"The 'Hills' are her escort, King sahib. She is mistress in the
'Hills.' There isn't a murdering ruffian who would not lie down
and let her walk on him! She rode away alone on a thoroughbred
mare and she jolly well left me the mare's double on which to
follow her. Come and look."

Not far from where the tents had been pitched in a cluster a string
of horses winnied at a picket rope. King saw the two good horses
ready for himself, and ten mules beside them that would have done
credit to any outfit. But at the end of the line, pawing at the
trampled grass, was a black mare that made his eyes open wide.
Once in a hundred years or so a viceroy's cup, or a Derby is won
by an animal that can stand and look and move as that mare did.

"Just watch!" the Rangar boasted; hooking up the bit and throwing
off the blanket. And as he mounted into the native-made rough-hide
saddle a shout went up from the fort and native officers and half
the soldiery came out to watch the poetry of motion.

The mare was not the only one worth watching; her rider shared
the praise. There was something unexpected, although not in the
least ungainly, about the Rangar's seat in the saddle that was not
the ordinary, graceful native balance and yet was full of grace.
King ascribed the difference to the fact that the Rangar had seen
no military service, and before the inadequacy of that explanation
had asserted itself he had already forgotten to criticize in sheer
admiration.

There was none of the spurring and back-reining that some native
bloods of India mistake for horse-manship. The Rangar rode with