As soon as Benson saw him he dropped down with a breath of relief, then began to laugh, as an understanding of the situation came to him. Yet the man saw nothing to laugh at.
“I’ll jest take that there hand bag,” he said, “and any other vallybles ye’ve got about ye.”
“Wow! Gorilla Jake!”
The man stopped with a grunt of surprise, but still kept the revolver pointed at Benson.
“It’s funny, eh?” he said. “Well, explain it, so’s I can laugh with ye.”
The fellow was a very giant, so far as stature went; but he seemed an immense ape, or gorilla, rather than a man. His arms were so abnormally long that the one which hung down at his side extended to his knee. His legs, by comparison, were short. His body was long; his shoulders big and thick. His head was small, with cunning, apelike eyes, set in the midst of a hairy face. His clothing was rough; his hat, a brimless thing, crowded down so tightly on his skull that the small size of his head was clearly shown.
“Who—who do you think I am?” Benson gasped.
“I reckon you’re ther woman what let out the screech when I come up to the stage over thar, after it whanged into the rock. I looked in at ye; then you give out that clippin’ yell and streaked it; I never see a female make sech a jump. And run! Well, you was runnin’ like a locomotive. I seen you had a hand bag, and that the stage held nothin’; so I piked out and follered ye. Now, I’ll take the hand bag.”
Tim Benson stared at the apelike man before him.