“That’s a silly lie,” said the man. “People don’t come up here without money.”
“No more did I,” said Dyke. “But I’ve been robbed.”
“By whom?”
“By bandits,” said Dyke. “There are many of them about.”
The man grinned, as if amused, and said something to the effect that such a great hulking rascal ought to be able to defend himself. To this Dyke replied that he might have tried to do so, but he was so completely exhausted by hunger. “My boy and I are almost at our last gasp. You can see that for yourself.” Then humbly and plaintively he begged for food, saying that the man assuredly had food stowed away in those wallets, and imploring him to spare a few morsels of it. “Have pity on us. Please have pity on us.”
The man sat upon his mule, staring stupidly; hardly seeming to listen to these piteous appeals, but to meditate. With his eyes still on Dyke’s face, he dropped his rein round his saddle-peak, passed the revolver from his right to his left hand, drew from his belt-sheath a formidable knife, and then replaced the revolver in its holster.
“You are lying,” he said, with some more oaths, but with no sign of real anger. “You may have money concealed about you, as surely as I have food in my bags. Perhaps if I searched your filthy carcase, I should find it.” Then he began to grin again, as if an idea had come into his sluggish mind. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Dyke said he was going down the hillside towards the high road.
“And further, perhaps,” said the man. “To hell, if I choose to send you there. Eh?”
Dyke gave a little groan, and began to tremble very perceptibly. He gazed at the man in mute despairing entreaty.