Ur BIG GAME SHOOTING, 1887 67 
maki, a dignified-looking old man with a white beard, and on 
either side of him were his sons, two or three fine fellows, in the 
prime of life. There were also one or two boys, armed, like 
their seniors, with spears and shield, and most of the men had 
slung round their waists the bildwa, or short, close-quarters 
stabbing sword. All my visitors looked a sturdy lot, up to 
lifting cattle or any other kind of devilry. 
We exchanged the usual Mahomedan greeting, and one of 
Shiré Shirmdki’s sons urged his pony up in front of the rest and 
sang a long extempore song. When at last it had come to an 
end I complimented the old fellow upon his warlike-looking 
turn-out, and then waited in silence for him to explain his visit. 
He said that, being encamped with his people and their flocks 
and herds at a spot some fifteen miles to the eastward, and 
having heard of my presence on the Issutugan, he had come 
with some of his young men to visit me, sing songs, and have a 
good time. “Yes,” I thought, “and to eat our rice!” This 
was all very well, but our stock of food was scanty, and I re- 
solved to get rid of my friends on the first opportunity. 
I now asked the old chief to show me what his children 
could do in fancy riding; and at once two or three impatient 
spirits galloped forward and threw their spears, picking them 
up again by leaning over the saddle-bow while at full speed, 
and then, pricking towards me over the turf, they pulled their 
quivering ponies back on to their haunches with a jerk just as 
they reached me, the mouths bleeding from the heavy bit. Soon 
the plain around my zeriba was covered with rushing ponies, 
their excited riders throwing their spears in every direction and 
dashing forward to pick them up. Every pony raised a cloud 
of dust to himself, and the confusion had reached its height 
when the old man raised his hide whip as a signal, and one by 
one they galloped up to me, till I was the centre of a semicircle 
of horses’ heads, pressing upon me, their eyes aflame and nostrils 
distended. Every man as he came up raised his spear and 
shouted, “Mét/ io Mot/” (Hail! and again hail!) and I 
answered, with my men, “‘ Kul-leban” (Thanks). 
Many of these fellows can throw the spear about eighty-five 
yards from the saddle or seventy-five yards on foot. They guide 
their animals skilfully, but ride almost entirely by balance, with 
very little grip on the saddle. After the display on horseback 
we all went into the zeriba, and I gave orders to have a big 
meal of rice prepared for our self-constituted guests. 
