Ramsay, rubbing his stiffened limbs, glanced around and saw that they were alone. He gathered his muscles—
“Careful, señor!” The muzzle of a pistol touched him. “Turn and walk to the horses.”
“Five hundred dollars and a get-away, Ximines,” he said softly, “if you turn me free.”
The other growled. “Bah! If you have that much money, I shall take it anyway, and take the pretty señorita too! When we get to that cañon of pinecates eh? Then this Sidewinder will go away, and maybe Manuel will come back, eh? And you will not be able to object, my little señor. Vamanos! To the horses!”
Sidewinder called. Ramsay, hopeless, turned and went to the horses, saddled by the other men. He was put into a saddle, his feet roped to the stirrups, and his arms bound. Then Ximines, without orders but for reasons of his own, improvised a dirty bandana into a gag, which he lashed about the jaw of Ramsay.
“Bring him along,” said Sidewinder impatiently, and mounted, leading the way. The others trailed out after him. After Cholo Bill rode Ramsay, the reins of his horse held by Ximines at his stirrup. As they rode out across the grassy cañon, the Mexican laughed and spoke softly to the captive.
“Ho, little señor! What is it I read in the newspaper, that the wise men say in your town of New York, eh? They say that the Americano, he is not civilized—that the Americano of the West, he is an animal. Ho! Well, when I come back to that cañon of the little tumbling bugs, señor, you shall see how we treat gringos, dogs of Americanos, in my country! And you will not be able to walk, for I shall cut your legs behind—que lástima. What a pity, little señor! And when I kiss the señorita, eh? It will be amusing to hear you curse, uncivilized Americano!”
Ramsay now perceived why he had been gagged by the Mexican. And beneath the raging fury that the taunts and threats roused in him, beneath wonder that on the lips of such a man he should find the smart sayings of the radicals of New York’s East Side, slowly mounted a growing horror at the prospect. For he comprehended that this swarthy Mexican, whose cigarettes had such a queer and unholy odor, was a smoker of the marihuana weed—a monster beside whom the cocaine fiend was as a pale angel, a creature debased and degenerate whose one craving was for blood, for cruelty, for torture.
So the five riders passed through the hole in the wall, and came out upon the lonely starlit desert, and headed for the Pinecate mesa. And upon the hills the coyotes howled dismal orisons to the stars.