"How do they know a storm is coming, unless they can see it?" marveled the boy.
"Kiddie, you'll have to ask the horses. Bud Stevens don't know—nobody knows. A fellow with whiskers and wearing spectacles one of—of them scientific gents—told me once that it was a kind of wireless telegraph, that newfangled way of sending ghost messages. Said they got it in the air. Mebby they do; I don't know. They get it. Sometimes you'll see the colts running up and down. That's another sign of storm."
"That's strange. I never heard it before," mused the lad.
"And speaking of colts, did you ever know that sometimes a band of horses will take a great fancy to a frisky young colt?"
"No."
"Yes. They'll follow the colt for days, with their eyes big and full of admiration for the awkward critter. And they'll fight for him too. But 'tisn't often necessary, 'cause very few horses will bother a colt. Ever see a hoss fight?"
Tad admitted that he had not.
"Ought to see one. It's the liveliest scrimmage that you ever set eyes on. Beats that one back there on the desert, when you plunked me on my head in a water hole. Jimminy! but you did dump me proper," grinned the cowboy.
"Hope you don't lay it up against me," laughed Tad.
"No. Got all over that. I got what was coming to me—coming on the run. Say, got the trail on your side there? They seem to have shuffled over to the northward a bit."