“What’s the rally?”
One of the men in front of Sard replied, without turning his head: “Strangers in the house.”
Three heads showed over the edge of the jetty, then three more men sprang up from the launch on to the jetty itself. Sard found himself facing about a dozen men, with other men closing in on each side of him. All the men were silent, most of them were watching him intently, though some peered into the night behind him. All the men, without perceptible motion, had pistols in their hands.
“Stop just right where you are, brother,” the man on Sard’s right said.
Sard stopped.
“Drop them palos and put them up.” The tone rather than the words made Sard drop his sticks and lift his hands.
“Are you alone?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Move right down to the edge of the jetty. Keep your hands up.”
“I can’t walk without sticks.”