see again she glimpsed him
running, while something bounced along on the ground beside him.

She saw the other man, with a dry branch in his hand, dragging it
across the road where it ran between the two rocks. Then Lorraine
Hunter, hardened to the sight of crimes committed for picture values
only, realised sickeningly that she had just looked upon a real
murder,--the cold-blooded killing of a man. She felt very sick. Queer
little red sparks squirmed and danced before her eyes. She crumpled
down quietly behind the jumper bush and did not know when the rain
came, though it drenched her in the first two or three minutes of
downpour.

CHAPTER IV

"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 sceptre. 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.
To the south was the sagebrush, a soft, gray-green carpet under the
sun. The sky was blue, the clouds were handfuls of clean cotton
floating lazily. Of the night's storm remained no trace save slippery
mud when his horse struck a patch of clay, which was not often, and the
packed sand still wet and soggy from the beating rain.

Rock City showed black and inhospitable even in the sunlight. The rock
walls rose sheer, the roofs slanted rakishly, the signs scratched on
the rock by facetious riders were pointless and inane. Lone picked his
way through the crooked defile that was marked MAIN STREET on the
corner of the first huge boulder and came abruptly into the road. Here
he turned north and shook his horse into a trot.

A hundred yards or so down the slope beyond Rock City he pulled up
short with a "What the hell!" that did not sound pr