Part 14 (1/2)

”Oh! It's you, is it, Lone?” she exclaimed, when she neared the vague figure of a man unsaddling a horse. ”You didn't see Frank coming anywhere, did you? Dad won't have his supper until Frank comes with the things I sent for. He's late.”

Lone was lifting the saddle off the back of John Doe, which he had bought from the Sawtooth because he was fond of the horse. He hesitated and replaced the saddle, pulling the blanket straight under it.

”I saw him coming an hour ago,” he said. ”I was back up on the ridge, and I saw a team turn into the Quirt trail from the ford. It couldn't be anybody but Frank. I'll ride out and meet him.”

He was mounted and gone before she realised that he was ready. She heard the sharp staccato of John Doe's hoofbeats and wondered why Lone had not waited for another word from her. It was as if she had told him that Frank was in some terrible danger,--yet she had merely complained that he was late. The bunk-house door opened, and Sorry came out on the doorstep, stood there a minute and came slowly to meet her as she retraced her steps to the house.

”Where'd Lone go so sudden?” he asked, when she came close to him in the dusk. ”That was him, wasn't it?”

Lorraine stopped and stood looking at him without speaking. A vague terror had seized her. She wanted to scream, and yet she could think of nothing to scream over. It was Lone's haste, she told herself impatiently. Her nerves were ragged from nursing her dad and from worrying over things she must not talk about,--that forbidden subject which never left her mind for long.

”Wasn't that him?” Sorry repeated uneasily. ”What took him off again in such a rush?”

”Oh, I don't know! He said Frank should have been here long ago. He went to look for him. Sorry,” she cried suddenly, ”what _is_ the matter with this place? I feel as if something horrible was just ready to jump out at us all. I--I want my back against something solid, all the time, so that nothing can creep up behind. Nothing,” she added desperately, ”could happen to Frank between here and the turn-off at the ford, could it? Lone saw him turn into our trail over an hour ago, he said.”

Sorry, his fingers thrust into his overalls pockets, his thumbs hooked over the waistband, spat into the sand beside the path. ”Well, he started off with a cracked doubletree,” he said slowly. ”He mighta busted 'er pullin' through that sand hollow. She was wired up pretty good, though, and there was more wire in the rig. I don't know of anything else that'd be liable to happen, unless----”

”Unless what?” Lorraine prompted sharply. ”There's too much that isn't talked about, on this ranch. What else could happen?”

Sorry edged away from her. ”Well--I dunno as anything would be liable to happen,” he said uncomfortably. ”'Tain't likely him 'n' Brit'd both have accidents--not right hand-runnin'.”

”_Accidents?_” Lorraine felt her throat squeeze together. ”Sorry, you don't mean--Sawtooth accidents?” she blurted.

She surprised a grunt out of Sorry, who looked over his shoulder as if he feared eavesdroppers. ”Where'd you git that idee?” he demanded. ”I dunno what you mean. Ain't that yore dad callin' yuh?”

Lorraine ignored the hint. ”You _do_ know what I mean. Why did you say they wouldn't both be likely to have accidents hand-running? And why don't you _do_ something? Why does everyone just keep still and let things happen, and not say a word? If there's any chance of Frank having an--an _accident_, I should think you'd be out looking after him, and not standing there with your hands in your pockets just waiting to see if he shows up or if he doesn't show up. You're all just like these rabbits out in the sage. You'll hide under a bush and wait until you're almost stepped on before you so much as wiggle an ear! I'm getting good and tired of this meek business!”

”We-ell,” Sorry drawled amiably as she went past him, ”playin'

rabbit-under-a-bush mebby don't look purty, but it's dern good life insurance.”

”A coward's policy,” Lorraine taunted him over her shoulder, and went to see what her father wanted. When he, too, wanted to know why Lone had come and gone again in such a hurry, Lorraine felt all the courage go out of her at once. Their very uneasiness seemed to prove that there was more than enough cause for it. Yet, when she forced herself to stop and think, it was all about nothing. Frank had driven to Echo and had not returned exactly on time, though a dozen things might have detained him.

She was listening at the door when Swan appeared unexpectedly before her, having walked over from the Thurman ranch after doing the ch.o.r.es.

To him she observed that Frank was an hour late, and Swan, whistling softly to Jack--Lorraine was surprised to hear how closely the call resembled the chirp of a bird--strode away without so much as a pretence at excuse. Lorraine stared after him wide-eyed, wondering and yet not daring to wonder.

Her father called to her fretfully, and she went in to him again and told him what Sorry had said about the cracked doubletree, and persuaded him to let her bring his supper at once, and to have the fruit later when Frank arrived. Brit did not say much, but she sensed his uneasiness, and her own increased in proportion. Later she saw two tiny, glowing points down by the corral and knew that Sorry and Jim were down there, waiting and listening, ready to do whatever was needed of them; although what that would be she could not even conjecture.

She made her father comfortable, chattered aimlessly to combat her understanding of his moody silence, and listened and waited and tried her pitiful best not to think that anything could be wrong. The subdued chuckling of the wagon in the sand outside the gate startled her with its unmistakable reality after so many false impressions that she heard it.

”Frank's coming, dad,” she announced relievedly, ”and I'll go and get the mail and the fruit.”

She ran down the path again, almost light-hearted in her relief from that vague terror which had held her for the past hour. From the corral Sorry and Jim came walking up the path to meet the wagon which was making straight for the bunkhouse instead of going first to the stable. One man rode on the seat, driving the team which walked slowly, oddly, reminding Lorraine of a funeral procession. Beside the wagon rode Lone, his head drooped a little in the starlight. It was not until the team stopped before the bunk-house that Lorraine knew what it was that gave her that strange, creepy feeling of disaster. It was not Frank Johnson, but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat without speaking and turned toward the back of the wagon.

”Why, where's Frank?” she asked, going up to where Lone was dismounting in silence.

”He's there--in the wagon. We picked him up back here about three-quarters of a mile or so.”

”What's the matter? Is he drunk?” This was Sorry who came up to Swan and stood ready to lend a hand.