As The Cycle of Racist and Anti-Racist Violence reaches its climax, the novel continues to eschew any simple, conventionally moralistic binarism between the banditti and their pursuers. The racial profiling that prevents an entirely innocent man from finding a bed for the night at the end of Chapter 11 indicates the endemic injustice and prejudice of Californian society, highlighting the environment that inspires Joaquín’s retaliatory campaign. While continuing to inflict terror on the surrounding neighborhood and to brutally murder any who betray his organization, Joaquín also retains the moral principles that have won him respect and love throughout the novel; his immediate restitution of the elderly lady’s watch in Chapter 10 is an example. Of course, Joaquín’s ethical code does not prevent him from relying on Three-Fingered Jack, who seemingly enjoys violence for its own sake. However, Ridge tempers the effect not only by showing Joaquín trying to restrain Jack but also by establishing a clear parallel in Love’s distaste at the dismemberment of Joaquín and Jack’s bodies. In both cases, the leaders accept a moral compromise where they feel it is indispensable to their final goal. Prescott and Joaquín’s matching chest wounds and recoveries are a further example of parallelism between Joaquín and the lawmen who pursue him.

Chapter 11 provides a sense of the enormity and complexity of Joaquín’s organization, setting up the downfall that follows. Ridge emphasizes that despite the vastness of his criminal empire, Joaquín remains the mastermind (“the dramatic brain”) behind all the diverse and seemingly disparate branches of activity. By removing Joaquín’s head and Jack’s hand, Love symbolically decapitates and incapacitates the organization. That the ripples of Joaquín’s death extend far beyond himself frames him as a kind of tragic hero.

The description of Joaquín’s death is replete with pathos, partly due to the way in which Ridge channels the narrative point of view through Joaquín’s horse. The killing of a banditto as he rides back to assist a wounded comrade depicts Joaquín’s men in a similarly heroic light; in comparison to this bravery and loyalty, Love’s forces appear cowardly. The account of the ample financial reward that Love receives shortly after Joaquín’s death further weighs against him. The closing lines of the novel condemn violence in general, whether criminal or judicial. A description of Rosita’s sad, isolated half-life after Joaquín’s death leads the novel to its somewhat ambiguous closing sentence: “Alas! How happy might she not have been, had man never learned to wrong his fellow man!” (137). This statement, rendered obscure by its double negative, seems to condemn all violence and to specifically associate such behaviors with men (regardless of their nationality). It would appear to condemn both Joaquín’s assailants and the banditti themselves.