With a furious face Power drove the motor boat up through the choke of the smoke clouds, leaving the deserted¹ house boat ablaze² on its mud bank. Blackened and half suffocated³, they came to the upper entrance of the bayou, into the channel that joined the two rivers, and looked this way and that.  
Nothing was in sight either way. Tom suddenly silenced the engine. They were well away from the roar and crackle of the fire. A dead hush⁴ fell, and through it they heard a faint, distant beating, faint and elusive⁵ as the beat of a dying heart.
 
“That’s up the Alabama! They’ve headed up again!” everybody spoke⁶ at once.
 
The turn of the bayou checked the view. Tom started again at full speed and tore out into the wide water of the Alabama. Nothing was visible for the half mile they could see. They rushed up this reach and around the bend, and caught one glimpse of a flying black object rounding the next bend, a couple of miles ahead.
 
“There they go! I knowed they was headin’ up!” cried Ferrell.
 
“But there wasn’t no five men in that boat. One or mebbe two at the outside,” said Tom.
 
“Hanna’s put the rest ashore⁷. They’re scattering,” exclaimed Lockwood. “Never mind. It’s Hanna we want.”
 
“Dunno ef we kin⁸ git him!” returned Tom. “That boat he’s got is the fastest thing on this river, and she ain’t carryin’ half the load we are.”
 
But he put Foster’s boat to all the speed she was capable of. She was certainly a heavier, clumsier, less powerful craft than Power’s racer. Weighted as she was, she sat low in the water; sheets of dirty spray drove back over her as the waves wallowed from her bow. When they swung round the next curve there was no boat in the visible mile of water ahead.
 
Lockwood had a sudden suspicion that Hanna might have taken to the woods. He remembered his own escape. The man might be making for the railway on the west shore. But probably he had no money. All his possessions were at the Power house. Was it possible that Hanna was doubling back to Rainbow Landing?
 
There was no telling—no guessing, even. But the rounding of the next bend still showed no boat ahead.
 
For half an hour they tore along, half through, half under the water, while no living thing appeared on the river, nor any human being along the shore. Foster’s landing came in sight again. The tall chimney was smoking now, and there was a shrieking⁹ of saws from the mill sheds. They had been seen coming, and Foster himself was at the landing with news.
 
“Missed him, didn’t you?” he cried. “A motor boat went up past here not half an hour ago—going lickety-split, water flyin’ clear over her. Only one man in her. Your man wouldn’t go back to Rainbow Landing, would he?”
 
“I never thought of it!” exclaimed Power, looking startled. “Jackson’s there, alone with sister and dad.”
 
“Hanna’s hunted and desperate. He’d do anything now for money—or revenge,” said Lockwood.
 
Tom jumped out of the boat.
 
“Where’s that car we left here?”
 
The car had been run under a shed. Its gasoline tank had to be replenished¹⁰, its radiator¹¹ filled. It was ten minutes before they were headed up the road again, leaving the wounded Fenway boy at the mill. But now they had a speed machine that no boat could match.
 
If Tom had driven recklessly on the way down, he drove murderously now. A negro with a mule¹² got out of the way just in time, and stood trembling and swearing. A dozen times the car seemed about to turn turtle, but it was heavy, and heavily loaded, and rebalanced itself.
 
They reached the main road that led to the landing, and swept into it with a skidding¹³ swerve¹⁴. A light car was jogging on ahead. They passed it like a flash, Ferrell leaning out, shouting and gesticulating for it to follow. The two men in it did speed up in pursuit, but they were hopelessly outdistanced.
 
The Power house came in sight, peaceful among its great trees in the blaze of sunshine. The yard was empty, no one in sight. Tom swept in the open gate and up to the house. Jerking open the doors they scrambled¹⁵ out of the car, and Lockwood was immediately aware of a thundering from the upper part of the house like some one beating on a closed door, and then an unmistakable scream.
 
With a rush they went over the gallery, into the hall, up the stairs. A shot crashed. Lockwood saw Louise at the door of a room; she had a revolver half raised in her hand, and he caught a glimpse of a man bolting toward the rear of the hall.
 
“Down there! The back way!” Louise was screaming.
 
The other three men rushed down the hall, toward the back stairs. Lockwood alone had the inspiration to plunge¹⁶ back down the front stairs again. As he darted¹⁷ out the door he saw Hanna running forward from the rear entrance, carrying a large leather club bag.
 
Lockwood fired twice, hurriedly, excitedly, missing him clean. Then the pursuers poured out from the rear door also with a yell and a burst of shooting. Hanna stumbled, recovered himself, and made a limping rush for the car that still stood throbbing¹⁸ with the running engine.
 
Lockwood ran out to cut him off, shooting again in vain. Hanna dived into the front seat, and, as the car started Lockwood sprang on the running board, and leaned over with the pistol not a foot from his enemy’s head.
 
He caught the queer, sidelong, startled look that Hanna turned on him as he pulled the trigger. There was no explosion. He pulled again—again, with only a series of soft clicks. The gun was empty; and it flashed upon him that it was a borrowed one, and he had no cartridges¹⁹.
 
The car was speeding down toward the gate. Lockwood clutched the top supports and hung on, holding the useless pistol. Hanna never glanced aside. He went out the gate at high speed, turned to the right, and dashed down the road.
 
Lockwood had a glimpse over his shoulder of his companions running across the yard to the road. The light car was just coming up. They were stopping it, getting aboard, but he could spare no more attention.
 
He could not attack, but he would not let go. He had to cling with both arms to avoid being pitched headlong. There was deep sand on the road, and Hanna tore through it like a madman. The big car reeled and skidded²⁰. Hanna never once glanced aside, bending low over the wheel, and they clung there within a yard of one another, as if unconscious of each other’s presence.
 
He might have clubbed the man with the gun butt²¹, but he was afraid to touch him; it would turn the car over. He made an effort to get into the rear seat; but the catch stuck, and the curtains were down.
 
He thought dizzily of getting his hands on Hanna, of throttling²² him from behind. A violent lurch²³ of the car nearly flung him off. For a minute he clung trailing by his hands, till he could get footing on the running board again.
 
He was determined²⁴ not to let go. He caught a glimpse of the other car racing²⁵ behind. They were shouting at him, motioning him to jump. He was in their way. But he knew that Hanna’s car could outdistance anything on the road, and if he let go he was sure he would never sight it again.
 
Jets of dust flew up from the road, instantly passed. He heard the reports. They were shooting at the tires. A bullet ripped the top. The light car was falling behind. Bullets were their only chance; and now the heavy sand was past, and Hanna let her out a little more.
 
The bridge over the bayou was just ahead. A distant crash of firing came from behind. The fabric²⁶ top r-ripped. A great splintered star flashed into the glass windshield. The planks²⁷ of the bridge roared under the wheels, and then a long, white streak²⁸ flew up out of the steering²⁹ wheel under Hanna’s very hands.
 
Like a flash the great car sw............