As they moved roughly parallel with the valley, the slope on their right became steeper and steeper until it was simply a precipice, and the rocks on their left towered bleaker and higher, and they were walking along a narrow ledge with the shadow of one cliff over them and another cliff falling away from their feet into a void of darkness. The path wound snake-like around the fissures and buttresses into which the precipice was sculptured, and presently, rounding one of those natural breastworks, they found themselves at a place where the path widened suddenly to become a natural balcony about twenty feet long and twelve feet deep — and then stopped. A natural wall of rock screened it from sight of the valley or the hills on the other side.
El Rojo followed them into the niche, leading the two horses, which he tied up to an iron ring by the mouth of a cave that opened in the rock wall at the end.
There was a dull glow of embers close by the mouth of the cave. The bandit stirred them with his foot, and threw on a couple of mesquite logs.
“Perhaps you are hungry,” said El Rojo. “I have little to offer my guests, but you are welcome to what there is.”
“I should like a cigarette as much as anything,” said the Saint. “But I’m not a very good contortionist.” The bandit considered him.
“I could untie you, señor, if you gave me your word of honor not to attempt to escape. It is, I believe, usual in these circumstances.”
His speeches had an elaborate theatricalism which came oddly out of his rough and ragged clothing.
“I’ll give you my word for two hours,” said the Saint, after a moment’s thought. “It can be renewed if necessary.”
“Es bastante. Y usted, señorita?”
“Conforme.”