Swan had
his rifle, and Lone's six-shooter showed now and then under his coat
when the wind flipped back a corner. Neither had spoken since they left
the ranch, where Jim was wandering dismally here and there, trying to do
the chores when his heart was heavy with a sense of personal loss and
grim foreboding. None save Brit had slept during the night--and Brit had
slept only because Lorraine had prudently given him a full dose of the
sedative left by the doctor for that very purpose. Sorry had gone to
Echo to send a telegram to the coroner, and he was likely to return now
at any time. Wherefore Swan and Lone were going to look over the ground
before others had trampled out what evidence there might be in the
shape of footprints.
They reached the spot where the team had stopped of its own accord in
crossing a little, green meadow, and had gone to feeding. Lone pulled up
and half turned in the saddle, looking at Swan questioningly.
"Is that dog of yours any good at trailing?" he asked abruptly. "I've
got a theory that somebody was in that wagon with Frank, and drove on a
ways before he jumped out.
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