There were a score or more of horses in the corral that had been broken to the saddle. They were all fine animals, too, and it was a matter of some difficulty for Ned to make up his mind which one he wanted. He had grown very particular during the last two days. Having enjoyed the luxury of a ride on Silk Stocking’s back, he knew what a good saddle horse was, and he was hard to suit. He wanted one that looked and carried himself exactly like the stolen horse, and he finally decided that a small sorrel nag with light mane and tail and one white foot approached nearer to the mark than any other horse in the corral. Ned rode him up and down the trail in front of the house for an hour or two, and looked longingly toward the solitary oak on the summit of the swell, under whose friendly branches he had dreamed away so many hours while waiting for his friend, Gus Robbins. But the fear of the raiders kept him at home, and a week passed away before he could gather courage enough to venture out of sight of the house. On the morning of the eighth day after the raid, one of the herdsmen told Ned that the band of Hangers who had pursued the thieves in the hope of overtaking them and recovering the stolen stock, had returned unsuccessful, the Mexicans having made good their escape across the river, taking the cattle with them. If that was the case, travelling was safe, and Ned was only too glad to take his accustomed gallop again. Of course breakfast was late that morning and everything bothered—it always does when one is in a hurry; but the horse was brought to the porch at last, and Ned hastened into the house after his rifle and silver-mounted riding-whip. These ornaments having been secured, he went into the kitchen after the lunch which he had ordered Philip to prepare for him, and while he was putting it into his pocket, he heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs in the yard, and voices in conversation. He ran out on the porch, and found his father talking earnestly to a roughly-dressed man, who, upon closer examination proved to be Zeke, George’s herdsman. Uncle John’s face wore an expression of interest, while Zeke’s was gloomy enough. He looked and acted like a man who had met with some great misfortune. “I don’t know whar he is, more’n the man in the moon,” Zeke was saying when Ned came out. “I ‘sposed, in course, that I should find him here.” “Well, he isn’t here, and we haven’t seen him since the day he left with the supplies,” said Uncle John. “Can’t you tell me just what has happened? I may be able to do something.” “Thar ain’t much of anything to tell, an’ ye can’t do nothing, either,” replied Zeke. “He brung them supplies to my camp all right, an’ a few nights arterwards the Greasers dropped down on us an’ run off the last hoof we had to bless ourselves with, doggone ‘em!”