The two Buntlys had called the younger men to one side and they were whispering excitedly together. Presently the riding-horses all were tied at the side of the road, and when the wagon creaked its way homeward, Ed was accompanied only by Alex, who had refused to leave him, and by old Arner. Rensie had gone with the others.
Two days later, he was able to creep out to the front porch of Arner’s little home and sit in the cool of a breeze that swept up from the bayou. After a space of silence, he asked:
“Arn, what’d them fellers do the yuther night? I can’t git er peep outen ’em.”
“They foun’ right smart of stuff in boxes, what Rensie said was some sorter dope, bein’ unloaded from the schooner. But they th’owed hit in the water.”
“I ain’t intrusted in no dope, Arn. I say what’d they do?”
“The leader of the gang confessed, after he’d been questioned by Rensie, an’ when he saw the jig was up, anyhow. They had sot Jonas ter keep folks skeerd off the swamp road at night, by killin’ whosomever come there. They was goin’ ter git er truck an’ haul that stuff off somewheres.”
“Well, what’d the boys do?”
Reflectively, Arner stroked his short, heavy beard. He spat into the yard. Then he turned to the deputy:
“Ed,” he said slowly, “yo’ comin’ down here, an’, single-handed an’ alone, huntin’ out the critter what was killin’ us off will be remembered an’ talked about in generations ter come—when these here swamps is cleared off an’ drained an’ producin’ corn an’ taters. But sich er little matter as er schooner lyin’ at the bottom of the bayou gatherin’ barnacles is soon forgot, an’ let’s you an’ me fergit that part of hit, too.”
