Swan was talking earnestly, the mumble of his voice reaching Lorraine
without the enunciation of any particular word to give a clue to what he
was saying. But it struck her that his voice did not sound quite
natural; not so Swedish, not so careful.
Frank came tiptoeing out of the room where Brit lay bandaged and
unconscious and stood close to Lorraine, looking down at her solemnly.
"How 'n 'ell did he git here--the doctor?" he demanded, making a great
effort to hold his voice down to a whisper, and forgetting now and then.
"How'd _he_ know Brit rolled off'n the grade? Us here, _we_ never knowed
it, and I was tryin' to send him back when you came. He said somebody
telephoned there was a man hurt in a runaway. There ain't a telephone
closer'n the Sawtooth, and that there's a good twenty mile and more from
where Brit was hurt. It's damn funny."
"Yes, it is," Lorraine admitted uncomfortably. "I don't know any more
than you do about it."
"Well, how'n 'ell did it happen? Brit, he oughta know enough to
rough-lock down that hill. An' that team ain't a runaway team. _I_ never
had no trouble with 'em--they're good at holdin' a load.
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