He gathered an impression of the district from it all, an isolated, almost primeval country of forest and swamp, of scattered farms, of the overgrown ruins of once great estates, of great timber mills and turpentine camps, the industries of the forests. It was thirty miles to the railroad, twenty to the telegraph, though a rural telephone line intersected the district.
He lingered and waited, hoping to pick up something of importance. There was a sense of deep peace and rest on that sunny veranda in the sweet, hot May morning. Among these gentle-voiced Southerners there seemed neither hurry nor strife. Negro women went by in gay ginghams, shuffling their bare, black feet in the amber dust. The air was like a caress to the nerves, and for the first time in years Lockwood felt his tension relax. He was within sight of the end, he told himself, and he could afford to take breath.
CHAPTER III
POWER’S LUCK
Lockwood had already resolved to accept the hint of the turpentine camp. It was absolutely necessary now that he should have some excuse for his presence. He was sure he could get work in the camp, now that the rush of the season was in full swing, and it would give him time and countenance.
So he waited, till it should be time to find Craig at his place. Whites and blacks came and went in a slow dribble, leaving always a residual group on the gallery, but toward the middle of the forenoon he espied a large car in the distance, driven up the road at a furious pace. It swerved up to the store, skidded wildly in the sand, and brought up in front of the steps.
Lockwood coveted that machine. With its aid he could make a hundred miles in a night, and an escape would be easily arranged. With acute interest he turned to look at the two young men who leaped out and came up the steps, passing loud and cheerful greetings by name to almost every one on the store gallery.
“Mornin’, Mr. Power! Howdy, Jackson! Good mornin’, sir!” went round, and Lockwood noticed that everybody looked pleased and interested. He was more than interested himself. These were more than the owners of the coveted car. These were the men he most wanted to see—McGibbon’s new friends.
Both of them were extravagantly well dressed for that place. They wore expensive outing suits, with silk shirts and gorgeous ties under their soft collars. Silk socks of brilliant hue showed above their canvas shoes, and each of them sported a heavy watch chain.
One of the flashy motorists might have been twenty-five, big and heavily built, with a florid, good-natured face and a thick, brown mustache. He wore a large, scintillating stone in his tie, which might truly have been a diamond. His brother appeared much younger, perhaps not twenty, slim and dark and handsome, also decorated with a diamond pin and a flashing ring on his left hand. The faces of both of them expressed reckless good-humor and an undisciplined exuberance of animal spirits—possibly, also, the effect of a drink or two, early in the day as it was.
These, then, were the recipients of the cigars and furniture, of the expensive freight. It appeared that these were McGibbon’s hosts. But they most certainly did not appear all likely to be confederates or associates of such a man as McGibbon. Lockwood’s first suspicions died as he looked and listened. More likely, he thought, these rich young countrymen were fresh victims of his enemy, though his guide of the night before had said that Hanna had brought them luck—all kinds, mostly money.