“Sure we will,” said Bob. “A thousand this time, and Hanna don’t git none of it. Then with what we gits fer——”
Echoes of some old affray, it seemed, that still had power to terrify. The familiar mention of Jackson Power’s name startled him, recalling what he had seen or heard himself; but he had no thought just then to spend upon that wild youth’s connection with the river gang.
How long had he to live?—what chance had he? were the only problems that his brain could hold. He could not possibly doubt that his fate had been decided upon. Was it to be to-night, while he lay tied, helpless as a sheep?
If he had some weapon, even a stick—even if his hands had been free, he could have faced it better. He strained at the rope that bound his wrists behind his back. It was dark in the cabin; no one could see what he did; and the knots slipped and gave just a little. Not nearly enough to release his hands, but with the tips of his fingers he could feel the bit of knife point in his trousers pocket.
He worked it around, point against the cloth, and pressed it through the slit it made. It must be sharp, he thought with satisfaction; and at that moment the pirates from the deck came crowding in.
He fancied that it was his last moment. But no one paid him any attention beyond a casual glance. They tumbled into their bunks, all but Blue Bob, who produced a long tallow candle and lighted it. He set it in the middle of the floor, squatted down on the floor himself, with his back against a bunk, took a chew of tobacco, and fixed his eyes on the prisoner.
Lockwood realized that the death watch had been put on him; but the realization came with relief, for it meant that nothing was intended for that night. But this night would certainly be the last.
The thick fog drifted and coiled about the pale candle flame burning straight in the windless air. The air was full of moisture, steaming hot. Mosquitoes buzzed thickly. Far ashore he heard the calling of owls. He hoped that Bob would doze off, but the pirate remained tenaciously awake, chewing tobacco like a machine. Lockwood had a wild instant thought of trying to bribe him with the gold in his belt. Madness! Blue Bob would take the gold, and dispatch him even more certainly afterward.
Once outside, in that darkness and fog, they would never recapture him, either on land or water. He held the bit of steel between his fingers, behind his back. By twisting his fingers back he could just touch the knife edge to the rope at his wrist. He might cut it, but in the face of that black stare across the cabin he dared not move a muscle.
He shut his eyes and pretended to sleep, peeping occasionally through his lashes. Unceasingly Bob chewed his quid. Lockwood’s brain ached with the nervous tension. He groaned and half turned, as if sleeping restlessly, and for a moment Bob’s jaws stopped working.