His first thought was that it was a fourth of the river men returning to camp, and he did not wish to seem to have been spying. He stepped instantly into the thickets, behind a screen of bamboo vines, to let the man go past. But as he came nearer, Lockwood saw that it was Hanna.
He still wore the gray suit and the leggings of his morning ride, and he walked carelessly, whistling between his teeth, looking ahead as if he expected to meet some one. Evidently he was going to the house boat. In a moment the whole possibilities of the situation flashed upon Lockwood.
From where he stood he could drop Hanna with a single shot, and the slight, sharp crack of the smokeless cartridge would be heard by nobody. His death would certainly be credited to the river men, and their record and reputation would probably make the charge plausible.
Almost without knowing it, he drew the little automatic he had carried so long, and pushed back the safety. Hanna was coming on carelessly, still whistling. Through the leaves Lockwood had the bead drawn unwaveringly on his chest, when he found that he could not shoot. A mighty force seemed to stay his finger on the trigger. The great moment he had desired for years had come, was passing, and he could not use it! He did not hate Hanna less, but he did not want to drop him dead in his tracks. Hanna went by unconsciously, within a yard of the blue muzzle.
Lockwood lowered the pistol, and found himself shaking and sweating. He looked helplessly after his enemy’s back, watched till Hanna was out of sight, and then turned on his own way. He swore under his breath; he felt as if he had failed in an imperative duty; he was full of disappointment and disgust. It was not till he had almost reached the turpentine camp that he thought to wonder why Hanna should be going to visit the river pirates. But when he thought of the problem it seemed full of perplexity and interest.
CHAPTER V
THE WOODS RIDER
The next morning Lockwood was assigned the brown horse and saddle outfit that had been used by the injured man, and he began active work as a turpentine woods rider. The “orchard” which he was to supervise covered an irregular area of perhaps a couple of miles, in a long strip around to the south and west of the Power property. All of it had, indeed, originally belonged to the Burwell estate. The ground was level, or very gently rolling, broken only by occasional strips of dense creek swamp. Nearly all the underbrush had been cleared out the preceding year, and the woods were easy and pleasant for riding.
About thirty negroes worked on this orchard, each assigned to a definite “furrow,” or allotment of trees, which had to be freshly chipped every week when the run of gum was good. It was Lockwood’s duty to keep these men up to their work, to see that the cups did not overflow or become displaced, that things went rapidly and smoothly, and, above all, to see that no dropped match or cigarette started a fire, for a fire in a turpentine orchard is as disastrous a thing as can be imagined.
For three days he rode the woods, growing very saddle sore at first, but gathering his ideas and reconstructing his plans, which seemed to have fallen into chaos. He thought of his astounding failure to act on the path by the river, but it did not seem astounding now. He had to realize that assassination was a method barred to him; he would never be able to bring himself to do it. He thought of other means.
He might discover himself to Hanna; he had no doubt that the man would instantly accept the challenge to draw and shoot; and the issue would be self-defense. Lockwood was not afraid of the chances; he had practiced endlessly with the little blue automatic, and the weapon had grown as familiar to him as his own fingers.