“Dubs,” the man across the fire said by way of introduction. “Isn’t he something? There are some who have questioned his humanity, thinking he was of another species—men, I should hasten to add, who are not with us any longer, Dubs having sent them to the nether regions—but I do not question him. I am grateful that he is my partner, my right hand. He is Dubs. I am Courtweiler, although most call me simply Court. And you?”

Francis stared at him. Part of his mind was still trying to awaken and part of him was trying to accept that apparently these men meant to harm him. If they had been friendly they would not have taken his rifle. He realized that what had bothered him last night was his acting like an amateur, a greenhorn. He should have placed his bedroll well away from the fire, hidden so he would have time to react if enemies came. Stupid. Well, nothing for it now. He had to buy time, time to think, time to come up with a plan. “Francis,” he said. “My name is Francis.”

“Ahh—a proper name, that. Francis. I would have liked to have been named Francis but my ancestors came into it and I had to take the family name. Courtweiler isn’t bad, but Francis—now that’s a name, isn’t it, Dubs?”

Francis looked up again and if the giant was listening at all he gave no indication. He held Francis down with one hand while staring out across the prairie.

“It was a stroke of good fortune coming upon you this way,” Courtweiler added. “For us, that is. Not so good for you.”

“What do you mean?” Francis looked at his rifle, which was across the fire on the ground leaning against Courtweiler’s leg while he squatted. He couldn’t reach it. And his possibles bag and knife were somewhere in back of him—he’d never get to them before Dubs landed on him.

“I mean, Francis, that we have a specific need for just about everything you have. Our equipment has run into the ground and we aren’t halfway to that golden coast we aspire to. I’m afraid we’re going to have to relieve you of your belongings.”

“My belongings?”

Courtweiler nodded. “Exactly. Gun, horse, saddle—essentially everything. I think I could even fit into that buckskin shirt.”

“My clothes, too?”

“Except your pants. I think we’ll leave those in the interests of propriety. But everything else. And I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. Indeed, if you will turn and look,” he made a sign to Dubs, who stepped back and let Francis rise, “you will see that I am in desperate straits indeed. Even my mule suffers.”