From the corral
Sorry and Jim came walking up the path to meet the wagon which was
making straight for the bunk-house 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.
"He's so drunk he falls out of wagon down the road, but he don't have
whisky smell by his face," was Swan's ambiguous reply.
"He's not hurt, is he?" Lorraine pressed close, and felt a hand on her
arm pulling her gently away.
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