“That’s up the Alabama! They’ve headed up again!” everybody spoke 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 ashore. They’re scattering,” exclaimed Lockwood. “Never mind. It’s Hanna we want.”
“Dunno ef we kin 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 shrieking of saws from the mill sheds. They had been seen coming, and Foster himself was at the landing with news.