“Give them to me,” said Ned, when they had been brought up to the porch. “I’ll hold them until the men come out.” “Well, you hold one and I’ll hold the other,” answered the herdsman, putting one of the bridles in Ned’s hand. “I want to have a good look at those fellows.” Ned was almost ready to cry with rage and alarm. He could not send the man away, if he was resolved to remain; and while he was wondering if he had not better go himself and trust to luck, a door at the farther end of the porch, which gave entrance into the kitchen, was opened, and the Mexican cook came out. This was the man whom George declared to be mean enough for anything. The old cook, who had had charge of the culinary department of the ranche during Mr. Ackerman’s lifetime had been discharged at the request of Ned, who had some fault to find with the man, and this Mexican, who came from, nobody seemed to know where, had been employed to take his place. No one about the ranche liked him. He was an excellent cook, but he was always slipping about the house on tip-toe, as if he were trying to find out something, and seemed to have a way of getting at everything he wanted to know. He walked up the porch in his stealthy, noiseless way, looked all around, to make sure that he was not observed, then bent his face close to Ned’s, and was about to whisper something to him, when he discovered the herdsman, who was standing at the foot of the steps, holding the other horse. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Me!” answered the herdsman. “O,” said the cook, recognising the voice. “Well, go in and get your supper. It is all ready.” “I’ll go as soon as I see these visitors off.” “You’ll go now or you won’t get it at all,” exclaimed the cook. “I shan’t keep it waiting for you. I want to get through in that kitchen some time to-night.” The herdsman muttered something under his breath, passed the bridle of the horse he was holding up to Ned and went into the kitchen. The Mexican watched him until he disappeared, and then, with another suspicious glance around, came up to Ned. “I know’ where that horse is,” said he, in a low tone. “What horse?” Ned almost gasped. “The one that was stolen.” “I—I don’t know what you mean,” stammered Ned. “O, I heard them talking about it in there while I was dishing up the supper to them,” replied the cook, nodding his head as if to say that it was of no use whatever for Ned to feign ignorance of the matter. “He’s a chestnut-colored horse, with four white feet and a star in his forehead. He’s out under that shed now, ‘cause I saw him there! Eh! He belongs to the wife of one of those men inside, and she calls him Silk Stocking; but all the men folks about the ranche poke fun at her and make her mad by calling him Socks. Eh!” The Mexican poked Ned in the ribs with his finger and straightened up and looked at him. He laughed, too, and seemed to regard the whole matter in the light of an excellent joke—but Ned didn’t.