“It is no business of yours, whether it is or not!” These words and the tone in which they were uttered, silenced the Mexican most effectually. He knew some things that the owner of the stolen horse did not know; but still he was obliged to exhibit some curiosity, in order to avoid exciting the man’s suspicions. Not another word was said during the ride. The ranchemen went into the corral with Philip, turned their borrowed horses loose and caught their own, and, having placed their saddles upon them, they mounted and rode away. Philip watched them as long as they were in sight, and when they had disappeared in the darkness, he closed and locked the gate of the corral, sprang into his saddle and turned his horse’s head away from the rancho. “That was pretty well done if I did do it myself,” thought he. “They’ll be back again to-morrow or next day, but if Ackerman is sharp they’ll find him gone, sure enough. I’ll have to go, too, for I shouldn’t like to have them see me after they learn how they have been tricked.” While the Mexican was talking to himself in this way he had ridden around the corral, and was now galloping at full speed toward a belt of timber which lay about two miles from the rancho. All was dark before him, but Philip seemed to know just where he was going. He brought his horse to a walk when he reached the woods, and after riding through a dense thicket of bushes he struck a bridle path, into which he turned. He followed it for a short distance, ducking his head now and then to avoid some overhanging branch, and finally dismounted at the door of a dilapidated cabin that had once been the property of a pig-raiser, who lived there and watched his droves while they fattened on the acorns which so plentifully covered the ground at certain seasons of the year. There was a window beside the door, and a bright light shone out of it. The light came from the fire-place, which was heaped high with blazing logs. In front of the fire were two men, dressed in Mexican costume, who were reclining at their ease on their ponchos and smoking cigarettes. But they were not Mexicans. They were renegade Americans, and members of the band that made the attack upon George’s camp. When they heard the strokes of the horse’s hoofs on the hard path, they started up and turned toward the door which Philip pushed open without ceremony. “You are a pretty pair, I must say!” exclaimed the newcomer, after he had somewhat relieved his mind by uttering a volley of heavy Spanish adjectives. “What were you put here for, anyhow—to waste your time in smoking and loafing?” “We have just this moment come in,” replied one of the men. “Didn’t you see anybody while you were watching the trail?” inquired Philip. “Yes; there was somebody went by on horseback.” “Was there a small, dark-colored mute following the horse? Then it was the boy you were looking for, and you let him go by.” “Of course. You told us to look out for a boy on foot!”