The bushes rustled. Septien listened, and finally shrugged. “Alas,” he called to Gordon. “Normally I’d be tempted by a chance for some real conversation; I’m sure you’re as starved for it as I. Unfortunately, the leader of our small brotherhood of cutthroats insists that I find out what you want and get this over with.

“So speak your piece, Mister Rabbit. We are all ears.”

Gordon shook his head. The fellow obviously classed himself a wit, but his humor was fourth-rate, even by postwar standards. “I notice you fellows aren’t carrying all of my gear. You wouldn’t by some chance have decided to take only what you needed, and left enough for me to survive, would you?”

From the scrub below came a high giggle, then more hoarse chuckles as others joined in. Roger Septien looked left and right and lifted his hands. His exaggerated sigh seemed to say that he, at least, appreciated the irony in Gordon’s question.

“Alas,” he repeated. “I recall mentioning that possibility to my compatriots. For instance, our women might find some use for your aluminum tent poles and pack frame, but I suggested we leave the nylon bag and tent, which are useless to us.

“Urn, in a sense we have done this. However, I don’t think that Wally’s… er, alterations will meet your approval.”

Again, that shrieking giggle rose from the bushes. Gordon sagged a little.

“What about my boots? You all seem well enough shod. Do they fit any of you, anyway? Could you leave them? And my jacket and gloves?”

Septien coughed. “Ah, yes. They’re the main items, aren’t they? Other than the shotgun, of course, which is nonnegotiable.”

Gordon spat. Of course, idiot. Only a blowhard states the obvious.

Again, the voice of the bandit leader could be heard, muffled by the foliage. Again there were giggles. With a pained expression, the ex-stockbroker sighed. “My leader asks what you offer in trade. Of course I know you have nothing. Still, I must inquire.”