And Swan! Won't you _please_ talk to your mother and tell
her we need the doctor?"
Swan drew back. "I can't," he said shortly. "Better you send to Echo for
telegraph. And if you have medicine, it should be on his head quick."
Lone was standing with his fingers pressed on Frank's wrist. He looked
up, hesitated, drew out his knife and opened the small blade. He moved
so that his back was to Lorraine, and still holding the wrist he made a
small, clean cut in the flesh. The three others stooped, stared with
tightened lips at the bloodless incision, straightened and looked at one
another dumbly.
"I'd like to lie to you," Lone told Lorraine, speaking over his
shoulder. "But I won't. You're too game and too square. Go and stay with
your dad, but don't let him know--get him to sleep. We don't need that
medicine, nor a doctor either. Frank's dead. I reckon he was dead when
he hit the ground."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SWAN TRAILS A COYOTE
At daybreak Swan was striding toward the place where Frank Johnson had
been found. Lone, his face moody, his eyes clouded with thought, rode
beside him, while Jack trotted loose-jointedly at Swan's heels.
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