Their legs were wrapped in rags. Coats, if they could be called coats, were made of skins of wild animals, mountain goats, deer. One of the men wore the skin of the Himalayan black bear.
They stood in silence, their small, beady eyes watching for any move on the part of Muscles and the boys. Two of the men held short, thick clubs in their hands. Another held a long stick. Biff noticed that on the end a wicked knife had been attached by thongs. Others held long, gleaming curved knives in their hands. Only one man carried a gun, a short, two barreled shotgun. It was an old gun. Someone had sawed off the barrel. It could deal out body-ripping shots at short range.
“Who are they, Chuba?” Biff asked.
“You mean what are they?” Muscles cut in.
“Bandits. Chinese bandits,” Chuba replied. “They bad. Very bad.”
“They’re not soldiers, then. Not members of any patrol?”
Chuba shook his head. “No. Much worse. These people roam the hills and mountains. They steal, kill. They like wild men. Sometimes come into town, but most times, live like tribe, sleep in caves, eat anything they can kill.”
“What do they want with us?” Biff asked.
“Rob us. Maybe kill us if we try to fight.”
“Huh. Some chance,” Muscles cut in again. “Why, I can take on that whole gang single-handed.” Muscles towered over the bandits. He was bigger, and weighed more than any two of the bandits together.