“Hanna? Sure. He was wedged into the wheel. He wasn’t shot. I reckon he couldn’t get free and he just drowned there like the rat ez he was. They’ve carried him up to Cole’s store.”
There would have to be an inquest, but under the circumstances it was sure to be the mildest formality. The local jury would bring in a verdict of “death by accidental drowning,” as likely as not. Hanna dead! It seemed impossible to realize it. Lockwood’s face must have expressed a mixture of emotions.
“It’s shorely doggone hard luck that you didn’t git to kill him after trailin’ him all them years!” said old Henry sympathetically.
“No—no. I’m only too glad I didn’t,” he said hastily.
“Oh, so am I,” said Louise; and her father looked with disgust at the sentimentalists.
“If he hadn’t come back here we’d never have got him,” said Tom, trying the lock of the leather bag.
Louise had not heard the boat come up, nor Hanna enter the house. She was sitting quietly with her brother, who had gone to sleep after having his wounds dressed. Old Henry was also asleep, having been up most of the night; and Hanna had quietly secured the key and locked the old man in his room.
“I thought once or twice I heard somebody moving in the house,” Louise said, “but I supposed it was one of the niggers. I was standing by the bureau; I had my back to the door, when I saw Hanna in the mirror. He was wet and blackened, and he had that valise in his hand.
“I’m ready to go,” he said. He spoke so queerly that I thought he’d been drinking. “Hand me over all those jewels of yours. All the diamonds. Quick!”
“I knew there was a little revolver in that bureau drawer, and I slipped my hand in and got it as I turned around. Hanna started into the room, and I aimed the little gun at him. He stopped, and then laughed, and dared me to shoot. I don’t know whether I’d have shot or not, but then I heard your car coming, and I screamed. Hanna ran for the back stairs. The gun went off in my hand. I hope I missed him.”