“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. CHAPTER XI Another dawn was breaking when the five riders approached Pinecate Cañon, and the sun-spears were thrusting across the eastern sky. The lower reaches of the rocky cañon were desolate and empty, save for the figure of a saddled and bridled horse moving about. Sidewinder, with a grunt of recognition, broke the silence. “There’s that cayuse of Mesquite’s now—started for town and stopped on the way. Prob’ly smelled water here.” “And yonder’s the auto,” said Tom Emery with a jerk of his head. “Two of ’em!” There was no need to question Ramsay about his car, for that of Ethel Gilman had been thrust beside it into the cover of the trees and mesquite clump, so that both cars stood protected from sun and dew, but plain to be seen. Sidewinder flung them a glance, then turned his horse into the cañon. “Come along—ride as far as we can, anyhow. Her place is quite a ways up.” The five rode slowly up the cañon, until they came to the spot where Ramsay had found that cigarette case. Here Sidewinder drew rein, since it was becoming increasingly harder for the horses to climb. Ahead was the bend in the cañon. “Manuel, you stay here with Ramsay. You’d better stick here too, Tom. Come ahead when I call. You come with me, Bill.”