“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 aged, but as deadly inflexible 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 desperately 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.