Randy White - Everglades

Tomlinson told DeAntoni that they found repetitive genetic markers in the DNA of both marrow and hair that suggested that Joseph was a direct descendant of Florida’s mound builders. Those markers, he explained, didn’t turn up uniformly in all members of an ethnic group, which is why modern Indians are against using DNA to prove anything.

“But the bone marrow from that old Calusa, and Joseph-the markers were right there to read,” he added. “The Calusa were an amazing people. Physically-for that time period, back in the sixteen hundreds-they were huge. The Spaniards described them as giants. You see how big Jenny is? Six one, six two, and she’s small compared to Joseph. They had a civilization on the west coast of Florida that rivaled the Maya. The entire southern part of the state was their kingdom. They kept slaves, performed human sacrifices. And they scared the hell out of the Spaniards.

“The Calusa refused to convert to Christianity, and literally pissed on anyone who tried to change them. Seriously. As in they made the Jesuit priests kneel down and whizzed on them-which the priests wrote about in their journals. Like, to show the kind of savages they were dealing with.”

DeAntoni told him, “Cool.” He’d personally arrested a few priests himself that he wouldn’t mind pissing on. Tomlinson continued, “But back to the DNA-we found a double T, double A, double C-G-T sequence in the hair and the bone marrow.

“We were focusing on the mitochondrion D-loop. There was also a unique sequencing in the HLA genes-and that’s where we found the genetic flags. The state of Florida couldn’t argue that. No way. So they let Tucker Gatrell keep his ranch, and they let us bury Joseph in the back pasture, on the mounds where he belonged.”

DeAntoni eyes were glazing, getting bored-all this scientific talk. But he was still following closely enough to ask, “So if they were so tough, these Calusa, what happened to them? Why was the old dead Indian, your pal, the last one?”

“Disease,” Tomlinson said. “Within two hundred years after contact with the Spanish, the Calusa were almost finished. They went from being kings of the world, to living like animals on the run. When the Calusa started getting sick, losing power, the tribes they used for slaves got their revenge.

“When the United States bought Florida from Spain and settlers started farming the islands, the Maskoki started moving south-Doc was wrong when he told you Creeks. That’s a common misconception, still taught in schools. The Seminole and the Miccosukee aren’t Creeks. They’re Maskoki.

“Anyway, that was the end of the Calusa as a people. Except for sixty or so who went to live in Cuba. But none were left in the States. Except for Joseph and maybe a few others.”

DeAntoni said, “But Joseph had a bunch of sons and daughters. This old tribe is not extinct. So why should anybody even give a damn?”

I was watching Billy Tiger’s truck slow, red brake lights aglow, left blinker flashing, as it approached a yellow billboard: a massive alligator, jaws wide. JAMES TIGER’S FAMOUS

REPTILE SHOW AND AIRBOAT RIDES.

On the south side of the road was an island-sized settlement of pole houses, thatched palmetto roofs, airboats angled bow-high on the banks of the canal, a parking lot of white coral filled with cars bearing out-of-state license plates-Michigan, Illinois, New Jersey.

A tourist stop. Another Florida roadside attraction.

As DeAntoni slowed to turn, Tomlinson said, “Are you kidding? If Billy Tiger or any of Joseph’s heirs can prove the Calusa aren’t extinct, that the tribe still exists, they can claim ownership of the whole southern tip of Florida. Everything, West Palm to Tampa, and south to Key West. Because, rightfully, they do own it. They really do. ”

DeAntoni was shaking his head, smiling. “No court’s gonna have the balls to order something like that. Give half the state back to a couple of dozen Indians? Yeah, right, I can see it-kick everybody out of Miami, South Beach and Lauderdale. The Cubans would be piling up sandbags, locking ’n’ loading, the old Jewish ladies right beside them. It’s just not gonna happen.”

Tomlinson said, “Personally, I think it could happen. Legally, anyway, and then the state would be forced to make some kind of gigantic financial settlement. But just the threat is a powerful leverage tool. Does the state want to risk the issue going to the Supreme Court-maybe lose a couple of million acres of state land, or a few billion dollars? Or, is it better to say, Screw it, award the Egret Seminoles a smaller chunk of land. In return, the state lets them build their houses, shopping centers, whatever they want.”

DeAntoni said, “Okay, I’m with you. Shopping centers-or casinos. That’s where the big money is.”

Tomlinson said, “Precisely.” chapter eighteen

Tomlinson took me aside and said, in a voice too low for anyone to hear, “He’s keeping us here for a reason. As packed as this place is with tourists, he wouldn’t be wasting his time.”

Meaning James Tiger, who had his back to us-barefooted now, still wearing his Stetson-standing with DeAntoni near the canal where there were lily pads and white moonflowers blooming. The two men were on the boat ramp next to a chickee built on poles, and a commercial-sized airboat that was beached near four portable toilets.

An airboat is a weird-looking craft common to the Everglades, though I have seen them in Australia, and in Africa, too. It is a pan-flat boat, stern-driven, powered by an airplane propeller, and can fly over water, grass, even rock. This airboat looked like a red metal sled, bench seats in the middle, a captain’s chair bolted atop a massive engine, a Cessna type propeller mounted aft inside a circular cage.

There were two airboats of similar design tied at a dock. One was off-loading passengers via a short boarding bridge; the other was loading. The boats looked like they could handle nine, maybe ten, people at a time. There had to be fifty, sixty or more people waiting in line, their bodies attached to angular black shadows that moved beside them on the white coral parking lot. There were kids running around, bored, parents shifting from leg to leg.

I said, “I’m not waiting much longer. I need to get back to Sanibel and check my fish tanks. Plus, I’ve got an order for two hundred horseshoe crabs. This time of year, finding that many crabs is not going to be easy.”

Tomlinson said, “Your head’s hurting, isn’t it? You should get an X ray, as hard as that jerk hit you. We can stop at Naples Community Hospital on the way back.”

“Sure, sure, we can both check into the ER. You get your shoulder X-rayed, and they can do my skull while they’re at it.”

A safe offer to make, because Tomlinson despises hospitals.

Reacting to my impatience, he said, once again, that James would not have led us to his village without good reason, then added, “I think it has something to do with Jenny, the bartender. Joseph’s daughter. She’s a power woman. Understand what I’m saying? A buffalo woman-very centered, a leader. James might have been doing most of the talking, but she was doing most of the thinking. Maybe she’s supposed to call and check on us. Or contact someone else. Who knows, man? What I’m telling you is, the Egret Seminoles have invited us to the outer edge of their inner circle for inspection. We’ve got old Joe and Tuck to thank for that. Let’s not pull the plug now.”

I was watching DeAntoni motioning to us, signaling us to join him. Walking toward the canal, I told Tomlinson that I’d give it another half hour, no more, then listened to DeAntoni say, “You guys ever ride in an airboat? I’ve seen ’em on TV-the bastards scoot.”

For the first time, I got a sense of the kind of child he’d been-there was that sort of excitement in his voice. Probably a big, quiet boy; a secret little circus going on inside, but shy for a street kid. He was enjoying himself now; showing it.