“Was that all you got for your trouble?” asked Murgatroyd. “You’re not safe here, my lad, if you show the silver and keep the guineas hid.”
The stranger got up, and clapped his empty pockets, and bade the men search him; but his rueful smile made it clear that he was hiding no ill-gotten gains.
“I was searching for the guineas when a man galloped over the hill—a big man—and spat a pistol at me as I ran. That bullet, too, touched me—on the leg this time. So I took cover, and headed straight for Garsykes.”
The three men laughed, and so did Widow Mathison.
“You did right,” said the widow. “By what you say, it was our masterful Man o’ Logie rode at you; but even he durst not come seeking you in Garsykes. We’re seeking him instead.”
“Carried a pistol, did he?” grumbled Murgatroyd. “Well, there’s one boast gone from Logie. The Master said he’d face us all with no more than his two fists and a stick to help him.”
The stranger called for bread-and-cheese and another pot of ale.
“Why are you seeking him?” he asked lazily.
“Because he’s too big for his boots, and always was. So now he’s got all Garsykes against him.”
“Then he’s wise to carry a pistol, I should say.”