The prisoner was slowly coming around, so Ross only had time to pull on the suit; he had not even fastened the breast studs before those blue eyes opened. A sunburned hand flashed to a belt, but the dagger and ax which had once hung there were now in Ross's possession. He watched the tribesman carefully as he finished dressing.
"What you do?" The words were in the speech of the forest people, distorted by a new accent.
"You go—" Ross pointed to the third horse the others had left behind—"I go—" he indicated the river—"I take these"—he patted the dagger and the ax. The other scowled.
"Not good...."
Ross laughed, a little hysterically. "Not good you," he agreed, "good—me!"
To his surprise the tribesman's stiff face relaxed, and the fellow gave a bark of laughter. He sat up, rubbing at his throat, a big grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"You—hunter?" The man pointed northeast to the woodlands fringing the mountains.
Ross shook his head. "Trader, me."
"Trader," the other repeated. Then he tapped one of the wide metal cuffs at his wrist. "Trade—this?"
"That. More things."