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