Our loot consisted of two wounded prisoners and four good horses, in addition to rifles and cartridges.  We let the dead lie where they were for a warning to other scoundrels, and we looked on while our Armenians searched the bodies for anything likely to be of slightest use.  They found almost nothing originally Kurdish, but more Armenian trinkets than would have stocked a traveling merchant’s show-case, including necklaces and earrings.

Fred took the two prisoners aside and in Persian, which every Kurd can understand and speak after a fashion, offered them their choice between telling the whole truth or being handed over to Armenians.  And as there isn’t a bloody rascal in the world but suspects his intended victims of worse hankerings than his own, they loosed their tongues and told more than the truth, adding whatever they thought likely to please Fred.

“They say there were only about fifty of them in this raiding party to begin with, and several came to trouble before they met us.  Seems there are Armenians hidden here and there who are able to give an account of themselves.  Ten or twelve elected to stay near the castle we were in last night.  They’ve burned it, but they have some captured women and propose to enjoy themselves.  Shall we ride back and break in on the party?”

He meant what he said, but it was out of the question.  “The party we’ve just trounced will give the alarm,” I objected.  “We’d only ride into a trap.  Besides, you’ve no proof these prisoners are not lying to you.”

“They say their raiding party is the only one within thirty miles.  They rode ahead of the regiments to get first picking.”

“We’re none of us fit for anything but food and sleep,” said I, and Fred had to concede the point.

Fortunately the food problem was solved for the moment by the Kurds, who had a sort of cheese with them whose awful taste deprived one of further appetite.  We ate, and tied our two wounded prisoners on one horse; and as we had nothing to treat their wounds with except water they finished their trip in exquisite discomfort.  Surprise that we should attend to their wounds at all, added to their despondency after they had time to consider what it meant.  There was only one burden to their lamentation: 

“What are you going to do with us?  We will tell what we know!  We will name names!  We are your slaves!  We kiss feet!  Ask, and we will answer!”

They thought they were being kept alive for torture, and we let them keep on thinking it.  Fred tied their horse to his own saddle and towed them along, singing at the top of his lungs to keep the rest of us awake; and for all his noise I fell asleep until he reached for his concertina and, the humor of the situation dawning on him, commenced a classic of his own composition, causing the morning to re-echo with irreverence, and making all of us except the prisoners aware of the fact that life is not to be taken seriously, even in Armenia.  The prisoners intuitively guessed that the song had reference to ways and means they would rather have forgotten.