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.

He spoke to luck about it, and luck levelled his field glasses and glimpsed a skulking form up there.
"Hunt yourselves some shelter, boys!" he cried in the sharp tone of warning.