Lockwood rode the woods dreamily that next forenoon.  
It was going to be impossible to kill Hanna, unless in the heat of sudden self-defense. He wondered at himself, for life had suddenly come to seem once more valuable to him. The old black purpose that had driven him so long was fading away. Not that he had forgiven his enemy; he was as determined¹ as ever to defeat Hanna’s purposes, to see him sure of prison, if possible—not that he had any objection to taking his life, but he was no longer willing to wreck³ his own life to compass Hanna’s death. He had, in fact, developed an interest keener even than that of hate.
 
His horse trod almost without sound on the deep carpet of pine needles, and as he came to the bayou he perceived the loom⁴ of a great, gray bulk. Coming nearer, he recognized it as the house boat he had seen before, moored⁵ now directly across the bayou from him. It had not been there the day before. It must have been brought up early that morning.
 
A small fire smoldered⁶ on the shore by the mooring⁷, with a coffee pot and iron frying pan beside it, but there was no one near the fire. On the little railed deck space at the stern a man sat fishing and smoking. It was the bearded pirate Lockwood had seen before. His bare feet were propped⁸ on the deck rail; he tilted⁹ back in a rickety chair; he smoked his pipe with his hands in his pockets, and the fishing rod was wedged into a crevice¹⁰ of the deck. His hat was off, and Lockwood could see a great bluish stain or scar covering much of one side of his forehead, which might have been a powder burn from a pistol fired at close range. For some moments the two men stared at one another in silence across the muddy water.
 
“Ho-owdy!” the riverman drawled at last.
 
“Good mo-ornin’!” Lockwood responded with equal languor¹¹. “You stopping here?”
 
“For a while, mebbe.” He examined the horse and rider. “Reckon you’re one of the turpentine riders?”
 
“Yes. And I expect you’re Blue Bob.”
 
“Mebbe some calls me that. My name’s Bob Carr. This hyar’s my house boat. You reckon Craig’s got anythin’ to say ’bout hit?”
 
“I reckon not,” said Lockwood amiably¹², “so long as you don’t interfere¹³ with his camp.”
 
“Ef nobody don’t bother us none we don’t bother them none,” growled¹⁴ the river dweller¹⁵, returning Lockwood’s grin with animosity; and the woods rider turned his horse into the pines again. He had nothing whatever to say to the river pirate, but he promised himself to keep a watchful¹⁶ eye on that boat.
 
He sighted it again that afternoon, apparently¹⁷ deserted¹⁸, but next morning he did not go to the woods. The turpentine still was set going, and he remained at the camp to assist in “running a charge.” The copper¹⁹ retort bricked in on the top of the furnace was a large one, and a “charge” meant a good many barrels. One by one the shouting negroes swayed the heavy barrels of “dip” up to the platform around the retort, emptying the gum into the mouth, together with a due allowance of water, anxiously watched by the expert still man. The cap was then screwed down, and a carefully regulated fire of pine logs set going in the furnace below.
 
The spiral worm went off from the shoulder of the retort, passed through a tank of cold water, and ended in a tap below. In due course steam began to issue from this orifice, then there was a slow, increasing drop of liquid. The still man watched it carefully, collected the drops and tasted them. It was turpentine. The spirit was coming off, and a bucket was set to catch it.
 
Being more volatile²⁰ than water, the spirit came off first. The slow drops quickened to a stream. The bucket was filled and emptied many times, filling one barrel after another, while the furnace fire was kept at a steady glow. Too much heat would boil off the water as well as the turpentine. It went on for hours, until at last the experienced eye and nose of the “stiller” detected that what was coming through the worm was not turpentine but water. He closed the tap. The turpentine was done. It was the rosin next.
 
Three negroes dragged open a large vent²¹ in the lower side of the retort, and a vast gush²² of blackish, reeking²³, boiling rosin tumbled out into a huge wooden trough. It was the residue²⁴ of the distilling²⁵, less valuable than the spirit, but still valuable. It passed through three strainers—the first of coarse wire mesh²⁶ to catch the chips and large rubbish, one of fine mesh, and lastly a layer of raw cotton, known technically²⁷ as a “tar baby.” As the trough filled, the still intensely hot rosin was drawn²⁸ off at the farther end and poured bubbling and reeking into rough casks. Here it slowly hardened into rocklike solidity, to be headed up finally for shipment down the river.
 
It was hard, hot, dirty, delicate work, though Lockwood was not capable of any of the skilled part of it. His duty mainly was in seeing that the negroes brought up the gum barrels promptly²⁹, handled the rosin with exactitude and kept the fire right. After the retort was screwed up, everything had to go with precision, or the whole charge would be ruined.
 
When the rosin was cleared, the fire was drawn and the still allowed to cool. Late that afternoon Lockwood made a hasty round of the woods to see the run of the gum, but he was tired and dirty and sticky, and he felt in no condition to pay a visit to the Powers.
 
The next day, however, there was no distilling, and he was able to take a couple of hours off in the afternoon. It was rather a failure. Hanna was not at home, but neither was anybody else, with the exception of old Henry, who sat as usual upon the gallery in his rocking-chair. He urged Lockwood to stay and “eat supper,” when the rest of the household would probably be back; but Lockwood had to return to the camp.
 
Next day the still was run again—a day of terrible heat, when the bare sand of the camp seemed to glow and burn white-hot in the sun, and even the tough turpentine negroes complained bitterly. Lockwood’s own head swam, especially as the blazing hot rosin poured out in the blazing sun, but he kept going until the charge was run; and then everybody suspended work, and, dripping with sweat, got into the sh............