The word seemed to stick in his throat, but Bayard spoke it without the least difficulty. “One of the smugglers?” he inquired. “No; but I know something about them. I say, Coulte, don’t you think you are engaging in rather a risky business? Suppose it should be found out, what would become of you?”
The Frenchman took his pipe out of his mouth long enough to give another whistle, and then went on with his smoking.
“If I were disposed to be mean,” continued Bayard, looking down at the ground and speaking in a low voice, as if he were talking more to himself than for the benefit of his companion, “I could make plenty of trouble for you by whispering about the settlement that your sons belong to the crew of that smuggling vessel, and that you have been seen with contraband goods in your possession. Let me see; the penalty is—I forget just what it is, but I know it is something terrible.”
“Whew!” whistled Coulte, his face turning pale with alarm.
“Of course I have not the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind,” continued Bayard; “for you and I are old friends. But I say that if I should do it, it would be bad for you, wouldn’t it? By the way—sit down here; I have a favor to ask of you, and I am sure that you will not refuse me.”
Although the old Frenchman was one of the bravest hunters in the parish, and would not have hesitated a moment to attack the largest bear or panther single-handed, he was thoroughly cowed now. Bayard knew what he was talking about when he said he was sure that Coulte would not refuse him the favor he was about to ask of him, for the old man was so badly frightened that he would have given up his ears if he had been commanded to do so. He seated himself on the ground beside the boy, and listened attentively while the latter unfolded his plans, only interrupting him occasionally with long-drawn whistles, which were very low at first and very loud at last, increasing in volume proportionately with the old man’s astonishment. After Bayard finished his story, a few minutes’ conversation followed, and finally the boy arose and walked toward his companions, leaving Coulte standing as if he were rooted to the ground.
“What success?” whispered Will, as Bayard swung himself into the saddle.
“The very best,” was the exultant reply. “Walter Gaylord’s goose is cooked now—done brown. In the first place, Coulte says that all the smuggling is carried on in one small vessel named the Stella, which sails from the coast once every ten days. She is now hidden in the bay a few miles from here (I know right where she is, and have promised to visit her early to-morrow morning), and will leave for Cuba day after to-morrow. The only men on board are Coulte’s two sons, who stayed to watch the vessel while the rest of the crew went to New Orleans to spend their money. They will return some time to-morrow, and consequently the work must be done to-night. Coulte says that he will go down at once and talk to his boys, and that Walter Gaylord shall be secured before morning. You’re sorry for it, are you not?” he demanded, turning fiercely upon his cousins, who seemed to be disappointed rather than elated.
“No,” replied Will, “I am not sorry, exactly, but I feel kind of—you know.”