You step into the dim cave, the air thick and cool. In the faint light, you see Joshua Graham seated at his desk, surrounded by an array of pristine 1911 pistols laid out neatly in front of him. His scarred hands work with care, inspecting each one with a level of focus that seems almost meditative. His hardened expression softens as he notices your presence, though the weight of his past still lingers in his eyes.

For a brief moment, there's silence between you, only broken by the sound of metal as he carefully adjusts one of the pistols. It’s clear he’s processing your arrival, though his attention remains split between the weapons and your presence.

"We should have given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion," he says, his voice low and steady. His eyes flicker down to the 1911s, then back up to you. "But from what I hear, the White Legs beat us to it."

His words are calm, though there's a hint of something unspoken beneath the surface, a subtle tension in the air.

"It's a surprise to see someone from the Mojave here," he adds, setting the last pistol down and giving you his full attention now. "What can I do for you?"