Winds of the World | Page 2

Fight how he would,
heel, tooth and eye all flashing, Bagh was forced to hold his rightful
place in front of the squadron, precisely the right distance behind the

last supernumerary of the squadron next in front.
Line after rippling line, all Sikhs of the true Sikh baptism except for the
eight of their officers who were European, Outram's Own swept down a
living avenue of British troops; and neither gunners nor infantry could
see one flaw in them, although picking flaws in native regiments is
almost part of the British army officer's religion.
To the blare of military music, through a bog of their own mixing, the
Sikhs trotted for a mile, then drew into a walk, to bring the horses into
barracks cool enough for watering.
They reached stables as the sun dipped under the near-by acacia trees,
and while the black-bearded troopers scraped and rubbed the mud from
weary horses, Banjoor Singh went through a task whose form at least
was part of his very life. He could imagine nothing less than death or
active service that could keep him from inspecting every horse in the
squadron before he ate or drank, or as much as washed himself.
But, although the day had been a hard one and the strain on the horses
more than ordinary, his examination now was so perfunctory that the
squadron gaped; the troopers signaled with their eyes as he passed,
little more than glancing at each horse. Almost before his back had
vanished at the stable entrance, wonderment burst into words.
"For the third time he does thus!"
"See! My beast overreached, and he passed without detecting it! Does
the sun set the same way still?"
"I have noticed that he does thus each time after a field-day. What is
the connection? A field-day in the rains--a general officer talking to us
afterward about the Salt, as if a Sikh does not understand the Salt better
than a British general knows English--and our risaldar-major neglecting
the horses--is there a connection?"
"Aye. What is all this? We worked no harder in the war against the
Chitralis. There is something in my bones that speaks of war, when I

listen for a while!"
"War! Hear him, brothers! Talk is talk, but there will be no war until
India grows too fat to breathe--unless the past be remembered and we
make one for ourselves!"
* * * * *
There was silence for a while, if a change of sounds is silence. The
Delhi mud sticks as tight as any, and the kneading of it from out of
horsehair taxes most of a trooper's energy and full attention. Then, the
East being the East in all things, a solitary; trooper picked up the scent
and gave tongue, as a true hound guides the pack.
"Who is _she_?" he wondered, loud enough for fifty men to hear.
From out of a cloud of horse-dust, where a stable helper on probation
combed a tangled tail, came one word of swift enlightenment.
"Yasmini!"
"Ah-h-h-h!" In a second the whole squadron was by the ears, and the
stable-helper was the center of an interest he had not bargained for.
"Nay, sahibs, I but followed him, and how should I know? Nay, then I
did not follow him! It so happened. I took that road, and he stepped out
of a _tikka-gharri_ at her door. Am I blind? Do I not know her door?
Does not everybody know it? Who am I that I should know why he
goes again? But--does a moth fly only once to the lamp-flame? Does a
drunkard drink but once? By the Guru, nay! May my tongue parch in
my throat if I said he is a drunkard! I said--I meant to say--seeing she is
Yasmini, and he having been to see her once--and being again in a
great hurry--whither goes he?"
So the squadron chose a sub-committee of inquiry, seven strong, that
being a lucky number the wide world over, and the movements of the
risaldar-major were reported one by one to the squadron with the
infinite exactness of small detail that seems so useless to all save

Easterns.
Fifteen minutes after he had left his quarters, no longer in khaki
uniform, but dressed as a Sikh gentleman, the whole squadron knew the
color of his undershirt, also that he had hired a _tikka-gharri_, and that
his only weapon was the ornamental dagger that a true Sikh wears
twisted in his hair. One after one, five other men reported him nearly all
the way through Delhi, through the Chandni Chowk--where the last
man but one nearly lost him in the evening crowd--to the narrow place
where, with a bend in the street to either hand, is Yasmini's.
The last man watched him through Yasmini's outer door and