ight-hand barrel put an end to its barking.

"You're not what I came after," soliloquised Caspar; "but the old stag's
no great eating, he's too tough for me. You, my little fellow, look
more tender, and, I dare say, will make capital venison. Hang there,
then, till I return for you!"

So saying, Caspar, having already strung the kakur's legs, lifted the
carcass, and hung it to the branch of a tree.

Then, reloading his right-hand barrel with a fresh bullet, he continued
on in search of the herd of yaks.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE ARGUS-PHEASANT.

Caspar proceeded with increased caution. His design was to _stalk_ the
wild oxen; and he had left Fritz at the hut, as the dog could be of no
use in that sort of hunting.

He intended to stalk the animals with more than ordinary caution, for
two reasons. The first was, of course, in order to get a shot at them;
but there was another reason why he should be careful, and that was, the
fierce and dangerous nature of the game. He had not forgotten the way
in which the old bull had behaved at their last interview; and Karl had
particularly cautioned him, before setting out, to act prudently, and to
keep out of the way of the bull's horns. He was not to fire at the
yaks, unless there was a tree near, or some other shelter, to which he
could retreat if pursued by the bull.

The necessity, therefore, of choosing such a point of attack, would make
his stalk all the more difficult.

He walked silently on, sometimes through spots of open ground; at
others, traversing belts of woodland, or tracts of thickety jungle.
Wherever there was a reach, or open space, he stopped before going out
of the cover, and looked well before him. He had no wish to come plump
on the game he was in search of, lest he might get too close to the old
bull. Fifty or sixty yards was the distance he desired; and, with the
large bullets his gun carried, he would have been near enough at that.

Several kinds of large birds flew up from his path, as he advanced;
among others, the beautiful argus-pheasant, that almost rivals the
peacock in the splendour of its plumage. These rare creatures would
whirr upward, and alight among the branches of the trees overhead; and,
strange to say, although nearly as large as peacocks, and of a most
striking and singular form, Caspar could never get his eyes upon them
after they had once perched.

It is the habit of these birds, when aware of the presence of the