He looked again at
Lorraine.
"To-night I can't talk with my mind," Swan told her bluntly. "Not always
I can do that. I could ask Lone how can a man be drunk so he falls off
the wagon when no whisky smell is on his breath."
"Breath? Hell! There ain't no breath to smell," Sorry exclaimed as
unexpectedly as his speeches usually were. "If he's breathin' I can't
tell it on him."
"He's got to be breathing!" Lone declared with a suppressed fierceness
that made them all look at him. "I found a half bottle of whisky in his
pocket--but Swan's right. There wasn't a smell of it on his breath--I
tell you now, boys, that he was lying in the sand between two
sagebushes, on his face. And there is where he got the blow--_behind his
ear_. It's one of them accidents that you've got to figure out for
yourself."
"Oh, do something!" Lorraine cried distractedly. "Never mind now how it
happened, or whether he was drunk or not--bring him to his senses first,
and let him explain. If there's whisky, wouldn't that help if he
swallowed some now? And there's medicine for dad's bruises in the house.
I'll get it.
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