The gunman shook his head, and sweat flew. The stuff was rolling down from underneath his hat all the time.

One of the ruffians spoke up:

‘He reckons you’re after his bag.’

The Chief turned around and looked at the fellow for a while.

The Chief’s face… well, it was a bit of a jumble: little brown eyes that lurked behind slanting cracks in his head like those sea creatures that live inside stones; big, no-shape nose. The only orderly feature was the well-balanced brown moustache, which looked twenty years younger than the rest of him.

The Chief turned back to the gunman.

‘I don’t want your bag, only the gun.’

The gunman kept silence.

‘Can I tempt you to a glass of ale?’ the Chief suddenly asked him.

No reply from the gunman.

‘Strikes me you might prefer a glass of ale to twenty years’ hard labour,’ said the Chief.

The gunman said, ‘If I give you the gun, there’ll be nothing to stop you taking the bag.’

‘Look, I keep forgetting about this fucking bag,’ said the Chief. ‘That’s on account of the fact I’ve no interest in it and do not bloody want it.’

‘You’re one of them,’ the gunman said, addressing the Chief, but nodding towards the two roughs. ‘They know you. When you came up, they said, “It’s Weatherill.”’

‘And did they look pleased about it?’ asked the Chief.

The Chief took two steps towards the gunman, and there was now not more than a yard’s distance between him and the revolver.

‘So now then,’ the Chief said, and he advanced again.

The gunman looked down at his bag, then up at the Chief.

‘One more step and I’ll fire,’ he said.

The Chief took one more step; he removed the revolver from the hand of the gunman, who stared at the Chief amazed.

‘That was painless, wasn’t it?’ said the Chief, smiling, and I winced at that for I knew what was coming: the fast blow that sent the man to the ground.