Phil laughed.  “Haven’t you heard that yarn yet?  I reckon I may as well tell you.  No, wait!” he exclaimed eagerly.  “We have lots of time.  We’ll ride south a little way and perhaps I can show you.”

As they rode away up the creek, Patches wondered much at his companion’s words and at his manner, but the cowboy shook his head at every question, answering, simply, “Wait.”

Soon they had left the creek bed—­passing through a rock gateway at the beginning of the little stream—­and were riding up a long, gently sloping hollow between two low but rugged ridges.  The crest of the rocky wall on their left was somewhat higher than the ridge on their right, but, as the floor of the long, narrow hollow ascended, the sides of the little valley became correspondingly lower.  Patches noticed that his companion was now keenly alert and watchful.  He sat his horse easily, but there was a certain air of readiness in his poise, as though he anticipated sudden action, while his eyes searched the mountain sides with eager expectancy.

They had nearly reached the upper end of the long slope when Phil abruptly reined his horse to the left and rode straight up that rugged, rock-strewn mountain wall.  To Patches it seemed impossible that a horse could climb such a place; but he said nothing, and wisely gave Snip his head.  They were nearly at the top—­so near, in fact, that Phil could see over the narrow crest—­when the cowboy suddenly checked his horse and slipped from the saddle.  With a gesture he bade his companion follow his example, and in a moment Patches stood beside him.  Leaving their horses, they crept the few remaining feet to the summit.  Crouching low, then lying prone, they worked their way to the top of a huge rounded rock, from which they could look over and down upon the country that lies beyond.

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.”