayal, or a jungle cow, or a gour, or a gyall; but which of all these is an ox, or whether the four last-mentioned bovine quadrupeds are one and the same species, remains to be determined. Were it not that these gentlemen have had spirit enough occasionally to send us home a skin or a set of horns, we might remain altogether ignorant of the existence of the creature from which these trophies were taken. Verily science owes not much to the Honourable East India Company. We are not blind to such noble exceptions as Sykes, Hodgson, and others; and, if every province of India had a resident of their character, a fauna might soon be catalogued that would astonish even the spectacled savant.

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