Among the steppe beasts of prey one of the best known and most distinctive is a dog. A connecting link between the dogs and the hyænas, not only in form but to a certain extent in its markings, this animal—the hyæna-dog or Cape hunting-dog—is one of the most noteworthy figures in the steppe-picture, and also in its nature and habits one of the most interesting of all the carnivores of this region. Excepting certain monkeys, I know of no mammal so self-assertive, so wantonly aggressive, so emulous of exploits as this dog is, or, at any rate, seems to be. There is no limit to his ambition; no other mammal is quite secure from his attack. In large packs they traverse the broad steppe-land on eager outlook for booty. They ravage the sheep-flocks of the settlers and nomads; they follow persistently at the heels of the swiftest and most agile antelopes; audaciously they press in even upon men; fearlessly they dislodge, thanks perhaps to their noisy bravado, the other carnivores of the region which they frequent. Behind the strongest and most formidable antelope a pack rushes in full cry, barking, howling, whining, and now and then uttering a clear note of triumph. The antelope exerts all its strength, but the murderous dogs lose no ground, they cut off corners and prevent it doubling back, they come nearer and nearer and force it to stand at bay. Conscious of its strength and of its powers of defence, the antelope uses its pointed horns with skill and good effect; one dog after another may be hurled to the ground fatally transfixed; but the others fix on its throat and body, and the noble creature’s death-rattle soon puts an end to their howling. Without fear of man these dogs fall upon domestic animals of all kinds, tearing up the smaller sorts with the bloodthirstiness of martens, and mutilating those which are too large to be readily mastered. Nor are they afraid of domestic dogs, but fight with them to the death and leave them lifeless on the field. Thoroughly broken in and tamed, trained for several generations, they should become the most excellent of sporting-hounds; but the task of subjugation is certainly not an easy one. They do indeed become used to their master, and display some liking, even a certain fondness for him, but all in their own way. When called from their kennel, they jump up and down in the highest of spirits, fight with one another out of sheer joy, rush at their approaching master, leap up on him, try to show their gladness in the most extravagant ways, and are finally unable to express it except by biting him. A boisterous mischievousness and an uncontrollable impulse to bite are characteristic of almost all their doings. More excitable than almost any other creature, they move every member, they quiver in every fibre, when any novel occurrence attracts or occupies them; their mercurial vivacity is expressed in exaggerated gaiety and next moment in savage wildness. For they bite whatever comes in their way, without any provocation, probably without any ill-will, simply for fun. They are the most marvellous creatures in all the steppes.

In those parts of the steppe which I have been more particularly considering—the Kordofan, Sennaar, and Taka regions—the animal life is not subject to destructive or disturbing influences to the same extent as in the south of Africa or in Central Asia. To those animals which do not migrate, or do not lie in death-like sleep for months, the winter may bring privations or even sharp want, but it does not involve the pangs of starvation or the torments of thirst; it does not force desperate creatures to leave an impoverished home, or seek for happier lands in mad flight. It is true that the animals of the North African steppes have their migrations and journeyings; but they do not flee in a panic as do those which inhabit other steppe-lands, and forsake them in hundreds of thousands before a threatened destruction. Of the immense herds of antelopes, such as crowd together in the south of Africa, one never hears in the north. All the gregarious mammals and birds gather together when the winter sets in, and disband when the spring draws near; all the migratory birds go and come about the same time; but all this takes place in an orderly, old-established fashion, not spasmodically nor without definite ends. There is, however, one power from whose influence the animal life of these steppe-lands is not exempt,—and that is fire.

Every year, at the time when the dark clouds in the south and the lightning which flashes from them announce the approach of spring, during days when the south wind rages over the steppe, the nomad herdsman takes a firebrand and hurls it into the waving grass. Rapidly and beyond all stopping the fire catches. It spreads over broad stretches; smoke and steam by day, a lurid cloud by night, proclaim its destructive and yet eventually beneficial progress. Not unfrequently it reaches the primeval forest, and the flames send their forked tongues up the dry climbing-plants to the crowns of the trees, devouring the remaining leaves or charring the outer bark. Sometimes, though more rarely, the fire surrounds a village and showers its burning arrows on the straw huts, which flare up almost in a moment.

Although a steppe-fire, in spite of the abundance of combustible material, is rarely fatal to horsemen or to those who meet fire by fire, and just as rarely to the swift mammals, it exerts, nevertheless, a most exciting influence on the animal world, and puts to flight everything that lives hidden in the grass-forest. And sometimes the flight becomes a stampede, to hasten which the panic of the fugitives contributes more than the steady advance of the flames. Antelopes, zebras, and ostriches speed across the plain more quickly than the wind; cheetahs and leopards follow them and mingle with them without thinking of booty; the hunting-dog forgets his lust for blood; and the lion succumbs to the terror which has conquered the others. Only those which live in burrows are undismayed, for they betake themselves to their safe retreats and let the sea of fire roll over them. Otherwise it fares hardly with everything that creeps or is fettered to the ground. Few snakes and hardly the most agile of the lizards are able to outrun the fire. Scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes either fall victims to the flames, or become, like the affrighted swarms of insects, the prey of enemies which are able to defy the conflagration. For as soon as a cloud of smoke ascends to the sky and gradually grows in volume, the birds of prey hasten thither from all quarters, especially serpent-eagles, chanting goshawks, harriers, kestrels, storks, bee-eaters, and swifts. They come to capture the lizards, snakes, scorpions, spiders, beetles, and locusts, which are startled into flight before the flames. In front of the line the storks and the secretary-birds stalk about undaunted; above them amid the clouds of smoke sweep the light-winged falcons, bee-eaters, and swifts; and for all there is booty enough. These birds continue the chase as long as the steppe burns, and the flames find food as long as they are fanned by the storms. Only when the winds die down do the flames cease.

It is thus that the nomad clears his pasture of weeds and vermin, and prepares it for fresh growth. The ashes remain as manure, the life-giving rains carry this into the soil, and after the first thunder-storm all is covered with fresh green. All the former tenants, driven away in fear, return to their old haunts, to enjoy, after the hardships of winter and the recent panic, the pleasures of ease and comfort.