Lockwood dropped the reins and spread his hands wide to show them empty, then folded his arms over his chest. Under his fingers he felt the cold iron of his own pistol under his shoulder. He was not in the least afraid. He was confident that he could draw and fire first, if he needed. But he had no idea of being provoked into a shooting affray and ruining his whole cause. He would almost rather take a bullet himself then than put one into Tom Power.
“And you’re goin’ under a false name now, Hanna says,” Tom continued. “What about that? Is your right name Lockwood, or not?”
Strangely, the necessary lie stuck in Lockwood’s throat. He stammered; he jerked out a belated “of course!” that sounded strangely.
“Ain’t no ‘of course’ about it!” said Tom staring sharply. “Now I reckon you know as well as I do ef you’re a fit man to be ridin’ with my sister—agin’ her father’s orders, too.”
“God knows I’m not, Tom,” Lockwood assented.
Power gazed at him, perplexed. Lockwood felt a warm flash of sympathy and liking for him, he looked so puzzled and honest and bewildered, devoid of malice, anxious really to defend his sister, and perfectly ready to commit murder.
“Don’t worry, Tom. I’m not as bad as you think,” he said, smiling.
“I dunno about that. Well, I’ve done warned you. I don’t want to start no trouble, but I reckon you’d better leave this here district for your own good. Don’t make no mistake now. You know what you’ve got comin’ to you.”
He put his foot on the starter, and the engine murmured and hummed. Laying down the pistol, he put in the clutch and moved off. He gave Lockwood one more glance, half menacing, half perplexed, and did not look back again.