They bore each man a vine-leaf upon their uniforms, and they rode
like Rajputs. Nay, they rode like Sikhs. They rode like the Ustrelyahs!
The Ustrelyahs, whom we met later, also spoke through their noses not
little, and they were tall, dark men, with grey, clear eyes, heavily
eyelashed like camel's eyes--very proper men--a new brand of Sahib to me.
They said on all occasions, "No fee-ah," which in our tongue means _Durro
mut_ ("Do not be afraid"), so we called them the _Durro Muts_. Dark, tall
men, most excellent horsemen, hot and angry, waging war _as_ war, and
drinking tea as a sandhill drinks water. Thieves? A little, Sahib.
Sikander Khan swore to me; and he comes of a horse-stealing clan for ten
generations; he swore a Pathan was a babe beside a _Durro Mut_ in regard
to horse-lifting. The _Durro Muts_ cannot walk on their feet at all. They
are like hens on the high road. Therefore they must have horses. Very
proper men, with a just lust for the war. Aah--"No fee-ah," say the _Durro
Muts_. _They_ saw the worth of Kurban Sahib. _They_ did not ask him to
sweep stables. They would by no means let him go. He did substitute for
one of their troop-leaders who had a fever, one long day in a country full
of little hills--like the mouth of the Khaibar; and when they returned in
the evening, the _Durro Muts_ said, "Wallah! This is a man. Steal him!" So
they stole my Kurban Sahib as they would have stolen anything else that
they needed, and they sent a sick officer back to Eshtellenbosch in his
place.
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