"SHE'S A GOOD GIRL WHEN SHE AIN'T CRAZY" When the sun has been up just long enough to take the before-dawn chill from the air without having swallowed all the diamonds that spangle bush and twig and grass-blade after a night's soaking rain, it is good to ride over the hills of Idaho and feel oneself a king,--and never mind the crown and the scepter.

Lone Morgan, riding early to the Sawtooth to see the foreman about getting a man for a few days to help replace a bridge carried fifty yards downstream by a local cloudburst, would not have changed places with a millionaire.

The horse he rode was the horse he loved, the horse he talked to like a pal when they were by themselves.

The ridge gave him a wide outlook to the four corners of the earth.

Far to the north the Sawtooth range showed blue, the nearer mountains pansy purple where the pine trees stood, the foothills shaded delicately where canyons swept down to the gray plain.