THE LURE OF THE PLAINS
On Monday, June 16, we left Urga to go south along the old caravan
trail toward Kalgan. Only a few weeks earlier we had skimmed over the
rolling surface in motor cars, crossing in one day then as many miles
of plains as our own carts could do in ten. But it had another meaning
to us now, and the first night as we sat at dinner in front of the tent
and watched the after-glow fade from the sky behind the pine-crowned
ridge of the Bogdo-ol, we thanked God that for five long months we
could leave the twentieth century with its roar and rush, and live as
the Mongols live; we knew that the days of discouragement had ended and
that we could learn the secrets of the desert life which are yielded up
to but a chosen few.
Within twenty-five miles of Urga we had seen a dozen marmots and a
species of gopher (_Citellus_) that was new to us. The next afternoon
at two o'clock we climbed the last long slope from out the Tola River
drainage basin, and reached the plateau which stretches in rolling
waves of plain and desert to the frontier of China six hundred miles
away. Before us three pools of water flashed like silver mirrors in
the sunlight, and beyond them, tucked away in a sheltered corner of
the hills, stood a little temple surrounded by a cluster of gray-white
_yurts_.
Our Mongol learned that the next water was on the far side of a plain
thirty-five miles in width, so we camped beside the largest pond. It
was a beautiful spot with gently rolling hills on either side, and in
front, a level plain cut by the trail's white line.
As soon as the tents were up Yvette and I rode off, accompanied by
the lama, carrying a bag of traps. Within three hundred yards of camp
we found the first marmot. When it had disappeared underground we
carefully buried a steel trap at the entrance of the hole and anchored
it securely to an iron tent peg. With rocks and earth we plugged all
the other openings, for there are usually five or six tunnels to every
burrow. While the work was going on other marmots were watching us
curiously from half a dozen mounds, and we set nine traps before it was
time to return for dinner.
The two Chinese taxidermists had taken a hundred wooden traps for
smaller mammals, and before dark we inspected the places they had
found. Already one of them held a gray meadow vole (_Microtus_), quite
a different species from those which had been caught along the Tola
River, and Yvette discovered one of the larger traps dragged halfway
into a hole with a baby marmot safely caught. He was only ten inches
long and covered with soft yellow-white fur.
Shortly after daylight the next morning the lama came to our tent to
announce that there was a marmot in one of the traps. The boy was
as excited as a child of ten and had been up at dawn. When we were
dressed we followed the Mongol to the first burrow where a fine marmot
was securely caught by the hind leg. A few yards away we had another
female, and the third trap was pulled far into the hole. A huge male
was at the other end, but he had twisted his body halfway around a
curve in the tunnel and by pulling with all our strength the Mongol and
I could not move him a single inch. Finally we gave up and had to dig
him out. He had given a wonderful exhibition of strength for so small
an animal.
It was especially gratifying to catch these marmots so easily, for
we had been told in Urga that the Mongols could not trap them. I was
at a loss to understand why, for they are closely related to the
"woodchucks" of America with which every country boy is familiar. Later
I learned the reason for the failure of the natives. In the Urga market
we saw some double-spring traps exactly like those of ours, but when
I came to examine them I found they had been made in Russia, and the
springs were so weak that they were almost useless. These were the only
steel traps which the Mongols had ever seen.
The marmots (_Marmota robusta_) were supposed to be responsible for
the spread of the pneumonia plague which swept into northern China
from Manchuria a few years ago; but I understand from physicians of
the Rockefeller Foundation in Peking, who especially investigated
the disease, that the animal's connection with it is by no means
satisfactorily determined.
The marmots hibernate during the winter, and retire to their burrows
early in October, not to emerge until April. When they first come out
in the spring their fur is bright yellow, and the animals contrast
beautifully with the green grass. After the middle of June the yellow
fur begins to slip off in patches, leaving exposed the new coat, which
is exceedingly short and is mouse-gray in color. Then, of course, the
skins are useless for commercial purposes. As the summer progresses the
fur grows until by September first it has formed a long, soft coat of
rich gray-brown which is of considerable economic value. The skins are
shipped to Europe and America and during the past winter (1919-1920)
were especially popular as linings for winter coats.
We had an opportunity to see how quickly the demand in the great cities
reaches directly to the center of production thousands of miles away.
When we went to Urga in May prime marmot skins were worth thirty cents
each to the Mongols. Early in October, when we returned, the hunters
were selling the same skins for _one dollar and twenty-jive cents
apiece_.
The natives always shoot the animals. When a Mongol has driven one into
its burrow, he lies quietly beside the hole waiting for the marmot to
appear. It may be twenty minutes or even an hour, but the Oriental
patience takes little note of time. Finally a yellow head emerges and
a pair of shining eyes glance quickly about in every direction. Of
course, they see the Mongol but he looks only like a mound of earth,
and the marmot raises itself a few inches higher. The hunter lies
as motionless as a log of wood until the animal is well put of its
burrow--then he shoots.
The Mongols take advantage of the marmot's curiosity in an amusing and
even more effective way. With a dogskin tied to his saddle the native
rides over the plain until he reaches a marmot colony. He hobbles his
pony at a distance of three or four hundred yards, gets down on his
hands and knees, and throws the dogskin over his shoulders. He crawls
slowly toward the nearest animal, now and then stopping to bark and
shake his head. In an instant, the marmot is all attention. He jumps
up and down whistling and barking, but never venturing far from the
opening of his burrow.
As the pseudo-dog advances there seems imminent danger that the fat
little body will explode from curiosity and excitement. But suddenly
the "dog" collapses in the strangest way and the marmot raises on the
very tips of his toes to see what it is all about. Then there is a
roar, a flash of fire and another skin is added to the millions which
have already been sent to the sea-coast from outer Mongolia.
Mr. Mamen often spoke of an extraordinary dance which he had seen the
marmots perform, and when Mr. and Mrs. MacCallie returned to Kalgan
they saw it also. We were never fortunate enough to witness it. Mac
said that two marmots stood erect on their hind legs, grasping each
other with their front paws, and danced slowly about exactly as
though they were waltzing. He agreed with Mamen that it was the most
extraordinary and amusing thing he had ever seen an animal do. I can
well believe it, for the marmots have many curious habits which would
repay close study. The dance could hardly be a mating performance since
Mac saw it in late May and by that time the young had already been born.
One morning at the "Marmot Camp," as we named the one where we first
began real collecting, Yvette saw six or seven young animals on top of
a mound in the green grass. We went there later with a gun and found
the little fellows playing like kittens, chasing each other about and
rolling over and over. It was hard to make myself bring tragedy into
their lives, but we needed them for specimens. A group showing an
entire marmot family would be interesting for the Museum; especially
so in view of their reported connection with the pneumonic plague.
We collected a dozen others before the summer was over to show the
complete transition from the first yellow coat to the gray-brown of
winter.
Like most rodents, the marmots grow rapidly and have so many young in
every litter that they will not soon be exterminated in Mongolia unless
the native hunters obtain American steel traps. Even then it would take
some years to make a really alarming impression upon the millions which
spread over all the plains of northern Mongolia and Manchuria.
Since these marmots are a distinctly northern animal they are a great
help in determining the life zones of this part of Asia. We found that
their southern limit is at Turin, one hundred and seventy-five miles
from Urga. A few scattered families live there, but the real marmot
country begins about twenty-five miles farther north.
The first hunting camp was eighty miles south of Urga, after we had
passed a succession of low hills and reached what, in prehistoric
times, was probably a great lake basin. When our tents were pitched
beside the well they seemed pitifully small in the vastness of the
plain. The land rolled in placid waves to the far horizon on every
hand. It was like a calm sea which is disturbed only by the lazy
progress of the ocean swell. Two _yurts_, like the sails of hull-down
ships, showed black against the sky-rim where it met the earth. The
plain itself seemed at first as flat as a table, for the swells merged
indistinguishably into a level whole. It was only when approaching
horsemen dipped for a little out of sight and the depressions swallowed
them up that we realized the unevenness of the land.
Camp was hardly made before our Mongol neighbors began to pay their
formal calls. A picturesque fellow, blazing with color, would dash up
to our tent at a full gallop, slide off and hobble his pony almost
in a single motion. With a "_sai bina_" of greeting he would squat
in the door, produce his bottle of snuff and offer us a pinch. There
was a quiet dignity about these plains dwellers which was wonderfully
appealing. They were seldom unduly curious, and when we indicated that
the visit was at an end, they left at once.
Sometimes they brought bowls of curded milk, or great lumps of cheese
as presents, and in return we gave cigarettes or now and then a cake of
soap. Having been told in Urga that soap was especially appreciated by
the Mongols, I had brought a supply of red, blue, and green cakes which
had a scent even more wonderful than the color. I can't imagine why
they like it, for it is carefully put away and never used.
Strangely enough, the Mongols have no word for "thank you" other
than "_sai_" (good), but when they wish to express approbation, and
usually when saying "good-by," they put up the thumb with the fingers
closed. In Yün-nan and eastern Tibet we noted the same custom among the
aboriginal tribesmen. I wonder if it is merely a coincidence that in
the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome "thumbs up" meant mercy or
approval!
The Mongols told us that in the rolling ground to the east of camp we
could surely find antelope. The first morning my wife and I went out
alone. We trotted steadily for an hour, making for the summit of a
rise seven or eight miles from camp. Yvette held the ponies, while I
sat down to sweep the country with my glasses. Directly in front of us
two small valleys converged into a larger one, and almost immediately
I discovered half a dozen orange-yellow forms in its very bottom about
two miles away. They were antelope quietly feeding. In a few moments I
made out two more close together, and then four off at the right. After
my wife had found them with her glasses we sat down to plan the stalk.
It was obvious that we should try to cross the two small depressions
which debouched into the main valley and approach from behind the hill
crest nearest to the gazelles. We trotted slowly across the gully
while the antelope were in sight, and then swung around at full gallop
under the protection of the rising ground. We came up just opposite
to the herd and dismounted, but were fully six hundred yards away.
Suddenly one of those impulses which the hunter never can explain sent
them off like streaks of yellow light, but they turned on the opposite
hillside, slowed down, and moved uncertainly up the valley.
Much to our surprise four of the animals detached themselves from
the others and crossed the depression in our direction. When we saw
that they were really coming we threw ourselves into the saddles and
galloped forward to cut them off. Instantly the antelope increased
their speed and literally flew up the hill slope. I shouted to Yvette
to watch the holes and shook the reins over Kublai Khan's neck. Like
a bullet he was off. I could feel his great muscles flowing between
my knees but otherwise there seemed hardly a motion of his body in
the long, smooth run. Standing straight up in the stirrups, I glanced
back at my wife who was sitting her chestnut stallion as lightly as a
butterfly. Hat gone, hair streaming, the thrill of it all showed in
every line of her body. She was running a close second, almost at my
side. I saw a marmot hole flash by. A second death trap showed ahead
and I swung Kublai Khan to the right. Another and another followed,
but the pony leaped them like a cat. The beat of the fresh, clean air;
the rush of the splendid horse; the sight of the yellow forms fleeing
like wind-blown ribbons across our path--all this set me mad with
excitement and a wild exhilaration. Suddenly I realized that I was
yelling like an Indian. Yvette, too, was screaming in sheer delight.
The antelope were two hundred yards away when I tightened on the reins.
Kublai Khan stiffened and stopped in twenty yards. The first shot was
low and to the left, but it gave the range. At the second, the rearmost
animal stumbled, recovered itself, and ran wildly about in a circle. I
missed him twice, and he disappeared over a little hill. Leaping into
the saddle, we tore after the wounded animal. As we thundered over the
rise I heard my wife screaming frantically and saw her pointing to the
right where the antelope was lying down. There was just one more shell
in the gun and my pockets were empty. I fired again at fifty yards and
the gazelle rolled over, dead.
Leading our horses, Yvette and I walked up to the beautiful
orange-yellow form lying in the fresh, green grass. We both saw its
horns in the same instant and hugged each other in sheer delight. At
this time of the year the bucks are seldom with the does and then only
in the largest herds. This one was in full pelage, spotless and with
the hair unworn. Moreover, it had finer horns than any other which we
killed during the entire trip.
Kublai Khan looked at the dead animal and arched his neck, as much
as to say, "Yes, I ran him down. He had to quit when I really got
started." My wife held the pony's head, while I hoisted the antelope to
his back and strapped it behind the saddle. He watched the proceedings
interestedly but without a tremor, and even when I mounted, he paid not
the slightest attention to the head dangling on his flanks. Thereby he
showed that he was a very exceptional pony. In the weeks which followed
he proved it a hundred times, and I came to love him as I have never
loved another animal.
Yvette and I trotted slowly back to camp, thrilled with the excitement
of the wild ride. We began to realize that we were lucky to have
escaped without broken necks. The race taught us never again to attempt
to guide our ponies away from the marmot holes which spotted the
plains, for the horses could see them better than we could and all
their lives had known that they meant death.
That morning was our initiation into what is the finest sport we have
ever known. Hunting from a motor car is undeniably exciting at first,
but a real sportsman can never care for it very long. The antelope
does not have a chance against gas and steel and a long-range rifle.
On horseback the conditions are reversed. An antelope can run twice as
fast as the best horse living. It can see as far as a man with prism
binoculars. All the odds are in the animal's favor except two--its
fatal desire to run in a circle about the pursuer, and the use of a
high-power rifle. But even then an antelope three hundred yards away,
going at a speed of fifty miles an hour, is not an easy target.
Of course, the majority of sportsmen will say that it cannot be done
with any certainty--until they go to Mongolia and do it themselves!
But, as I remarked in a previous chapter, conditions on the plains are
so unusual that shooting in other parts of the world is no criterion.
After one gets the range of an animal which, like the antelope, has a
smooth, even run, it is not so difficult to hit as one might imagine.
Practice is the great essential. At the beginning I averaged one
antelope to every eight cartridges, but later my score was one to three.
We spent the afternoon at the new camp, setting traps and preparing
for the days to come--days in which we knew, from long experience, we
would have every waking moment full of work. The nights were shortening
rapidly, and the sun did not dip below the rim of our vast, flat world
until half past seven. Then there was an hour of delightful, lingering
twilight, when the stars began to show in tiny points of light; by nine
o'clock the brooding silence of the Mongolian night had settled over
all the plain.
Daylight came at four o'clock, and before the sun rose we had finished
breakfast. Our traps held five marmots and a beautiful golden-yellow
polecat (_Mustela_). I have never seen such an incarnation of fury as
this animal presented. It might have been the original of the Chinese
dragon, except for its small size. Its long, slender body twisted and
turned with incredible swiftness, every hair was bristling, and its
snarling little face emitted horrible squeaks and spitting squeals. It
seemed to be cursing us in every language of the polecat tribe.
The fierce little beast was evidently bent upon a night raid on a
marmot family. We could imagine easily into what terror the tiny demon
would throw a nest of marmots comfortably snuggled together in the
bottom of their burrow. Probably it would be most interested in the
babies, and undoubtedly would destroy every one within a few moments.
All the weasel family, to which the polecat belongs, kill for the pure
joy of killing, and in China one such animal will entirely depopulate a
hen-roost in a single night.
At six o'clock Yvette and I left camp with the lama and rode northeast.
The plain swept away in long, grassy billows, and at every rise I
stopped for a moment to scan the horizon with my glasses. Within half
an hour we discovered a herd of antelope six or seven hundred yards
away. They saw us instantly and trotted nervously about, staring in our
direction.
Dropping behind the crest of the rise, I directed the lama to ride
toward them from behind while we swung about to cut them off. He was
hardly out of sight when we heard a snort and a rush of pounding hoofs.
With a shout to Yvette I loosened the reins over Kublai Khan's neck,
and he shot forward like a yellow arrow. Yvette was close beside me,
leaning far over her pony's neck. We headed diagonally toward the
herd, and they gradually swung toward us as though drawn by a powerful
magnet. On we went, down into a hollow and up again on its slope. We
could not spare the horses for the antelope were already over the crest
and lost to view, but our horses took the hill at full speed, and from
the summit we could see the herd fairly on our course, three hundred
yards away.
Kublai Khan braced himself like a polo pony when he felt the pressure
of my knees, and I opened fire almost under his nose. At the crack of
the rifle there was a spurt of brown dust near the leading animal.
"High and to the left," shouted Yvette, and I held a little lower for
the second trial. The antelope dropped like a piece of white paper,
shot through the neck. I paced the distance and found it to be three
hundred and sixty-seven yards. It seemed a very long shot then, but
later I found that almost none of my antelope were killed at less than
three hundred yards.
As I came up to Kublai Khan with the dead animal, I accidentally
struck him on the flank with my rifle in such a way that he was badly
frightened. He galloped off, and Yvette had a hard chase before he
finally allowed her to catch him. Had I been alone I should probably
have had a long walk to camp.
It taught us never to hunt without a companion, if it could possibly
be avoided. If your horse runs away, you may be left many miles from
water, with rather serious consequences. I think there is nothing which
makes me feel more helpless than to be alone on the plains without
a horse. For miles and miles there is only the rolling grassland or
the wide sweep of desert, with never a house or tree to break the low
horizon. It seems so futile to walk, your own legs carry you so slowly
and such a pitifully short distance, in these vast spaces.
To be left alone in a small boat on the open sea is exactly similar.
You feel so very, very small and you realize then what an insignificant
part of nature you really are. I have felt it, too, amid vast mountains
when I have been toiling up a peak which stretched thousands of feet
above me with others rearing their majestic forms on every side. Then,
nature seems almost alive and full of menace; something to be fought
and conquered by brain and will.
Early in our work upon the plains we learned how easy it is to lose
one's way. The vast sea of land seems absolutely flat, but in reality
it is a gently rolling surface full of slopes and hollows, every one
of which looks exactly like the others. But after a time we developed
a _land sense_. The Mongols all have it to an extraordinary degree. We
could drop an antelope on the plain and leave it for an hour or more.
With a quick glance about our lama would fix the place in his mind, and
dash off on a chase which might carry us back and forth toward every
point of the compass. When it was time to return, he would head his
pony unerringly for that single spot on the plain and take us back as
straight as the flight of an arrow.
At first it gave him unceasing enjoyment when we became completely
lost, but in a very short time we learned to note the position of the
sun, the character of the ground, and the direction of the wind. Then
we began to have more confidence in ourselves. But only by years of
training can one hope even to approximate the Mongols. They have been
born and reared upon the plains, and have the inheritance of unknown
generations whose very life depended upon their ability to come and
go at will. To them, the hills, the sun, the grass, the sand--all have
become the street signs of the desert.
In the afternoon of our second day I remained at the tents to measure
specimens, while Yvette and the lama rode out toward the scene of our
morning hunt to locate an antelope which one of our Mongol neighbors
had reported dead not far away. At six o'clock they came galloping back
with the news that there were two gazelles within three miles of camp.
I saddled Kublai Khan and left with them at once. Twenty minutes of
steady trotting brought us to the summit of a slope, where we could see
the animals quietly feeding not five hundred yards away.
It was just possible to stalk them for a long-range shot, and slipping
off my pony, I flattened out upon the ground. On hands and knees, and
sometimes at full length, I wormed my way through the grass for one
hundred yards. The cover ended there and I must shoot or come into
full view of the gazelles. They were so far away that the front sight
entirely covered the animals, and to increase the difficulty, both
were walking slowly. The first bullet struck low and to the right, but
the antelope only jumped and stared fixedly in my direction; at the
second shot one went down. The other animal dashed away like a flash of
lightning, and although I sent a bullet after its white rump-patch, the
shot was hopeless.
The antelope I had knocked over got to its feet and tried desperately
to get away, but the lama leaped on his pony and caught it by one
hind leg. My automatic pistol was not in working order, and it was
necessary to knife the poor beast--a job which I hate like poison. The
lama walked away a dozen yards and covered his face with the sleeve
of his gown. It is against the laws of the Buddhist religion to take
the life of any animal or even to see it done, although there are no
restrictions as to eating flesh.
With a blanket the Mongol made a seat for himself on his pony's
haunches, and threw the antelope across his saddle; then we trotted
back to camp into the painted western sky, with the cool night air
bringing to us the scent of newborn grass. We would not have exchanged
our lot that night with any one on earth.