RESURRECTION
He slipped through the warehouse and up the hill to the road. It was
intensely dark, but he knew the way this time. He hurried, full of the
driving energy of revenge. Then for the first time the horror came
upon him of the difficulty of going to the Power house with the story
of their son’s death. Jackson had been the favorite of his sister and
of his father. It would look as if he had led the boy into an ambush.
But it could not be helped; the story would have to be told. Within an
hour they would have a posse out.
It was late for that country district, but he saw unexpected lights in
the houses he passed. From Ferrell’s store a couple of riders dashed
out and tore past him, shouting something back in the darkness. A
buggy drove out from a farm lane and turned in the same direction
rapidly, not hearing Lockwood’s shout for a lift.
He pounded along the road, short of breath, dreading more and more to
reach the end, but at last came in sight of the Power gateway.
He had expected to find the house dark, but it was all ablaze with
lights. In the front yard the lights of a big motor car glared, and he
saw several horses tied to trees before the house. Dim figures were
moving on the gallery before the lighted door and windows.
Amazed, but too breathless to think, he ran through the yard and up
the steps. There were rifles leaning on the gallery rail. The hall
seemed to be full of men; he guessed instantly that his news had
somehow arrived before him. Nearly all were men he knew. There was a
sudden dead silence, and every face turned toward him with a look of
startled incredulity, as if his appearance were something
supernatural.
It checked the words on Lockwood’s lips. Puzzled, he took one step
into the hall, and almost collided with Tom Power, hatted and dressed
for riding, with a great revolver slung at his belt. For one second
Tom also stared open-mouthed; then he clutched Lockwood’s throat with
a leap, crushing him back against the wall.
“You d—d murderer! Where’s Jackson?” he snarled between his teeth.
It broke the spell. The crowd surged forward, with a growl like an
awakened beast. Lockwood wrenched away Tom’s grip on his neck.
“What’s the matter?” he began chokingly. “I came to tell you—Jackson’s
shot. I came to raise a posse.”
“The nerve he had to come back here!” somebody said at the edge of the
crowd.
“Saves us a heap of trouble,” was the reply.
“We’ve got the posse,” said Tom grimly. “You needn’t bother about no
posse. All you need’s a rope.”
“Here’s the rope,” some one called out. Old Henry Power pushed his way
in, also belted with a gun. His eyes were bloodshot; he looked
wrinkled and aged, but as deadly inflexible as fate.
“Do it all in order, boys,” he said. “He’ll git what’s due him. Let
him say what he wants ter.”
Lockwood cast his eye desperately over the mob. He wondered where
Louise was—doubtless shut in her room. He looked for some members of
the turpentine camp. They were all his friends, but he saw none of
them.
“You’re making some awful mistake!” he cried. “I didn’t shoot Jackson.
I saw it all. It was Hanna—Hanna and Blue Bob’s gang. Give me a
chance, won’t you? Phone over for Charley Craig.”
“We don’t need none of the turpentine men in this,” said Tom. “Look
for his gun, some of you-all.”
“He ain’t got no gun,” a man reported after exploring. Lockwood’s
automatic, in fact, still lay by the river shore.
“Must have throwed it away. Never mind. Git him outer this.”
“Plenty of good trees right in the yard,” a voice called.
“No—no, not here. We’ll take him down the road a ways,” said Tom
hastily.
He was hustled out of the gallery. Lockwood had never before met the
hostility of a mob. It is something that cows and crushes the spirit.
He lost his head; he tried stumblingly to tell his story as they were
shoving him down the steps. Nobody paid him any attention. His words
sounded weak even to himself. He saw a man carrying a heap of loose
rope over his arm.
At that moment Hanna came hastily out from the rear hall, wearing hat
and leggings, and carrying a rifle. At sight of Lockwood he stopped
dead, a sort of wild amazement on his face, changing to a fire of
victory and vindictiveness. He crowded forward close to the prisoner.
“Where’d you get him?” he exclaimed. “He didn’t come here himself?” He
thrust his face close up to Lockwood’s. “Thought you played a sharp
trick!” he said in a piercing undertone. “But I knew I’d beat you!
I’ve got you on the end of a rope now—you fool!”
Lockwood faced those malevolent eyes, and their fierce exultation
whipped his scattered wits together.
“Listen, all of you men!” he shouted. “This is the man that killed
Jackson—this Hanna here. He was ambushed by the river; he fired four
shots. I saw him as plain as I do now. What lie has he told you?”
“Tell him. Tell him, Hanna. Let him hear what’s agin’ him,” said two
or three voices.
“Well, I was ambushed there sure enough,” said Hanna easily. “I’d seen
Jackson starting down the river road in the car with this fellow, and
I guessed he was up to no good. So I got a horse and rode after them.
You-all saw me go,” nodding to Tom and his father. “I wasn’t long
behind ’em, but I wasn’t quick enough. Just as I came to the landing
this fellow shot Jackson twice in the back, and slung his body
straight into the river.
“I yelled and emptied my gun at him. Looks like I touched him, too,
for he slipped or jumped into the river himself. I couldn’t see
anything of either of ’em. It was pitch dark. I got on my horse and
rode back here quick as I could to get some men out. I left the car. I
reckon it’s there yet. I ought to have brought it, but I was badly
rattled. I guess that’s proof enough to hang him, ain’t it?”
“Proof?” echoed Lockwood, with the energy of final desperation. “It’s
his word against mine. That man would do anything—he’d swear to
anything, to put me out of the way. I know too much about him—I’ve
been after him too long—I’ve got evidence to send him to prison for
the rest of his life, and he knows it.
“Do you know who this man is, Henry Power, and you, Tom? He’s a
professional criminal, a crook, a confidence man. I’ve got his record.
He’s been bleeding you ever since he’s been here, charging you double
for everything you bought, planning to get your last cent with his
fake oil stock. I found out all about that oil stock. Telephone to
Mobile before you doubt me. It isn’t the first time he’s played this
game. It’s his trade.”
He turned fiercely upon Hanna, who was listening with a fixed half
smile.
“You don’t know me, do you? But do you remember Melbourne, Virginia,
and the real-estate business that you wrecked there? Do you remember
the papers you forged and the lies you swore to get me jailed while
you got away with everything I had? I’ve been after you ever since. I
followed you all over this continent. I knew you the minute I saw you
here. I ought to have shot you that minute. Do you know me now, Ed
McGibbon?”
The smile had died from Hanna’s face. He stepped slightly back, his
jaw half dropping, staring as if a ghost had risen before his eyes.
Every man’s gaze was turned on him now. He made an obvious effort to
recover himself, moistening his lips.
“He did give me a start,” he said. “Yes, I know him, but I thought he
was dead years ago. He was once in partnership with me up North, but
he turned out a crook and a grafter, and he got into jail, as he says.
I did all I could to save him. Looks like he’s been going from bad to
worse ever since.”
“You liar!” Lockwood vociferated. “Look at him, men. Look at his face!
He daren’t front me. Get the whole story—both sides—or put me up
against him right now with a gun—with a knife——”
“This is foolishness!” Hanna broke in. “I ain’t going to fight a
murderer. I saw him shoot young Jackson. You’re not going to let him
get away with that, are you? Where’ll we hang him up?”
Nobody replied. The crowd gazed curiously at both men. The furious
vehemence of Lockwood’s attack had made its impression. Even Tom hung
silent, fumbling with his pistol butt. In the hush sounded the beating
of a motor car traveling up the road.
“Who’s that comin’?” some one spoke.
The car crawled laboriously, it seemed, through deep sand, and turned
in Power’s gate. It wabbled drunkenly as it came up the drive. The
glare of its lamps flashed across the group of men as it curved,
steering wildly as if it was going to run through the lynching party.
It stopped with a jerk. Lockwood saw that there was only one man in
it, huddled over the wheel. He made an unsteady effort to rise, to get
out, and fell almost doubled over the door.
“My Lawd A’mighty!” muttered the nearest man, in an awed voice.
“Jackson!” shouted old Henry, with a tremendous oath, rushing at the
car. He tore open the door, threw his arms around the collapsed
figure, half lifted it out, with broken, blasphemous ejaculations.
Lockwood was just behind him. He caught a glimpse of the hatless,
pallid face of the boy, grotesquely streaked with blood, the wet, torn
clothing. The crowd surged up behind them, forgetting both Lockwood
and Hanna in the amazement of this apparition that was like a
resurrection from the dead.
Tom, his arm about his brother’s shoulder, was crying in his face:
“Who done it, Jackson? Who done it? Who shot you?”
The boy’s face worked. His eyes opened, and he rubbed his wet sleeve
across them.
“Got yere!” he mumbled with the ghost of a chuckle. “They done throwed
me in the river, but I got out. Knowed I could drive home ef I could
start the d—d cyar. Hello, Lockwood!” catching sight of him. “Did they
git you, too?”
“Not quite,” said Lockwood, speaking distinctly in the boy’s face.
“Tell them who shot you, Jackson. Could you see?”
“Sure I seen him,” said Jackson faintly. “Seen him in the gun flash. I
seen——By glory! thar he is now!”
He had caught sight of Hanna’s scared face as the crowd shifted. He
seemed to collect himself with a vast effort, and swung up his arm,
the hand closed, as if he fancied it still held a gun. For two or
three seconds Hanna faced that unsteady, wavering arm; then his nerve
broke. He gave a swift glance to right and left, ducked under the arms
of the men next him, and bolted, disappearing toward the rear of the
house.
There was an instant yelling rush in pursuit. Gun flashes split the
darkness. Lockwood was left alone with Henry Power, still supporting
Jackson’s almost inert body.
“Must get him into the house—put him to bed,” he said.
Between them they carried the boy into the hall and up the stairs. On
the upper floor a door opened and Louise came out, carrying a lamp.
She looked drained of life and color, dead-white, her eyes wide and
liquid and terrified.
“It’s all right,” Lockwood said quickly. “Your brother’s back—not
badly hurt, I think. We’ll get him to bed. Hanna’s bolted.
Everything’s going to be all right now. Will you telephone for a
doctor?”
Louise gave him a wonderful, luminous look, seemed to try to speak,
and choked.
They laid Jackson on his bed. He had a wound through the upper left
arm; a bullet had torn one ear and gashed his cheek; making a terrible
bleeding, and there was a bloody furrow across the top of his head,
which probably had most to do with his state. But none of these hurts
appeared serious.
As Lockwood bent over the patient he heard down on the bayou the
rapid, sharp explosions of a motor boat, diminishing to a distant
drumming.