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Bower, B. M., 1871-1940

"The Quirt"

It was not her father's voice; she knew that beyond all doubt.
It was no voice that she had ever heard before. It had a clear resonance
that once heard would not have been easily forgotten. When she saw them
finally, her father was being propped up in a half-sitting position, and
the strange man was holding something to his lips.
"Just a little water. I carry me a bottle of water always in my pocket,"
said Swan, glancing up at her when she had reached them. "It sometimes
makes a man's head think better when he has been hurt, if he can drink a
little water or something."
Brit swallowed and turned his face away from the tilted bottle. "I
jumped--but I didn't jump quick enough," he muttered thickly. "The chain
pulled loose. Where's the horses, Raine?"
"They're all right. Caroline's standing over there. Are you hurt much,
dad?" It was a futile question, because Brit was already going off into
unconsciousness.
"He's hurt pretty bad," Swan declared honestly, looking up at her with
his eyes grown serious. "I was across the walley and I saw him coming
down the road like rolling rocks down a hill.


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