"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.
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