in his mind, the thought became a picture that he saw waking and
sleeping. He had stopped at the island many times alone, and in all
seasons; but at this special moment of the year he liked it best. Often
he had added several needless miles to his journey that he might finish
the day at this point, might catch the trout for his supper beside a
certain rock upon its edge, and fall asleep hearing the stream on either
side of him.

Always for him the first signs that he had gained the true world of the
mountains began at the island. The first pine trees stood upon it; the
first white columbine grew in their shade; and it seemed to him that he
always met here the first of the true mountain air--the coolness and the
new fragrance. Below, there were only the cottonwoods, and the knolls
and steep foot-hills with their sage-brush, and the great warm air of
the plains; here at this altitude came the definite change. Out of the
lower country and its air he would urge his horse upward, talking to him
aloud, and promising fine pasture in a little while.

Then, when at length he had ridden abreast of the island pines, he would
ford to the sheltered circle of his camp-ground, throw off the saddle
and blanket from the horse's hot, wet back, throw his own clothes off,
and, shouting, spring upon the horse bare, and with a rope for bridle,
cross with him to the promised pasture. Here there was a pause in the
mountain steepness, a level space of open, green with thick grass.
Riding his horse to this, he would leap off him, and with the flat of
his hand give him a blow that cracked sharp in the stillness and sent
the horse galloping and gambolling to his night's freedom. And while
the animal rolled in the grass, often his master would roll also, and
stretch, and take the grass in his two hands, and so draw his body
along, limbering his muscles after a long ride. Then he would slide
into the stream below his fishing place, where it was deep enough for
swimming, and cross back to his island, and dressing again, fit his rod
together and begin his casting. After the darkness had set in, there
would follow the lying drowsily with his head upon his saddle, the
camp-fire sinking as he watched it, and sleep approaching to the murmur
of the water on either side of him.

So many visits to this island had he made, and counted so many hours of
revery spent in its haunting sweetness, that the spot had come to seem
his own. It belonged to no man, fo