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.