"It’s the first belt," said Bill Breakstone, "and, while it’s not as near as it looks, we’re covering ground pretty fast, and we’ll strike the timber before nightfall. How good it looks to see forest again." Even the horses seemed to understand, as they raised their heads, neighed, and then, without any urging from their masters, increased their pace. Phil rode up by the side of his brother John, and watched the belt of timber rise from the plain. He had often heard of this strange feature of the Texas wilds, but he had never expected to see it. A little before nightfall they rode out of a plain, perfectly bare behind them for hundreds of miles, into the timber, which grew up in an arid country without any apparent cause, watered by no rivers or creeks and by no melting snows from mountains. Phil and John looked around with the greatest interest. The timber was of oak, ash, and other varieties common in the Southwest, but the oak predominated. The trees were not of great size, but they were trees, and they looked magnificent after the sparse cottonwoods and bushes along the shallow prairie streams that they had passed. The foliage had already turned brown under the summer sun, but there was fresh grass within the shadow of the trees, upon which the horses grazed eagerly when they were turned loose. The four meanwhile rejoiced, and looked around, seeking a place for a camp. "How long is this belt, Bill?" asked Phil of Breakstone. "I don’t know, but maybe it’s a thousand miles. There’s two of them, you know. That’s the reason they call them the Cross Timbers. After you pass through this belt you cross about fifteen miles of perfectly bare plain, and then you come to the second belt, which is timbered exactly like this. One belt is about eight miles wide, the other about twelve miles wide, and, keeping an average distance of about fifteen miles apart, they run all the way from the far western edge of these plains in a southeasterly direction clean down to the Brazos and Trinity River bottoms, where they come together and merge in the heavy timber. It’s a most wonderful thing, Sir Philip of Buena Vista and Sir John of Montevideo, and it’s worthy of any man’s attention." "It has mine, that’s sure," said Phil, as he walked about through the forest. "It’s an extraordinary freak of nature, but the roots of the two belts of timber must be fed by subterranean water, though it’s strange that they should run parallel so many hundreds of miles, always separated by that strip of dry country fifteen miles wide, as you say, Bill." "I can’t account for it, Phil," replied Breakstone, "and I don’t try. The people who don’t believe in queer things are those who stay at home and sit by the fire. I’ve roamed all my life, and I’ve had experience enough to believe that anything is possible." "Look!" exclaimed Phil in delight. "Here’s our camp, just made for us!"