Ranjoor Singh, with our men, all mounted, and our Kurdish friends, were after them--although our friends were too busy burdening themselves with the rifles and other belongings of the fallen to render as much aid as they ought.
I left my horse, and climbed a rock, and looked for half a minute.
Then I knew what to do; and I wonder whether ever in the world was such a running fight before.

I had only lost one man; and it was quite another matter driving the Kurds' horses up the valley in the direction they wished to take, to attempting to drive them elsewhere.

Being mounted ourselves, we could keep ahead of the retreating Kurds very easily, so we adopted the same tactics again and again and again.
First we drove the horses helter-skelter up the valley a mile or two.

Then we halted, and hid our own horses, and took cover behind the rocks to wait for the Kurds; and as they came, making a good running fight of it, dodging hither and thither behind the boulders to try to pick off Ranjoor Singh's men, we would open fire on their rear unexpectedly, thus throwing them into confusion again,--and again,--and again.
We opened fire always at too great distance to do much material damage, I thinking it more important to preserve my own men's lives and so to continue able to demoralize the Kurds, and afterward Ranjoor Singh commended me for that.

But I was also acutely aware of the risk that our bullets might go past the Kurds and kill our own Sikhs.