Half paralyzed, Starrett relaxed—he writhed, then twisted to his feet.
"What the hell are you butting in for?"
His hand struck down toward his pistol. Graydon's fist caught him on the point of the jaw.
The half-drawn gun slipped to the ground and Starrett toppled over.
The girl leaped up, and away.
Graydon did not look after her. She had gone, no doubt, to bring down upon them her people,
some tribe of the fierce Aymara whom even the Incas of old had never quite conquered. And
who would avenge her in ways that Graydon did not like to visualize.
He bent over Starrett. Between the blow and the drink he would probably be out for some
time. Graydon picked up the pistol. He wished that Dan and Soames would get back soon
to camp. The three of them could put up a good fight at any rate . . . might even have a
chance to escape . . . but they would have to get back quickly . . . the girl would soon return
with her avengers . . . was probably at that moment telling them of her wrongs. He turned—
She stood there, looking at him.
Drinking in her loveliness, Graydon forgot the man at his feet—forgot all else.
Her skin was palest ivory. It gleamed through the rents of the soft amber fabric, like thickest
silk, which swathed her. Her eyes were oval, a little tilted, Egyptian in the wide midnight of
her pupils. Her nose was small and straight; her brows level and black, almost meeting. Her
hair was cloudy, jet, misty and shadowed. A narrow fillet of gold bound her low broad
forehead. In it was entwined a sable and silver feather of the caraquenque—that bird whose
plumage in lost centuries was sacred to the princesses of the Incas alone.
Above her elbows were golden bracelets, reaching almost to the slender shoulders. Her little
high-arched feet were shod with high buskins of deerskin. She was lithe and slender as the
Willow Maid who when she passes through the World of Trees pour
into them new fire of green life.
She was no Indian . . . nor daughter of ancient Incas . . . nor was she Spanish . . . she was of
no race that he knew.
There were bruises on her cheeks—the marks of Starrett's fingers. Her long, slim hands
touched them. She spoke—in the Aymara tongue.
"Is he dead?"
"No," Graydon answered.
In the depths of her eyes a small, hot flame flared; he could have sworn it was of gladness.
"That is well! I would not have him die—" her voice became meditative—"at least—not this
way."
Starrett groaned. The girl again touched the bruises on her cheek.
"He is very strong," she murmured.
Graydon thought there was admiration in her whisper; wondered whether all her beauty was,
after all, only a mask for primitive woman worshiping brute strength.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She looked at him for a long, long moment.
"I am—Sierra," she answered, at last.