So he waited, till it should be time to find Craig at his place. Whites and blacks came and went in a slow dribble2, leaving always a residual3 group on the gallery, but toward the middle of the forenoon he espied4 a large car in the distance, driven up the road at a furious pace. It swerved5 up to the store, skidded6 wildly in the sand, and brought up in front of the steps.
Lockwood coveted7 that machine. With its aid he could make a hundred miles in a night, and an escape would be easily arranged. With acute interest he turned to look at the two young men who leaped out and came up the steps, passing loud and cheerful greetings by name to almost every one on the store gallery.
“Mornin’, Mr. Power! Howdy, Jackson! Good mornin’, sir!” went round, and Lockwood noticed that everybody looked pleased and interested. He was more than interested himself. These were more than the owners of the coveted car. These were the men he most wanted to see—McGibbon’s new friends.
Both of them were extravagantly8 well dressed for that place. They wore expensive outing suits, with silk shirts and gorgeous ties under their soft collars. Silk socks of brilliant hue9 showed above their canvas shoes, and each of them sported a heavy watch chain.
One of the flashy motorists might have been twenty-five, big and heavily built, with a florid, good-natured face and a thick, brown mustache. He wore a large, scintillating10 stone in his tie, which might truly have been a diamond. His brother appeared much younger, perhaps not twenty, slim and dark and handsome, also decorated with a diamond pin and a flashing ring on his left hand. The faces of both of them expressed reckless good-humor and an undisciplined exuberance11 of animal spirits—possibly, also, the effect of a drink or two, early in the day as it was.
These, then, were the recipients12 of the cigars and furniture, of the expensive freight. It appeared that these were McGibbon’s hosts. But they most certainly did not appear all likely to be confederates or associates of such a man as McGibbon. Lockwood’s first suspicions died as he looked and listened. More likely, he thought, these rich young countrymen were fresh victims of his enemy, though his guide of the night before had said that Hanna had brought them luck—all kinds, mostly money.
The brothers got their mail at the post-office wicket, and came out on the gallery again, laughing loudly. They were duly introduced to Lockwood, and shook his hand heartily14.
“Right glad to know you, suh,” declared the eldest15. “I hope you’ll come in and see us. Everybody knows where we-all live. Will you be stoppin’ long?”
“Mr. Lockwood’s the new woods rider for the turpentine camp,” the postmaster explained.
“Well, I’m not sure about that yet,” Lockwood put in. “It depends on Mr. Craig. I haven’t seen him.”
“I reckon that’ll be all right,” said Tom Power, with large optimism “I might run you down to the camp. Charley Craig’s a good friend of mine. Only he likely wouldn’t be there now. We’ll be comin’ back by here in an hour or so. Kin13 you wait that long?”
“Why, yes. That’ll be mighty16 good of you,” said Lockwood gratefully. Things were shaping just as he could have wished. “I’ll wait here a while. But don’t trouble unless it happens to suit.”
“Suit us right down to the ground,” cried the younger brother. “We’ve got to go down to the landing right now. Got to see about some freight that come in on the boat last night. Any of you-all want to ride down with us?”
Two of the idlers accepted, and the big car went off in a whirl of sand.
“Them boys certainly are goin’ the pace,” some one said.
“They shorely are,” a second concurred17. “Well, I reckon they’ve got the price, and they’re both of ’em good fellows.”
“Best in the world,” said Mr. Ferrell. “I hear the old man don’t like it, though. Says he can’t live up to autymobeels and champagne18, and he’s goin’ back to live in the woods.”
“They’ve come into money, have they?” Lockwood inquired.
“Yes, sir. I dunno how much. Nobody does. I don’t reckon they know themselves, nor cares, so long’s it lasts. Anyhow, they say they didn’t git half, nor a quarter of what was comin’ to ’em by rights.”
“They was livin’ ’way up the river in the swamps, an’ never heerd on it,” drawled another lounger. “Might have died without knowin’ nothin’ ’bout it, ef it hadn’t been for that smart lawyer down in Mobile.”
“Some says Hanna had something to do with it,” said Ferrell.
“What’s the story?” Lockwood ventured to ask openly.
“Why, this here property—the old Burwell plantation19—used to be one of the big estates here one time, before the war,” said the postmaster. “There was the house; you’ll see it when you go by to the camp, and maybe a thousand acres with it. Most of it was timbered, though, and pine wasn’t worth nothin’ in them days; but there was two or three hundred acres of good light land, and some bottom land, and they used to run fifteen or twenty plows20, and raise right smart lot of cotton, I reckon.
“But then the whole Burwell family died out, all in one generation, you might say. Some kind of a third cousin got it, and he hadn’t no kin, and died without marryin’. There wasn’t no heirs then nowhere. A good few people put in some claim, I guess, but they couldn’t make good; and the whole place laid idle, and most of the plantation growed up with blackberries and dogwood. So, of course, the State took it at last.
“Most of the timberland was sold then. Charley Craig, the turpentine man, bought some of it, and leased some more to turpentine it. Gradually the State land agents sold most all of it off in bits, all but the house and about a hundred acres of sandy land that wasn’t no good for anything. They rented that to a fellow from Monroe County, and he tried to farm it. I reckon he never got rich on it, but the Powers sure ought to be thankful to him for keeping the brush cut off.
“Then this smart lawyer in Mobile got wind of it and started to dig up an heir. He figured that the Burwells must surely have some sort of kinsfolk somewhere, and sure enough he located old Henry Power, three years ago.
“Power was livin’ up the river then, as I said, in a cabin in the swamps, not much better’n any nigger. I didn’t know ’em much then, but I reckon they was a tolerable tough lot. The boys was up to most kinds of devilment, and some said they was mixed up with ‘Blue Bob’s’ river gang. I dunno; likely there was nothing in that yarn21; for they was mighty good boys, if somewhat lively, and everybody liked ’em, pore as they was.
“It sure must have jolted22 old Henry Power when he heard that the Burwell property was coming to him. But it took close to a year to get it. The legislature had to pass a bill; but that lawyer had things fixed23 up hard and fast, and there was no getting away from the evidence that Power was the right man.
“But he didn’t get the whole estate—not by a heap. In the first place, the State couldn’t give back what it had sold, and it wouldn’t give up but half of what it got from selling the timber, and then I guess the lawyer got about half of that again for his share. But, anyhow, I’ve heard that Power got a haul of close on to fifty thousand, besides getting their clear title to the house and what was left of the land.”
“I see,” said Lockwood, more interested than he cared to show. “And now they’re enjoying it!”
“They shorely are. You seen that big autymobeel. They’ve got a fast motor boat down in the bayou, too—cost a thousand dollars, I hear. Champagne at ten dollars a bottle is what they drink.”
“Old Henry Power don’t drink none of it,” drawled a farmer. “Says corn liquor is good enough for him yet.”
“Mebbe so. I reckon so. Anyway, the boys is some high rollers these days, and not stingy, neither. Any man what wants a loan can get it there. And there ain’t nothing too good for Miss Louise.”
“Their sister?”
“Yes, sir. She’s been away in N’Orleans, they say. Earnin’ her own livin’, likely. But she come back last fall. The old man wanted her back, and she had to have her share of what’s going.”
“How about Mr. Hanna?” asked Lockwood. “Has he been here long?”
There was a short silence.
“Sharp cuss, that Mr. Hanna!” said a man sitting on the steps.
“Why, I reckon he’s all right,” said Ferrell indulgently. “Great friend of the Power boys. He come here soon after they got the place. Northern man, seems to be, and knows his way round all the big cities, I reckon. Likely it was him put the boys up to all them fancy drinks. They never knowed nothing about such things before.”
“Well, I’d like to know the Power boys,” Lockwood remarked carelessly.
“Why, you do know ’em!” Ferrell exclaimed with amazement24. “Wasn’t you introduced to ’em both right here? They’ll expect you to go and see ’em—visit ’em if you can, and stay as long as you like. We ain’t got no Northern ways down here in the piny woods.”
This theory of reckless hospitality did not, however, deter25 Mr. Ferrell from accepting fifty cents from Lockwood for his breakfast. Lockwood waited and smoked on the gallery as the forenoon wore on. He wanted to get another look at the Power boys; certainly he would call on them if he saw any opening. He was not afraid that McGibbon—or Hanna—would recognize him. His face was thinner and darker and had, he thought, totally changed in expression. His hair had grizzled. In the old days, too, he had worn a small, pointed26 beard and mustache; and he now went clean shaven.
But the big car did not return from the landing. As he waited and meditated27, the balance of Lockwood’s purpose changed a little. He thought he saw light in the situation. There might be good hunting here after all, for a bird of prey28. He imagined Hanna arriving in this wilderness29, suave30, dignified31, experienced, swooping32 down upon these newly rich poor whites, and he imagined the tremendous weight and influence the man would carry.
Even so McGibbon had swooped33 down upon him at Melbourne, seven years ago—handsome, dignified, wise, with an apparently34 vast experience of men and affairs, and Lockwood had fallen under the impression, though he had had considerable experience of men and affairs himself. He had a real-estate business at that time in Melbourne, Virginia, a fast-growing city, and his business was growing with it.
The two men became friends, and soon were in practical partnership35, though no legal partnership was ever established. Lockwood was an excellent salesman of real-estate, but a timid speculator, and incapable36 of the intricacies of office detail and bookkeeping. It was in these last that McGibbon excelled. In fact, the expert accountants at the trial had been obliged to confess themselves baffled by some of the extraordinary complications of figures with which McGibbon had covered up his tracks.
Looking back, Lockwood saw that the man must have been bleeding the business all along, though to this day he did not understand all the methods employed. Nor did he yet have any positive proof that Maxwell was McGibbon’s confederate—Maxwell, smooth, hard, close-mouthed, but with eyes and ears open for real-estate opportunities. He had got them, too. McGibbon had seen to that.
It was Maxwell who had come forward when the crash arrived. Lockwood’s whole assets were tied up in a block of speculative37 building; a business depression had killed the market, and he could neither finish the half-built houses nor sell them as they stood. He was obliged to accept Maxwell’s ridiculous valuation; and Maxwell had finished the houses, held them for a few months, and then apparently turned them over to McGibbon, who had sold them at an immense advantage. The method of the freeze-out was plain enough now. But Lockwood had known the latter part only by report, for the prison doors had closed behind him. McGibbon had been also indicted38 as an accessory, on the same charges of fraud and misappropriation of funds; but he had no difficulty in clearing himself; and with apparent reluctance39 he had given damning evidence against his partner.
Now Lockwood believed that he had caught the bloodsucker in the act of attaching himself to another prey. It was poetic40 justice, it was no less than providential that he should have arrived at that moment at Rainbow Landing.
Noon approached, and still Power’s car did not return. Lockwood grew restless and uneasy. He got up and walked back down the amber41 and yellow road. He might go to the turpentine camp; at any rate, he was anxious to have another look at the house where McGibbon had managed to establish himself.
He passed the great grove42 of walnut43 and oak and reached the entrance. The white colonial house wore by no means its moonlight air of mystery and grace. In the blazing sun it showed sadly old and weatherworn; its white paint was scaling off, a sickly and dirty gray; the fence was broken down in many places; the rickety gate hung by one hinge. Rubbish of deadwood, a tin can or two and rags of burlap littered the white sand of the driveway. None of the family was in sight; but at the front door a negro was holding two saddled horses, and Lockwood walked quickly on.
He had not gone fifty yards when he heard the trample44 of the horses’ hoofs45 behind him, and stepped aside. He had a glimpse of the shining coats of the animals, and the glitter of new leather, but his attention was all for the riders.
A girl was riding past him, sitting astride, in a gray skirt and a white waist. He knew instantly that it must be Louise Power; he had only a flash of brown hair under the black hat, of dark eyes, of a sweet and slightly opened mouth, but it roused a dim stirring of recollection in him.
She was gone before he could analyze46 it, and McGibbon rode close after her. Lockwood had raised his hat, and McGibbon acknowledged the salutation curtly47, with a casual glance at the pedestrian. The horses went ahead at a canter, and were presently small in the distance between the pines.
It was McGibbon, beyond any doubt. Lockwood recognized him even more certainly than the night before. He looked after the riders with dark satisfaction. He knew where to have McGibbon now; he could take his time and choose his hour. But his mind involuntarily and uneasily turned to search the problem of where he had already seen the girl’s face.
