From Bayard's understanding of this place, every man, woman or child here is apt to kill him. He isn't expecting to hear a tone that's gentle, and out of the paranoia they put him into the Arena with he expects a trap.

"Bayard Sartoris." He's already got the sinking suspicion that that name means nothing here, for better or worse. It doesn't have the ring of the son of a great colonel, nor does it mark him kin to the Confederate bandit ambushing Yankees as they ate their meals. He suspects he may as well be stringing nonsense together for all it'll mean here.

He dregs up the last bravado from a well that seems collapsed and sand-chocked. He lowers his voice in a feeble, vain attempt to make it sound imposing, manly.

"I'm armed, mister, so you best keep walking else I'll make you regret it."