Being half Mexican himself, the Native Son was
sensitive upon the subject of Ramon, and almost as anxious to see Ramon in
jail as was Luck himself.
So while Applehead and his boys were scenting danger and then finding
themselves in the middle of it, Luck and his party rode along absorbed in
themselves and in the ultimate goal, which was Ramon. They saw nothing queer
about the trail they followed, and they saw no evidence of treachery anywhere.
They rode with the rifles slung under their right thighs and their
six-shooters at their hips, and their eyes roving casually over their
immediate surroundings while their minds roved elsewhere--not because they
were growing careless, but because there was absolutely nothing to rouse their
suspicions, now that they no longer bad Applehead along to preach danger and
keep them keyed up to expect it.
They followed the tracks through a scattered grove of stunted pinons, circled
at fault for a few minutes in the rocks beyond, and then picked up the trail.
They were then in the narrow neck which was called the handle of the Devil's
Frying-pan--and they would have ridden unsuspectingly into the very Pan
itself, had not the Native Son's quick eyes caught a movement on the rim-rock
across the bare, rock-bottomed basin.
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