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.