He was determined not to let go. He caught a glimpse of the other car racing 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 fabric top r-ripped. A great splintered star flashed into the glass windshield. The planks of the bridge roared under the wheels, and then a long, white streak flew up out of the steering wheel under Hanna’s very hands.
Like a flash the great car swerved, so violently that Lockwood was jerked loose, flung to the other side of the bridge. As he went sprawling, he heard a crash of breaking timber, a vast splash, and a sheet of muddy water flew high and rained upon him.
The light car was up and had stopped before the waves had ceased frothing. Twenty feet of the bridge railing was torn away. It was floating on the bayou below, but Hanna and the big car were deep down.
“Got her up!” said Tom Power, coming wet and mud-splashed and tired upon the gallery of his house, and setting down a large leather club bag on the floor, where it streamed water.
It was nearly sunset, and for hours a crowd of men had been dragging and grappling for the drowned car. The whole population for miles seemed to have assembled. There was an incessant coming and going through the house of excited men, eager to hear and discuss all the details of the affair. Jackson, too, had insisted on Lockwood coming up to his bedside to tell the story. Henry had already heard it. Men came up to speak to Lockwood by dozens, men whom he did not know, men who had been wild to stretch his neck twenty-four hours before, but who now were anxious to make amends, to apologize, to show their good will.
Lockwood accepted it all, and shook hands with them all. He was too used up for anything but placid acquiescence in everything. He hardly knew how he had got back to the house after the car had gone to destruction under him. They had put him on the gallery in a long wicker chair, a glass of orange juice and whisky at his elbow, and Louise hovered about and ministered to him.
“It took four mules to haul it up,” Tom continued. “The car’s badly busted. The body’s smashed considerable, and the radiator’s crushed, and the fenders clean gone, but I don’t believe the engine’s hurt much, and maybe it kin be repaired.”
“Yes—but did you find——” Lockwood began.