All right, Lone, you walk over to that black rock and set down.

If you think you frame something, maybe, I pack a dead man to the Quirt again." "You can, for all me," Lone replied quietly.

"I'd about as soon go that way as the way I am now." Swan watched him until he was seated on the rock as directed, his manacled hands resting on his knees, his face turned toward the horses.
Then Swan took the blue handkerchief from his pocket, called Jack to him and muttered something in Swedish while the dog sniffed at the cloth.
"Find him, Yack," said Swan, standing straight again.
Jack went sniffing obediently in wide circles, crossing unconcernedly Lone's footprints while he trotted back and forth.

He hesitated once on the trail of the horse he had followed, stopped and looked at Swan inquiringly, and whined.

Swan whistled the dog to him with a peculiar, birdlike note and called to Lone.
"You come back, Lone, and let Yack take a damn good smell of you.