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.
There are few men, I think, who can look without admiration upon a
beautifully formed, noble spirited horse. The glorious pride and
strength and courage of these most kingly of God's creatures--even when
they are in harness and subject to their often inferior masters--compel
respect and a degree of appreciation.
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