The sheep live at peace together throughout the year, and the rams only fight towards the breeding season. This occurs in the second half of October and lasts for almost a month. At this time the high-spirited, combative rams become greatly excited. The seniors make a stand and drive off all their weaker fellows. With their equals they fight for life or death. The rivals stand opposed in menacing attitudes; rearing on their hind-legs they rush at one another, and the crash of powerful horns is echoed in a dull rumble among the rocks. Sometimes it happens that they entangle one another, for the horns may interlock inseparably, and both perish miserably; or one ram may hurl the other over a precipice, where he is surely dashed to pieces.

During the last days of April or the first of May the ewe brings forth a single lamb or a pair. These lambs, as we found out from captive ones, are able in a few hours to run with their mother, and in a few days they follow her over all the paths, wherever she leads them, with the innate agility and surefootedness characteristic of their race. When serious danger threatens, the mother hides them in the nooks of the rocks, where the enemy may perchance overlook their presence. She returns, of course, after she has successfully eluded the foe. The lambkin, pressed close to the ground, lies as still as a mouse, and, looking almost like a stone, may often escape detection; but not by any means always is he safe, least of all from the golden eagle, which often seizes and kills a lamb which the mother has left unprotected. So we observed when hunting on the Arkat Mountains. Captive archar lambs which we got from the Kirghiz were most delightful creatures, and showed by the ready way in which they took to the udders of their foster-mothers that they might have been reared without special difficulty. Should it prove possible to bring the proud creatures into domestication the acquisition would be one of the greatest value. But of this the Kirghiz does not dream, he thinks only of how he may shoot this wild sheep or the other. Not that the chase of this powerful animal is what one could call a passion with him; indeed the sheep’s most formidable enemy is the wolf, and it is only in the deep snow in winter that even he manages to catch an archar.

As on the mountains, so on the driest, dreariest stretches of the steppes, which even in spring suggest African deserts, there are characteristic animals. In such places almost all the plants of the highlands and valleys disappear except the low tufted grass and diminutive bushes of wormwood. Here, however, grows a remarkable shrub which one does not see elsewhere, a shrub called ramwood on account of its extreme hardness and toughness, which baffles the axe. It roots on those rare spots in the wilderness where the rain-storms have washed together some poor red clay. There it sometimes grows into bushwork of considerable extent, affording shelter and shade to other plants, so that these green spots come to look like little oases in the desert. But these oases are no more lively than the dreary steppes around, for apart from a shrike, the white-throat, and a wood-wren, one sees no bird, and still less any mammal. On the other hand, amid the desolation there live some of the most notable of the steppe animals, along with others which occur everywhere; besides the short-toed lark and calandra lark there is the coal-black Tartar lark, which those aware of the general colour-resemblance between ground-birds and the ground would naturally look for on the black earth. Along with the small plover there is the gregarious lapwing, along with the great bustard the slender ruffed bustard, which the Kirghiz call the ambler, along with the sand-grouse there is Pallas’s sand-grouse or steppe-grouse.[24] It was this last bird which some years ago migrated in large numbers into Germany and settled on the dunes and sandy places, but was so inhospitably received by us, so ruthlessly persecuted with guns, snares, and even poison, that it forsook our inhuman country and probably returned to its home. Here, too, along with the specially abundant souslik, there are steppe antelopes and the Kulan, the fleet wild horse of the steppes. I must restrict myself to giving a brief sketch of the last, so as not to overstep too far the limits of the time allowed me.

If Darwin’s general conclusions be reliable, we may perhaps regard the kulan as the ancestor of our horse, which has been gradually improved by thousands of years of breeding and selection. This supposition is more satisfactory than the vague and unsupported assertion that the ancestor of our noblest domestic animal has been lost, and to me it is more credible than the opinion which finds in the Tarpan which roams to-day over the Dnieper steppes an original wild horse, and not merely one that has reverted to wildness.[25] As recent investigations in regard to our dogs, whose various breeds we cannot compute with even approximate accuracy, point to their origin from still existing species of wolf and jackal, my conclusion in regard to the horse acquires collateral corroboration. Moreover, the ancestor of our domestic cat, now at last recognized, still lives in Africa, and the ancestor of our goat in Asia Minor and in Crete.[26] As to the pedigree of our sheep and cattle we cannot yet decide with certainty, but I have consistent information from three different quarters, including the report of a Kirghiz who declared that he had himself hunted the animal, to the effect that in the heart of the steppes of Mongolia there still lives a camel with all the characteristics of wildness.[27] I cannot doubt the truth of the reports which I received, and the only question is, whether this camel represents the original stock still living in a wild state, or whether, like the tarpan, it be only an offshoot of the domesticated race which has returned to wild life. As the veil is slowly being lifted which hid, and still hides, the full truth from our inquiring eyes, as the ancestors of our domesticated animals are being discovered one after the other, and that among species still living, why should we suppose that the ancestor of the horse, the conditions of whose life correspond so thoroughly with those of the broad measureless steppes, has died out without leaving a trace? It is, I maintain, among the still living wild horses of the Old World that we must look for the progenitor of our horse, and among these none has more claims to the honour of being regarded as the ancestor of this noble creature than the kulan. It may be that the tarpan more closely resembles our horse, but, if it be true that the Hyksos brought the horse to the ancient Egyptians (from whose stone records we have our first knowledge of the domesticated animal), or that the Egyptians themselves tamed the horse before the time of the Hyksos, and therefore at least one and a half thousand years before our era, then certainly the race had not its origin in the steppes of the Dnieper and the Don. For nearer at hand, namely in the steppes and deserts of Asia Minor, Palestine, and Persia, and in several valleys of Arabia and India, they had a wild horse full of promise, one which still lives, our kulan. This differs indeed in several features from our horse, but not more than the greyhound, the poodle, or the Newfoundland differs from the wolf or any other wild dog, not more than the dachshund, the terrier, or the spaniel from the jackal, not more than the pony from the Arabian horse, or the Belgian-French cart-horse from the English racer. The differences between our domesticated horse and the wild form which seems to me its most probable ancestor are indeed important, but horse and kulan seem to regard themselves as belonging to the same blood, since they seek each other’s company.

When, on the 3rd June, 1876, we were riding through the dreary desert steppes between the Saisan lake and the Altai—a region from which I have drawn the main features of the above sketch—we saw in the course of the forenoon no fewer than fifteen kulans. Among these we observed one pair in particular. They stood on the broad crest of a near hillock, their forms sharply defined against the blue sky, and powerfully did they raise the desire for the chase in us and in our companion Kirghiz. One of them made off as we appeared, and trotted towards the mountain; the other stood quietly, and seemed as if considering a dilemma, then raised its head once and again, and at last came running towards us. All guns were at once in hand; the Kirghiz slowly and carefully formed a wide semicircle with the intention of driving the strangely stupid and inconceivably careless creature towards us. Nearer and nearer, halting now and then, but still steadily nearer he came, and we already looked upon him as a sure captive. But a smile broke over the face of the Kirghiz riding beside me; he had not only discovered the motive of the creature’s apparently foolish behaviour, he had recognized the animal itself. It was a Kirghiz horse, dappled like a kulan, which, having strayed from his master’s herd, had fallen in with wild horses, and, for lack of better company, had stayed with them. In our horses he had recognized his kin, and had therefore forsaken his friends in need. Having come quite near to the Kirghiz, he stopped again as if to reflect whether he should once more yield his newly-healed back to the galling saddle; but the first steps towards return were followed by others, and without an attempt at flight he allowed them to halter him, and in a few minutes he was trotting as docilely by the side of one of the horsemen as if he had never known the free life of his ancestors. Thus we were able to confirm by personal experience the already accepted fact, that horse and kulan do sometimes keep company.

The kulan is a proud, fascinating creature, full of dignity, strength, and high spirits. He stares curiously at the horseman who approaches him; and then, as if deriding the pursuer, trots off leisurely, playfully lashing his flanks with his tail. If the rider spurs his horse to full speed, the kulan takes to a gallop as easy as it is swift, which bears him like the wind over the steppes and soon carries him out of sight. But even when at full speed he now and again suddenly pulls himself up, halts for a moment, jerks round with his face to the pursuer, neighs, and then, turning, kicks his heels defiantly in the air, and bounds off with the same ease as before. A fugitive troop always orders itself in line, and it is beautiful to see them suddenly halt at a signal from the leader, face round, and again take to flight.

As among all horses, each troop of kulans has a stallion for leader, and he is the absolute master of them all. He leads the troop to pasture as well as in flight, he turns boldly on carnivores which are not superior in force, he permits no quarrelling among his followers, and tolerates no rival, indeed no other adult male in the herd. In every district which the kulans frequent, solitary individuals are to be seen unaccompanied by any troop; they are stallions which have been vanquished and driven off after furious and protracted combats, and which must roam about alone until the next breeding season. In September they again approach the herds, from which the old stallion now drives off the newly-matured stallions, and a fierce battle begins when they catch sight of an opponent. For hours at this season they stand on the crests of steep ridges, with widely-open nostrils raised to the wind, with their eyes on the valley before them. As soon as the banished one sees another stallion, he rushes down at full gallop, and fights to exhaustion with both teeth and hoofs. Should he conquer the leader of a herd, he enters upon his rights, and the mares follow him as they did his predecessor. After the battles are over comes the time of wandering, for the hard winter drives the herds from one place to another, and it is only when spring has fully come that they return to their old quarters. Here, in the end of May or in the beginning of June the mare brings forth her foal, which in every respect resembles that of the domestic horse—a somewhat awkward-looking, but very nimble and lively creature. We had the good fortune to be able to make its acquaintance.

On climbing one of the elongated hillocks of these desert-steppes, we suddenly saw at a short distance three old kulans and a foal, which seemed to be only a few days old. Our Russian companion fired a shot, and away rushed the wild horses, with their hoofs scarce touching the ground, yet exerting their incomparable agility almost with the ease of play, and obviously keeping themselves in check for the sake of the foal. Down rushed all the Kirghiz and Cossacks of our company; our attendants, carried away with the general excitement, also gave chase; and down we also rushed. It was a wild chase. Still playing with their strength, the wild horses made for the distant mountains, while all the riders urged on their steeds to their utmost, till their bellies seemed almost to touch the ground. The desert resounded with the jubilant cries of the Kirghiz, the thundering of their horses at full gallop, the neighing of our slower horses which gnashed at their bridles; fluttering cloaks and kaftans and whirling clouds of dust filled and enlivened the solitudes. Further and further rushed the chase. Then the foal separated itself from its older companions and fell behind; the distance increased between it and the anxious glance which the mother repeatedly cast back; the distance between it and our horsemen decreased; and in a few minutes it was taken. Without resistance it gave itself up to its pursuers; it showed no trace of the characteristic qualities of the adults—wildness, hardly governable self-will, and inconquerable roguishness, which often degenerates into downright spite. Innocently it gazed at us with its large lively eyes, with apparent pleasure it allowed us to stroke its soft skin, without resistance it allowed itself to be led along with a halter, in child-like carelessness it lay down beside us seeking obviously much-needed rest after the heat of the chase. The charming creature at once captivated every one. But who was to find a milk-mare to be its foster-mother, who was to give it rest and care? Both were impossible, and on the second day the lovable creature was dead. With the passion of sportsmen would we have killed a full-grown kulan, but to see the foal die gave us genuine sorrow.

In vain we tried to capture one of the adults; in vain we lay in ambush beside the bound foal in hopes of inveigling its mother; in vain we tried to effect something by driving; none of us had any luck. As a sportsman, I left the dreary solitudes with regret, but as a naturalist I was in the highest degree satisfied, for there I had come to know the noblest creature of the steppes.