From its size and motion, I judge it to be a leopard or cheetah; the
sowars regard it, bounding along after the fleet-footed antelope, with
lively interest; they call it a "baab" (tiger), and say there are many in
the reeds. It looks quite a likely spot for tigers, and it is not at all
unlikely that it may have been one, for, while not plentiful hereabout,
Tigris Asiaticus occasionally makes his presence known in the patches of
reed and jungle in Southern Afghanistan and Seistan.
All three of the sowars are frisky as kittens this morning, the result,
it is surmised, of the generous hospitality of the Eimuek chief
--gusht galore and rich broth cause their animal spirits to run
riot. Like overfed horses they "feel their oats" as they sniff the fresh
and invigorating morning air, and they point toward the shadowy form of
the racing baab a mile away, and pretend to take aim at it with their
guns. They sing and shout and swoop down on one another about the basin,
flourishing their swords and aiming with their guns, and they whip their
poor, long-suffering yahoos into wild, sweeping gallops as they swoop
down on some imaginary enemy. This wild hilarity and mimic warfare of the
desert is kept up until the ragged edge of their exuberance is worn away,
and their horses are well-nigh fagged out; we then halt for an hour to
allow the horses to recuperate by nibbling at a patch of reeds.
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