"FRANK'S DEAD"
"Frank come yet?" The peevish impatience of an invalid whose horizon
has narrowed to his own personal welfare and wants was in Brit's voice.
Two weeks he had been sick, and his temper had not sweetened with the
pain of his broken bones and the enforced idleness. Brit was the type
of man who is never quiet unless he is asleep or too ill to get out of
bed.
Lorraine came to the doorway and looked in at him. Two weeks had set
their mark on her also. She seemed older, quieter in her ways; there
were shadows in her eyes and a new seriousness in the set of her mouth.
She had had her burdens, and she had borne them with more patience than
many an older woman would have done, but what she thought of those
burdens she did not say.
"No, dad--but I thought I heard a wagon a little while ago. He must be
coming," she said.
"Where's Lone at?" Brit moved restlessly on the pillow and twisted his
face at the pain.
"Lone isn't back, either."
"He ain't? Where'd he go?"
Lorraine came to the bedside and, lifting Brit's head carefully,
arranged the pillow as she knew he liked it. "I don't know where he
went," she said dully. "He rode off just after dinner. Do you want
your supper now? Or would you rather wait until Frank brings the
fruit?"
"I'd ruther wait--if Frank don't take all night," Brit grumbled. "I
hope he ain't connected up with that Echo booze. If he has----"
"Oh, no, dad! Don't borrow trouble. Frank was anxious to get home as
soon as he could. He'll be coming any minute, now. I'll go listen for
the wagon."
"No use listenin'. You couldn't hear it in that sand--not till he gits
to the gate. I don't see where Lone goes to, all the time. Where's
Jim and Sorry, then?"
"Oh, they've had their supper and gone to the bunk-house. Do you want
them?"
"No! What'd I want 'em fur? Not to look at, that's sure. I want to
know how things is going on this ranch. And from all I can make out,
they ain't goin' at all," Brit fretted. "What was you 'n' Lone talkin'
so long about, out in the kitchen last night? Seems to me you 'n' him
have got a lot to say to each other, Raine."
"Why, nothing in particular. We were just--talking. We're all human
beings, dad; we have to talk sometimes. There's nothing else to do."
"Well, I caught something about the Sawtooth. I don't want you talking
to Lone or anybody else about that outfit, Raine. I told yuh so once.
He's all right--I ain't saying anything against Lone--but the less you
have to say the more you'll have to be thankful fur, mebby."
"I was wondering if Swan could have gotten word somehow to the Sawtooth
and had them telephone out that you were hurt. And Lone was drawing a
map of the trails and showing me how far it was from the canyon to the
Sawtooth ranch. And he was asking me just how it happened that the
brake didn't hold, and I said it must have been all right, because I
saw you come out from under the wagon just before you hitched up. I
thought you were fixing the chain on them."
"Huh?" Brit lifted his head off the pillow and let it drop back again,
because of the pain in his shoulder. "You never seen me crawl out from
under no wagon. I come straight down the hill to the team."
"Well, I saw some one. He went up into the brush. I thought it was
you." Lorraine turned in the doorway and stood looking at him
perplexedly. "We shouldn't be talking about it, dad--the doctor said
we mustn't. But are you _sure_ it wasn't you? Because I certainly saw
a man crawl out from under the wagon and start up the hill. Then the
horses acted up, and I couldn't see him after Yellowjacket jumped off
the road."
Brit lay staring up at the ceiling, apparently unheeding her
explanation. Lorraine watched him for a minute and returned to the
kitchen door, peering out and listening for Frank to come from Echo
with supplies and the mail and, more important just now, fresh fruit
for her father.
"I think he's coming, dad," she called in to her father. "I just heard
something down by the gate."
She could save a few minutes, she thought, by running down to the
corral where Frank would probably stop and unload the few sacks of
grain he was bringing, before he drove up to the house. Frank was very
methodical in a fussy, purposeless way, she had observed. Twice he had
driven to Echo since her father had been hurt, and each time he had
stopped at the corral on his way to the house. So she closed the
screen door behind her, careful that it should not slam, and ran down
the path in the heavy dusk wherein crickets were rasping a strident
chorus.
"Oh! It's you, is it, Lone?" she exclaimed, when she neared the vague
figure of a man unsaddling a horse. "You didn't see Frank coming
anywhere, did you? Dad won't have his supper until Frank comes with
the things I sent for. He's late."
Lone was lifting the saddle off the back of John Doe, which he had
bought from the Sawtooth because he was fond of the horse. He
hesitated and replaced the saddle, pulling the blanket straight under
it.
"I saw him coming an hour ago," he said. "I was back up on the ridge,
and I saw a team turn into the Quirt trail from the ford. It couldn't
be anybody but Frank. I'll ride out and meet him."
He was mounted and gone before she realised that he was ready. She
heard the sharp staccato of John Doe's hoofbeats and wondered why Lone
had not waited for another word from her. It was as if she had told
him that Frank was in some terrible danger,--yet she had merely
complained that he was late. The bunk-house door opened, and Sorry
came out on the doorstep, stood there a minute and came slowly to meet
her as she retraced her steps to the house.
"Where'd Lone go so sudden?" he asked, when she came close to him in
the dusk. "That was him, wasn't it?"
Lorraine stopped and stood looking at him without speaking. A vague
terror had seized her. She wanted to scream, and yet she could think
of nothing to scream over. It was Lone's haste, she told herself
impatiently. Her nerves were ragged from nursing her dad and from
worrying over things she must not talk about,--that forbidden subject
which never left her mind for long.
"Wasn't that him?" Sorry repeated uneasily. "What took him off again
in such a rush?"
"Oh, I don't know! He said Frank should have been here long ago. He
went to look for him. Sorry," she cried suddenly, "what _is_ the
matter with this place? I feel as if something horrible was just ready
to jump out at us all. I--I want my back against something solid, all
the time, so that nothing can creep up behind. Nothing," she added
desperately, "could happen to Frank between here and the turn-off at
the ford, could it? Lone saw him turn into our trail over an hour ago,
he said."
Sorry, his fingers thrust into his overalls pockets, his thumbs hooked
over the waistband, spat into the sand beside the path. "Well, he
started off with a cracked doubletree," he said slowly. "He mighta
busted 'er pullin' through that sand hollow. She was wired up pretty
good, though, and there was more wire in the rig. I don't know of
anything else that'd be liable to happen, unless----"
"Unless what?" Lorraine prompted sharply. "There's too much that isn't
talked about, on this ranch. What else could happen?"
Sorry edged away from her. "Well--I dunno as anything would be liable
to happen," he said uncomfortably. "'Tain't likely him 'n' Brit'd both
have accidents--not right hand-runnin'."
"_Accidents?_" Lorraine felt her throat squeeze together. "Sorry, you
don't mean--Sawtooth accidents?" she blurted.
She surprised a grunt out of Sorry, who looked over his shoulder as if
he feared eavesdroppers. "Where'd you git that idee?" he demanded. "I
dunno what you mean. Ain't that yore dad callin' yuh?"
Lorraine ignored the hint. "You _do_ know what I mean. Why did you
say they wouldn't both be likely to have accidents hand-running? And
why don't you _do_ something? Why does everyone just keep still and
let things happen, and not say a word? If there's any chance of Frank
having an--an _accident_, I should think you'd be out looking after
him, and not standing there with your hands in your pockets just
waiting to see if he shows up or if he doesn't show up. You're all
just like these rabbits out in the sage. You'll hide under a bush and
wait until you're almost stepped on before you so much as wiggle an
ear! I'm getting good and tired of this meek business!"
"We-ell," Sorry drawled amiably as she went past him, "playin'
rabbit-under-a-bush mebby don't look purty, but it's dern good life
insurance."
"A coward's policy," Lorraine taunted him over her shoulder, and went
to see what her father wanted. When he, too, wanted to know why Lone
had come and gone again in such a hurry, Lorraine felt all the courage
go out of her at once. Their very uneasiness seemed to prove that
there was more than enough cause for it. Yet, when she forced herself
to stop and think, it was all about nothing. Frank had driven to Echo
and had not returned exactly on time, though a dozen things might have
detained him.
She was listening at the door when Swan appeared unexpectedly before
her, having walked over from the Thurman ranch after doing the chores.
To him she observed that Frank was an hour late, and Swan, whistling
softly to Jack--Lorraine was surprised to hear how closely the call
resembled the chirp of a bird--strode away without so much as a
pretence at excuse. Lorraine stared after him wide-eyed, wondering and
yet not daring to wonder.
Her father called to her fretfully, and she went in to him again and
told him what Sorry had said about the cracked doubletree, and
persuaded him to let her bring his supper at once, and to have the
fruit later when Frank arrived. Brit did not say much, but she sensed
his uneasiness, and her own increased in proportion. Later she saw two
tiny, glowing points down by the corral and knew that Sorry and Jim
were down there, waiting and listening, ready to do whatever was needed
of them; although what that would be she could not even conjecture.
She made her father comfortable, chattered aimlessly to combat her
understanding of his moody silence, and listened and waited and tried
her pitiful best not to think that anything could be wrong. The
subdued chuckling of the wagon in the sand outside the gate startled
her with its unmistakable reality after so many false impressions that
she heard it.
"Frank's coming, dad," she announced relievedly, "and I'll go and get
the mail and the fruit."
She ran down the path again, almost light-hearted in her relief from
that vague terror which had held her for the past hour. From the
corral Sorry and Jim came walking up the path to meet the wagon which
was making straight for the bunkhouse 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.
"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 moustache. 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. 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
sagebrushes, 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. 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."