# A Soldier and a Gentleman/Chapter 6
### CHAPTER VI. DOST MOHAMMED GOES ON A STILL HUNT

Who sees all that a robber sees—hears what a robber hears— Learns the lore that a robber knows— Treads where his trail to hiding goes— Feels what a robber fears? None save he who dons his garb, acts as the robber’s mate— Runs as the robber runs from men Begs of the other robbers—then Kicks, too, the robber’s fate.
ALL that the Tail-Twisters, working troop by troop, unearthed was evidence of police complicity and supineness. They found misguided natives who mistook them for policemen, thinking that anything in uniform was some sort of a “constabeel,” and from these they learnt surprising things; as, for instance, that the flood levy had been paid that month to Gopi Lall, and therefore the police would find themselves in trouble if they trespassed.
At first there would be disillusionment, for a trooper of the Bengal Horse is not exactly flattered by being likened to a civilian, and to a policeman least of all. The butt of a lance thrust with an oath of explanation at the erring rustic’s stomach would bring acknowledgment of error. But once it was known that they were troops, and not police, the channels of information dried, so after awhile they pretended to be a new brand of “constabeel” whenever the pretense was possible.
From time to time they came on villagers who offered them rupees; and he who has tried to tip a Bengal cavalryman for service rendered may have a good idea of what reception that met. They will loot, those fierce, black-bearded troopers, in time of war—none more readily or thoroughly; but gratuities, in money or in kind, are rather more to be withheld than verbal insult. Their pride is not of the made-for-show description.
Whether hunting through the tangled thickets where thatched huts were hidden in tiny clearings, or scouring on a chance-encountered trail from village to hill village, they found evidence in plenty of the outlaw’s doings and of the terror he had established, but never a sign of Gopi Lall himself.
“Where is his woman?” demanded Dost Mohammed twenty times a day at least. And the answer was always the same—often in the same words:
“Huzoor, what woman dare refuse him?”
“Which woman loves him most?”
“None love him. All fear him!”
“Which, then, does he most love?”
“Huzoor, does a he wolf love the sambur? Does a tiger love the village buffalo?”
Then, “May Allah rip the vitals out of every Jungli in Bengal!” Dost Mohammed would swear, and spur his charger on to the next village.
Cross quartering the country they searched, as eagles search, minutely, for signs of any guard that might betray the whereabouts of the robber’s hidden loot; but either he had trusted nobody to guard or else the men he trusted were too shrewd to show that they were watching.
They made prisoners who led them along half hidden trails to where the outlaw once had been; and once thus guided they discovered underneath a waterfall a secret cave, where possibly his loot had once been hidden. There was one rupee there, fallen in a crack between the rocks; a trooper forced it out with his saber point. But there was neither other loot than that one coin there, nor track of Gopi Lall.
Once they fell in with a posse of police, who grinned at them and asked what they had done with the outlaw’s head. That nearly brought about a fracas, and it was only the timely arrival of their English officers that stopped them from teaching the “constabeels” how a charger-and-Rajput-driven lance point feels. The police, under questioning from the officers, swore that Gopi Lall had left the country and would not return.
They began almost to believe that Gopi Lall had been a myth, and several officers became converts to the theory that he was in reality a syndicate of robbers, who had taken one collective name for the sake of mystery and convenience. Acting on that suggestion they began the search all over again, rounding up the inhabitants of every village and making the headmen give an account of each. But still there was no result worth mentioning. They succeeded in corroborating the fact of an actual, single, Gopi Lall’s existence, but nothing more.
Then Dost Mohammed became possessed of an idea, and asked for leave to hunt alone.
“Why, Dost Mohammed?” The senior Major lacked not a little of the Colonel’s tact. “For the reward?”
The Rajput flushed under his dark skin. “Because thus I will hunt better, sahib.”
The Major pulled out a copy of the printed proclamation from his saddle bag and looked it over.
“‘The reward is offered to any person or persons who procure or bring such information as shall lead to the arrest and conviction of the outlaw known as Gopi Lall.’ That means, Dost Mohammed, that the first man to hand in the information gets the money.”
Dost Mohammed sat his horse in silence, glaring.
“It says, too, at the bottom, ‘in addition to the above named reward for information, a sum of rupees three thousand will be paid to whomsoever shall produce the head or body or both of the above named Gopi Lall.’ That would be five thousand rupees all told—nothing much to divide among a Regiment, but a tidy little sum for any one man; what?
“Since when, sahib, has an officer of this Regiment been subject to suspicion such as recruits for the Regulars merit?”
“You say you have a private clue. If you followed it and found the man you would be within your rights if you claimed the whole reward.”
“I said nothing of a private clue, sahib, nor of a clue at all, nor of my rights. I said that I had an idea, and a good one, that I could best carry out alone. All the rights I claim are the right to be treated as a man of honor. As for the reward—”
He leaned slightly from the saddle and spat, with a gesture that was eloquent.
“Then if I let you go alone, you’ll only claim one share in any case?”
“You had no need to ask, sahib. I will neither claim nor accept one copper piece of the reward!”
“I have to consider the Regiment, Dost Mohammed.”
“And I, sahib, who have served her Majesty but twenty years as yet, thought naturally only of the money! Have I your leave to go?”
“Look here, Dost Mohammed, I had no intention of offering you an insult, and you know it. You’ve no right to take my remarks that way. You’re hovering dangerously near a breach of discipline.”
The native officer saluted and sat still.
“D’you understand that I was taking an ordinary elementary precaution on the other men’s behalf?”
“I understand, sahib, that you misunderstood me.”
“And you me. Very well then.”
The Mohammedan did not answer, but he did not have either the air of a man who had not understood his superior officer.
“You’d better tell me what this plan of yours is.”
“Sahib, you would only laugh at me.”
“I give you my word of honor I will not.”
“Neither will you agree, sahib, if I tell you.”
“You want me to take both you and your plan on trust, eh? Very well. I’ll prove my faith in you. You have leave. Now, tell me.”
“I will be Gopi Lall.”
“You!”
“I, sahib.”
“How—why—what the—?”
“Sahib, on this countryside there are dozens—there must be—who are his friends; who know which way he would run; probably who know which way he did run—who advised him or would advise him—”
“But man alive! Dost Mohammed! You don’t look in the least like Gopi Lall. You couldn’t make yourself look like him even if you plucked one eye out.”
“And sahib, would Gopi Lall—with a hue and cry behind—travel undisguised? His ugliness is a byword even where he is not known. Men know that he has but one eye and tangled hair that never knew the comb, and lips that are like sun-cracked pollution. Would he journey with his name and number on his face for all the world to see, as a trooper wears his crest?”
“But—what language does he speak?”
“From choice? Bengali.”
“And you?”
“I speak it too, as well as he.”
“It’s a deuce of a risky sort of plan, Dost Mohammed!”
“The risk is mine, sahib.”
“I hardly know what to say. You see, you’re an officer; it seems hardly the proper work for a commissioned man. It ’ud hardly be creditable to the Regiment if you got knifed or shot or run through by one of our own men while disguised as a murdering thief.”
“Will it be a credit to the Regiment, sahib, to go back to the lines without his head; to do no better than the rascally police; to have even the little children ask us where are the soldiers, since the Bengal Horse became constabeels?”
“Why not let a trooper try it?”
“Because I already have permission, sahib!”
“True. You hold me to my word? Very well. Go then, and good luck to you. But for the love of goodness be careful, Dost Mohammed.”
“Sahib, I will be careful at least to live until I track down Gopi Lall.”