“Turn out my five, and bring my charger!” he commanded.
“No, I say!” Alwa had his hand already on his sabre hilt. “There is room for eight and no more. Four following four abreast, and one ahead to lead them. I and my men know how to do this. I and my men have a personal dispute with Jaimihr. Stay thou here!”
Mahommed Gunga's five and Ali Partab came clattering out so fast as to lead to the suspicion that their horses had been already saddled. Mahommed Gunga mounted.
“Lead on, cousin!” he exclaimed. “I will follow thy lead, but I come!”
Then Alwa did what a native nearly always will do. He turned to a man not of his own race, whom he believed he could trust to be impartial.
“Sahib—have I no rights in my own house?”
“Certainly you have,” said Cunningham, who was wondering more than anything what weird, wild trick these horsemen meant to play. No man in his senses would have dared to ride a horse at more than foot-pace down the path. Was there another path? he wondered. At least, if eight men were about to charge into eight hundred, it would be best to keep his good friend Mahommed Gunga out of it, he decided.
“Risaldar!” The veteran was always most amenable to reason when addressed by his military title. “Who of us two is senior—thou or I?”
“By Allah, not I, sahib! I am thy servant!”
“I accept your service, and I order you to stay with your men up here with me!”