“Yer ain’t goin’ ter do that thing, Ed! Yer don’t know what hit is. How—”
“I’m goin’, Alex.”
“But, Ed, hit’s night. Wait till daylight. The last two times folks went out on the swamp road at night they was er man killed.”
Broad-shouldered, sparely-made, the big deputy drew himself up to his full height and turned to gaze for a moment at his young friend.
“I’m goin’ now,” he said calmly.
“But, Ed, you heerd what they said ’bout the schooner up in the bayou. Hit’s been layin’ there fer two weeks, ’thout dealin’s with nobody. You heerd what Rensie Bucker, the ole nigger what uster be er sailor, said. He said he paddled up in his dugout by that schooner an’ them folks on board is India folks. He says that in their lan’ they’s strange beasts an’ reptiles, an’ that mebbe they’ve sot one of ’em loose in the swamp, mebbe put hit ter watch the swamp road.”
“Ef hit’s been sot ter watch the swamp road at night,” said Ed, “that’s jes wher I want ter go. I want ter meet it.”
“Wait, Ed. Wait till I git holt of er hoss. I’m goin’ with yer.”
A soft smile played for a moment about Ed Hardin’s grim mouth.
“No, Alex,” he said: “I reckon I’ll go by myse’f.”