He was forced to sit down on a tree stump to tie up his wounded hand; at least he would stop the flow of blood and make the trail more difficult to follow.
While with the help of his left hand and his teeth he was binding up his useless right hand, his pursuer overtook him.
"Fatia Negra--surrender!" The only reply the adventurer gave was to try to fire his pistols and finding them only flash in the pan he hurled them one after the other at his enemy's head.

Szilard then had practical experience of the rumor that Fatia Negra could throw very well even with his left hand,--had he not leaped aside at the nick of time the pistols would have dashed his brains out.
Then up Fatia Negra started to his feet again and fled away still further.

The pursuer and the pursued now sped along with pretty equal energy, though the loss of blood continued to weaken the robber.

Yet he made one desperate effort to scale the steep side of the mountain.

An ordinary man could rarely breast such an ascent, yet he tried it.