Trout were feeding on gnats and playing on the surface, and some big ones left wakes behind them as they sped to deeper water.

Wade had an appreciative eye for all this beauty, his gaze lingering longest upon the flowers.
"Wild woods is the place for me," he soliloquized, as the cool wind fanned his cheeks and the sweet tang of evergreen tingled his nostrils.
"But sure I'm most haunted in these lonely, silent places." Bent Wade had the look of a haunted man.

Perhaps the consciousness he confessed was part of his secret.
Twilight had come when again he rode out into the open.

Trapper's Lake lay before him, a beautiful sheet of water, mirroring the black slopes and the fringed spruces and the flat peaks.

Over all its gray, twilight-softened surface showed little swirls and boils and splashes where the myriads of trout were rising.