This creature is one of the riddles of the animal kingdom. While of a size and strength and savagery that would enable him to hold his own in a lion country, he yet elects for some unfathomed reason to herd far up the steeps of these Tibetan mountain ranges, where no other animal barring polar bears and arctic foxes could live to dispute with him the stunted pasture I have already mentioned. He is coated with long wool which sweeps the ground on either side of his magnificent trunk, and lives through the coldest winter at an altitude where even the summer nights bring with them a temperature well below zero Fahrenheit. I have dwelt on the queer habits of the yak because it was in our encounter with one of the species that Saunders Philipson showed himself in a light that almost set me wondering whether he was mortal man like the rest of us. It was more than amazing. It was uncanny. Uncertain as we were whether our canned stuff would last out the trip, we were constantly on the alert for a chance to supplement it with game of the country; and when we sighted a fine herd of yak at feed plumb in the middle of our path one day, we decided to halt the caravan and try a shot. Yak beef, I may remark, is a good deal better than pony-steak, and in those cold dry altitudes will keep indefinitely. There was no cover within close range of the herd, nor was there need of any: the yak continued to feed after observing us, as if totally indifferent to our approach, and I make no doubt they had never seen human beings before. I had loaded my .45 and was edging nearer, with Philipson and Poyning on my heels. 'Careful aim, Mirlees,' whispered Philipson to me. 'Those brutes are not usually dangerous till they are wounded. You know where to put your shot?' 'Just behind the shoulder is best, isn't it?' 'The only place. As for the bony parts, you might as well loose off into a concrete wall. Now is your chance.' I picked out a magnificent bull standing broadside on to us, and fired at about fifty yards. The beast threw up its head with a snort of wrath, but didn't appear to be wounded dangerously, let alone mortally. Philipson snatched the rifle from my hand, loaded and fired again, but it was too late. The herd, ten or eleven in number, had seen where the attack came from. They put down their heads and charged. I yelled to the bearers for more rifles, but the bearers had dropped everything and scattered, leaving the ponies to stampede in terror with all our gear. There was nothing for it now but to stampede ourselves, which we did, heading instinctively for the shelter of a great boulder at some distance from the spot where I had fired. Poyning and I reached it abreast, but as I glanced back over my shoulder I saw to my horror that Philipson hadn't followed. He stood out in the open, rifle in hand, loading and firing rapidly, it is true, but with no more precipitation than if he had been at the butts.