Ryomen looked at Bob Blobson. "You will die here." 

Bob had a knack for knowing when it was safe to move. When he felt his captors were vulnerable. But he didn't move, having counted three dead and twenty-one wounded. Ryomen realized that he'd have to fight his way free, or die with them.

"I'll kill them," was all he said, never breaking eye contact.

"They're too many to take out. Even with a knife," Bob replied. "You want to trade with me?"

"Yes. Even if you kill me. But I think I can kill some."

"I have a new hammer," he replied, pulling a large, black iron weight from a deep pocket.

Ryomen eyed the weight, but pulled out a knife.

"No," the drifter said, "you have a hammer."

"And you have a knife."

"That's true. But we have a hammer here now."

Ryomen couldn't argue with that.

"Why are you doing this? Are you punishing us?"

"Somehow," Bob said, "yes."

"Not like that," Ryomen protested, but Bob held up a finger.

"When I was a boy," Bob told him, "I had a dog. It died. The man who owned it didn't feel bad about it. My mother told me I should be angry, but I wasn't. I still remember the man laughing at me in front of the whole village. The day after he had me and my mother come to take the body away. When I'm angry, I like to take the edge off by losing myself in violent action. I put myself in the shoes of the other guy. I try to understand the motivation behind his actions. When I'm done, I go into my own world and think about my frustration with my father. My own world,"