“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.
“Powerful men, those in there,” continued the Mexican, jerking his thumb over his shoulders toward the door. “They carry big revolvers in their belts, and are dead shots; I know it by the looks of ‘em. They’re mad, too—so mad that I wouldn’t give much for the man in whose hands they find that horse.”
“Gracious!” ejaculated Ned, who trembled all over. He wished now from the bottom of his heart that he had told everything at the start; and while he was wondering if it were now too late to do so and escape any very serious consequences, the door opened and the men came out. One look at them was enough to drive all thoughts of confession out of the boy’s mind. How tall and broad-shouldered they were, and how fierce they looked when the light from the lamp in the hall fell full upon their bearded faces. They stood upon the porch for a few seconds, talking with Uncle John and listening to his instructions regarding the course they ought to follow in order to reach the ford, and then they took the bridles from Ned’s hand and were about to mount when a loud, shrill neigh sounded from the direction of the shed.
Three of those who heard it were visibly affected by it. The visitors looked at each other in surprise, while Ned leaned heavily upon the railing of the porch for support. If there had been no railing there he would have fallen to the ground, for there was no strength in him.
“That sounds wonderfully like Sock’s voice, doesn’t it?” exclaimed one of the visitors.
The other replied that it certainly did.
“What horse is that out there under the shed,” asked Uncle John.
“It’s Ned’s old cob, sir,” said the cook, promptly; and Ned was glad that the man answered for him, for he could not have uttered a word to save his life. Frightened as he was he wandered at the cook’s reply. Why did he not say that the stolen horse was there, and claim the liberal reward that had probably been offered for his recovery?
“I never heard anything sound so much like Socks’s neigh in my life,” declared one of the visitors, as he jumped into the saddle. “But of course it can’t be, for the horse is a long way from here by this time. Mr. Ackerman, we are indebted to you for your kindness and hospitality.”