He slipped through the warehouse¹ 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 ambush². 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, dreading³ more and more to reach the end, but at last came in sight of the Power gateway⁴.
 
He had expected to find the house dark, but it was all ablaze⁵ 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 slung⁶ 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 snarled⁷ between his teeth.
 
It broke the spell. The crowd surged forward, with a growl⁸ like an awakened⁹ beast. Lockwood wrenched¹⁰ 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 aged¹¹, but as deadly inflexible¹² 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 desperately¹³ 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 hustled¹⁴ out of the gallery. Lockwood had never before met the hostility¹⁵ 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 amazement¹⁶ on his face, changing to a fire of victory and vindictiveness¹⁷. 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 malevolent¹⁸ eyes, and their fierce exultation¹⁹ whipped his scattered²⁰ wits together.
 
“Listen, all of you men!” he shouted. “This is the man that killed Jackson—this Hanna here. He was ambushed²¹ 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 rattled²². 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 crook²³, a confidence man. I’ve got his record. He’s been bleeding you ever since he............