The Quirt

by B. M. Bower

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "FRANK'S DEAD"

  "Frank come yet?" The peevish impatience of an invalid whose horizon hasnarrowed to his own personal welfare and wants was in Brit's voice. Twoweeks he had been sick, and his temper had not sweetened with the painof his broken bones and the enforced idleness. Brit was the type of manwho 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 settheir mark on her also. She seemed older, quieter in her ways; therewere 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 thanmany an older woman would have done, but what she thought of thoseburdens she did not say.

  "No, dad--but I thought I heard a wagon a little while ago. He must becoming," she said.

  "Where's Lone at?" Brit moved restlessly on the pillow and twisted hisface 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 hewent," she said dully. "He rode off just after dinner. Do you want yoursupper 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 hopehe ain't connected up with that Echo booze. If he has----"

  "Oh, no, dad! Don't borrow trouble. Frank was anxious to get home assoon as he could. He'll be coming any minute, now. I'll go listen forthe wagon."

  "No use listenin'. You couldn't hear it in that sand--not till he gitsto the gate. I don't see where Lone goes to, all the time. Where's Jimand Sorry, then?"

  "Oh, they've had their supper and gone to the bunk-house. Do you wantthem?"

  "No! What'd I want 'em fur? Not to look at, that's sure. I want to knowhow things is going on this ranch. And from all I can make out, theyain't goin' at all," Brit fretted. "What was you 'n Lone talkin' so longabout, out in the kitchen last night? Seems to me you 'n' him have gota lot to say to each other, Raine."

  "Why, nothing in particular. We were just--talking. We're all humanbeings, dad; we have to talk sometimes. There's nothing else to do."

  "Well, I caught something about the Sawtooth. I don't want you talkingto 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 youhave to say the more you'll have to be thankful fur, mebby."

  "I was wondering if Swan could have gotten word somehow to the Sawtoothand had them telephone out that you were hurt. And Lone was drawing amap of the trails and showing me how far it was from the canyon to theSawtooth ranch. And he was asking me just how it happened that the brakedidn't hold, and I said it must have been all right, because I saw youcome out from under the wagon just before you hitched up. I thought youwere 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 fromunder 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. "Weshouldn't be talking about it, dad--the doctor said we mustn't. But areyou _sure_ it wasn't you? Because I certainly saw a man crawl out fromunder the wagon and start up the hill. Then the horses acted up, and Icouldn't see him after Yellowjacket jumped off the road."

  Brit lay staring up at the ceiling, apparently unheeding herexplanation. Lorraine watched him for a minute and returned to thekitchen door, peering out and listening for Frank to come from Echo withsupplies and the mail and, more important just now, fresh fruit for herfather.

  "I think he's coming, dad," she called in to her father. "I just heardsomething down by the gate."

  She could save a few minutes, she thought, by running down to the corralwhere Frank would probably stop and unload the few sacks of grain he wasbringing, before he drove up to the house. Frank was very methodical ina fussy, purposeless way, she had observed. Twice he had driven to Echosince her father had been hurt, and each time he had stopped at thecorral on his way to the house. So she closed the screen door behindher, careful that it should not slam, and ran down the path in the heavydusk wherein crickets were rasping a strident chorus.

  "Oh! It's you, is it, Lone?" she exclaimed, when she neared the vaguefigure of a man unsaddling a horse. "You didn't see Frank cominganywhere, did you? Dad won't have his supper until Frank comes with thethings I sent for. He's late."

  Lone was lifting the saddle off the back of John Doe, which he hadbought from the Sawtooth because he was fond of the horse. He hesitatedand 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 beanybody but Frank. I'll ride out and meet him."

  He was mounted and gone before she realized that he was ready. She heardthe sharp staccato of John Doe's hoofbeats and wondered why Lone had notwaited for another word from her. It was as if she had told him thatFrank was in some terrible danger,--yet she had merely complained thathe was late. The bunk-house door opened, and Sorry came out on thedoorstep, stood there a minute and came slowly to meet her as sheretraced her steps to the house.

  "Where'd Lone go so sudden?" he asked, when she came close to him in thedusk. "That was him, wasn't it?"

  Lorraine stopped and stood looking at him without speaking. A vagueterror had seized her. She wanted to scream, and yet she could think ofnothing to scream over. It was Lone's haste, she told herselfimpatiently. Her nerves were ragged from nursing her dad and fromworrying over things she must not talk about,--that forbidden subjectwhich never left her mind for long.

  "Wasn't that him?" Sorry repeated uneasily. "What took him off again insuch a rush?"

  "Oh, I don't know! He said Frank should have been here long ago. He wentto look for him. Sorry," she cried suddenly, "what _is_ the matter withthis place? I feel as if something horrible was just ready to jump outat us all. I--I want my back against something solid, all the time, sothat nothing can creep up behind. Nothing," she added desperately,"could happen to Frank between here and the turn-off at the ford, couldit? Lone saw him turn into our trail over an hour ago, he said."

  Sorry, his fingers thrust into his overalls pockets, his thumbs hookedover the waistband, spat into the sand beside the path. "Well, hestarted off with a cracked doubletree," he said slowly. "He mightabusted 'er pullin' through that sand hollow. She was wired up prettygood, though, and there was more wire in the rig. I don't know ofanything else that'd be liable to happen, unless----"

  "Unless what?" Lorraine prompted sharply. "There's too much that isn'ttalked about, on this ranch. What else could happen?"

  Sorry edged away from her. "Well--I dunno as anything would be liable tohappen," he said uncomfortably. "'Taint likely him 'n' Brit 'd both haveaccidents--not right hand-runnin'."

  "_Accidents_?" Lorraine felt her throat squeeze together. "Sorry, youdon't mean--Sawtooth accidents?" she blurted.

  She surprised a grunt out of Sorry, who looked over his shoulder as ifhe feared eavesdroppers. "Where'd you git that idee?" he demanded. "Idunno what you mean. Ain't that yore dad callin' yuh?"

  Lorraine ignored the hint. "You _do_ know what I mean. Why did you saythey wouldn't both be likely to have accidents hand-running? And whydon't you _do_ something? Why does every one just keep still and letthings happen, and not say a word? If there's any chance of Frank havingan--an _accident_, I should think you'd be out looking after him, andnot standing there with your hands in your pockets just waiting to seeif he shows up or if he doesn't show up. You're all just like theserabbits out in the sage. You'll hide under a bush and wait until you'realmost stepped on before you so much as wiggle an ear! I'm getting goodand tired of this meek business!"

  "We-ell," Sorry drawled amiably as sh
e went past him, "playin'rabbit-under-a-bush mebby don't look purty, but it's dern good lifeinsurance."

  "A coward's policy," Lorraine taunted him over her shoulder, and went tosee what her father wanted. When he, too, wanted to know why Lone hadcome and gone again in such a hurry, Lorraine felt all the courage goout of her at once. Their very uneasiness seemed to prove that therewas more than enough cause for it. Yet, when she forced herself to stopand think, it was all about nothing. Frank had driven to Echo and hadnot returned exactly on time, though a dozen things might have detainedhim.

  She was listening at the door when Swan appeared unexpectedly beforeher, having walked over from the Thurman ranch after doing the chores.To him she observed that Frank was an hour late, and Swan, whistlingsoftly to Jack--Lorraine was surprised to hear how closely the callresembled the chirp of a bird--strode away without so much as a pretenseat excuse. Lorraine stared after him wide-eyed, wondering and yet notdaring to wonder.

  Her father called to her fretfully, and she went in to him again andtold him what Sorry had said about the cracked doubletree, and persuadedhim to let her bring his supper at once, and to have the fruit laterwhen Frank arrived. Brit did not say much, but she sensed hisuneasiness, and her own increased in proportion. Later she saw two tiny,glowing points down by the corral and knew that Sorry and Jim were downthere, 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 herunderstanding of his moody silence, and listened and waited and triedher pitiful best not to think that anything could be wrong. The subduedchuckling of the wagon in the sand outside the gate startled her withits unmistakable reality after so many false impressions that she heardit.

  "Frank's coming, dad," she announced relievedly, "and I'll go and getthe mail and the fruit."

  She ran down the path again, almost light-hearted in her relief fromthat vague terror which had held her for the past hour. From the corralSorry and Jim came walking up the path to meet the wagon which wasmaking straight for the bunk-house 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 teamstopped before the bunk-house that Lorraine knew what it was that gaveher that strange, creepy feeling of disaster. It was not Frank Johnson,but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat withoutspeaking and turned toward the back of the wagon.

  "Why, where's Frank?" she asked, going up to where Lone was dismountingin silence.

  "He's there--in the wagon. We picked him up back here aboutthree-quarters of a mile or so."

  "What's the matter? Is he drunk?" This was Sorry who came up to Swan andstood ready to lend a hand.

  "He's so drunk he falls out of wagon down the road, but he don't havewhisky smell by his face," was Swan's ambiguous reply.

  "He's not hurt, is he?" Lorraine pressed close, and felt a hand on herarm pulling her gently away.

  "He's hurt," Lone said, just behind her. "We'll take him into thebunk-house and bring him to. Run along to the house and don't worry--anddon't say anything to your dad, either. There's no need to bother himabout it. We'll look after Frank."

  Already Swan and Sorry and Jim were lifting Frank's limp form from therear of the wagon. It sagged in their arms like a dead thing, andLorraine stepped back shuddering as they passed her. A minute later shefollowed them inside, where Jim was lighting the lamp with shakingfingers. By the glow of the match Lorraine saw how sober Jim looked, howhis chin was trembling under the drooping, sandy mustache. She stared athim, hating to read the emotion in his heavy face that she had alwaysthought so utterly void of feeling.

  "It isn't--he isn't----" she began, and turned upon Swan, who was besidethe bunk, looking down at Frank's upturned face. "Swan, if it's seriousenough for a doctor, can't you send another thought message to yourmother?" 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 hisglance went sharply to Lone's downcast face. He looked again atLorraine.

  "To-night I can't talk with my mind," Swan told her bluntly. "Not alwaysI can do that. I could ask Lone how can a man be drunk so he falls offthe wagon when no whisky smell is on his breath."

  "Breath? Hell! There ain't no breath to smell," Sorry exclaimed asunexpectedly as his speeches usually were. "If he's breathin' I can'ttell it on him."

  "He's got to be breathing!" Lone declared with a suppressed fiercenessthat made them all look at him. "I found a half bottle of whisky in hispocket--but Swan's right. There wasn't a smell of it on his breath--Itell you now, boys, that he was lying in the sand between twosagebushes, on his face. And there is where he got the blow--_behind hisear_. It's one of them accidents that you've got to figure out foryourself."

  "Oh, do something!" Lorraine cried distractedly. "Never mind now how ithappened, 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 heswallowed 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 tellher we need the doctor?"

  Swan drew back. "I can't," he said shortly. "Better you send to Echo fortelegraph. And if you have medicine, it should be on his head quick."

  Lone was standing with his fingers pressed on Frank's wrist. He lookedup, hesitated, drew out his knife and opened the small blade. He movedso that his back was to Lorraine, and still holding the wrist he made asmall, clean cut in the flesh. The three others stooped, stared withtightened lips at the bloodless incision, straightened and looked at oneanother dumbly.

  "I'd like to lie to you," Lone told Lorraine, speaking over hisshoulder. "But I won't. You're too game and too square. Go and stay withyour dad, but don't let him know--get him to sleep. We don't need thatmedicine, nor a doctor either. Frank's dead. I reckon he was dead whenhe hit the ground."