Swan's ambiguous reply.

"He's not hurt, is he?" Lorraine pressed close, and felt a hand on her
arm pulling her gently away.

"He's hurt," Lone said, just behind her. "We'll take him into the
bunk-house and bring him to. Run along to the house and don't worry--and
don't say anything to your dad, either. There's no need to bother him
about it. We'll look after Frank."

Already Swan and Sorry and Jim were lifting Frank's limp form from the
rear of the wagon. It sagged in their arms like a dead thing, and
Lorraine stepped back shuddering as they passed her. A minute later she
followed them inside, where Jim was lighting the lamp with shaking
fingers. By the glow of the match Lorraine saw how sober Jim looked, how
his chin was trembling under the drooping, sandy mustache. She stared at
him, hating to read the emotion in his heavy face that she had always
thought so utterly void of feeling.

"It isn't--he isn't----" she began, and turned upon Swan, who was beside
the bunk, looking down at Frank's upturned face. "Swan, if it's serious
enough for a doctor, can't you send another thought message to your
mother?" she asked. "He looks--oh, Lone! He isn't _dead_, is he?"

Swan turned his head and stared down at her, and from her face his
glance went sharply to Lone's downcast face. He looked again at
Lorraine.

"To-night I can't talk with my mind," Swan told her bluntly. "Not always
I can do that. I could ask Lone how can a man be drunk so he falls off
the wagon when no whisky smell is on his breath."

"Breath? Hell! There ain't no breath to smell," Sorry exclaimed as
unexpectedly as his speeches usually were. "If he's breathin' I can't
tell it on him."

"He's got to be breathing!" Lone declared with a suppressed fierceness
that made them all look at him. "I found a half bottle of whisky in his
pocket--but Swan's right. There wasn't a smell of it on his breath--I
tell you now, boys, that he was lying in the sand between two
sagebushes, on his face. And there is where he got the blow--_behind his
ear_. It's one of them accidents that you've got to figure out for
yourself."

"Oh, do something!" Lorraine cried distractedly. "Never mind now how it
happened, or whether he was drunk or not--bring him to his senses first,
and let him explain. If there's whisky, wouldn't that help if he
swallowed some now? And there's medicine for dad's bruises in the house.
I'll get it. And Swan! Won't you _please_ talk to your mother and tell