Patches uttered a low exclamation, but Phil's instant grip on his arm checked further speech.
From where they lay, they looked down upon a great mountain basin of gently rolling, native grass land. From the foot of that rocky ridge, the beautiful pasture stretches away, several miles, to the bold, gray cliffs and mighty, towering battlements of Granite Mountain. On the south, a range of dark hills, and to the north, a series of sharp peaks, form the natural boundaries.
"Do you see them?" whispered Phil.
Patches looked at him inquiringly. The stranger's interest in that wonderful scene had led him to overlook that which held his companion's attention.
"There," whispered Phil impatiently, "on the side of that hill there—they're not more than four hundred yards away, and they're working toward us."
"Do you mean those horses?" whispered Patches, amazed at his companion's manner.
Phil nodded.
"Do they belong to the Cross-Triangle?" asked Patches, still mystified.
"The Cross-Triangle!" Phil chuckled. Then, with a note of genuine reverence in his voice, he added softly, "They belong to God, Mr. Honorable Patches."
Then Patches understood. "Wild horses!" he ejaculated softly.