"It produced an Honorable Patches," she retorted slyly.
"Indeed it did not," he answered quickly. "It produced—" He checked himself, as though fearing that he would say too much.
"But what have Phil and his wild horse to do with the question?" she asked.
"Nothing, I fear. Only I feel about your going away as Phil felt when he gave the wild horse its freedom."
"I don't think I understand," she said, genuinely puzzled.
"I said you would not," he retorted bluntly, "and that's why you are leaving all this." His gesture indicated the vast sweep of country with old Granite Mountain in the distance.
Then, with a nod and a look he indicated Professor Parkhill, who was walking toward them along the side of the ridge skirting the scattered cedar timber. "Here comes a product of the sort of culture to which you aspire. Behold the ideal manhood of your higher life! When the intellectual and spiritual life you so desire succeeds in producing racial fruit of that superior quality, it will have justified its existence—and will perish from the earth."
Even as Patches spoke, he saw something just beyond the approaching man that made him start as if to rise to his feet.
It was the unmistakable face of Yavapai Joe, who, from behind an oak bush, was watching the professor.
Patches, glancing at Kitty, saw that she had not noticed.