"Not now, no, Floyd," Rosemary answered, with a brave attempt at a smile. "But we must watch our chance. These Mexican Indians aren't like our own—or like our own used to be. They aren't half as smart. We ought to be able to escape from them if we get half a chance."
"Well, maybe, Rosemary. But they're bad enough if they aren't smart."
Floyd spoke with all the evidence on his side. For a more disreputable, unsavory, desperate and wicked band of men it would be almost impossible to find. Repulsive in face, dirty, tattered and torn, wearing all sorts of cast off garments, a few in blankets, astride bony and broken horses, most of them, but each one armed with gun, revolver or knife, it was a crew of pirates, cut-throats, highwaymen to be carefully shunned.
"Well, I'm glad to see you keeping your courage up, Rosemary," remarked her brother, trying to ease himself in the saddle. It was not very feasible, as the captives were partly tied to prevent their escape, and they could not shift about as they pleased.
"Oh, we have to make the best of it, Floyd," his sister told him.
"They haven't treated us roughly yet."
"No, and I wonder at it."
"It's because they have taken us for a ransom, I'm sure. They know if they don't hand us over in good shape there will be no ransom money for them."
"Who do you think they count on getting it from?"
"Our relatives, of course. Or maybe they think Uncle Sam will intervene on our behalf."
"I wish to goodness he would—that he'd send a band of U.S. regulars after this bunch of pirates. Golly! How the Yaquis would scatter; eh, Rosemary?"