folders, might have the reward of pitching the tents of his imagination
at the gateway of the clouds.

Early on a certain afternoon he would have noted to the eastward a speck
far out on a vast basin of sand which was enclosed by a rim of tumbling
mountains. Continued observation at long range would have shown the speck
to be moving almost imperceptibly, with what seemed the impertinence of
infinitesimal life in that dead world; and, eventually, it would have
taken the form of a man astride a pony.

The man was young, fantastically young if you were to judge by his garb,
a flamboyant expression of the romantic cowboy style which might have
served as a sensational exhibit in a shop-window. In place of the
conventional blue wool shirt was one of dark blue silk. The
_chaparejos_, or "chaps," were of the softest leather, with the fringe
at the seams generously long; and the silver spurs at the boot-heels
were chased in antique pattern and ridiculously large. Instead of the
conventional handkerchief at the neck was a dark red string tie; while
the straight-brimmed cowpuncher hat, out of keeping with the general
effect of newness and laundered freshness, had that tint which only
exposure to many dewfalls and many blazing mid-days will produce in
light-colored felt.

There was vagrancy in the smile of his singularly sensitive mouth and
vagrancy in the relaxed way that he rode. From the fondness with which
his gaze swept the naked peaks they might have been cities _en fête_
calling him to their festivities. If so, he was in no haste to let
realization overtake anticipation. His reins hung loose. He hummed
snatches of Spanish, French, and English songs. Their cosmopolitan
freedom of variety was as out of keeping with the scene as their lilt,