"Oh, all right then," said Graydon. "I only thought that they would come in handy when the pinch comes. But if you only want me to look on while you do the scrapping—well, I don't mind." "You'd better mind," said Soames. "You'd better mind, Graydon! If the pinch comes—we're takin' no chances of a bullet in our backs. That's why you've got no guns. And if the pinch does come—well, we'll take no chances on you, anyway. Do you get me?"
Graydon shrugged. In silence the packing was completed; the tent struck; the burros loaded. Sierra stood awaiting them at the side of the white llama. Soames walked up to her, drew from its holster his automatic, balanced it in outstretched hand. "You know what this is?" he asked her. "Why, yes," she answered. "It is the death weapon of your kind." "Right," said Soames. "And it deals death quickly, quicker than spears or arrows—" He raised his voice so there could be no doubt that her silent attendant must also hear—"Now, I and these two men here carry these and others still more deadly. This man's we have taken from him. Your words may be clearest truth. I hope they are—for your sake and this man's and his who came with you. You understand me?" he asked, and grinned like a hungry wolf.
"I understand." Sierra's eyes and face were calm. "You need fear nothing from us." "We don't," said Soames. "But you have much to fear—from us." Another moment he regarded her, menacingly; then shoved his pistol back into his holster. "You go first," he ordered. "Your man behind you. And then him—" he pointed to Graydon. "We three march in the rear—death-weapons ready."
In that order they passed through the giant algarrobas, and out into the oddly park-like spaces beyond.