Peter Matthiessen - Killing Mister Watson

But all the while he smiled and nodded, he was looking the men over one by one, and very few besides Bill House met him head on. Then he winked at his wife and that wink give us a start, as if he'd seen from the quick shift in their faces which men had talked of lynching him and which had not, and which he aimed to settle up with later. The men knew this, too, and one by one fell still.

A bad silence was broke by Mister Watson, who declared he'd be proud to have a look at our new store. I sent Ted ahead to sweep out one them Danielses, won't say which, who was out colder'n a pickled pig's foot on my counter. Mister Watson led the way, and being as the store was in our house, he took his hat off as he climbed the steps and crossed the porch, probably the first save Old Man Richard Hamilton who ever come into our store without his hat on. But that day, pushing in behind him, about half the men took off their old hats, too.

Mister Watson, looking all around, was brimming over with congratulations to Ted Smallwood and "Miss Mamie," said no place of business had us beat this side of Tampa, though everybody knew that Storter's, right across the Bay, was twice the size. He shook his head like he couldn't believe his eyes, reminding Ted of them good old days when they first met, at Half Way Creek back in the nineties, and how far both of 'em had come in life since then. Because he always did feel shy and modest about doing better than his neighbors, Ted changed the subject. "Ain't hardly nobody no more at Half Way Creek, Ed. Storters bought it all."

Now Ted wasn't yet twenty in his Half Way Creek days, while Mister Watson was already in his early thirties. It's true he built up a plantation in the Islands beyond any that was seen down there before nor since-every crop that feller raised just turned to gold-but I don't believe he done as good as Ted. By 1906 Ted Smallwood was postmaster and trader and biggest landowner on Chokoloskee, and never robbed nor killed to get there, neither. Course C.G. McKinney and William Wiggins kept their little stores across the island, but we was the main trading post on Chokoloskee from the day we opened, and we are still in leadership today.

Ted Smallwood worked hard for everything he had-getting him to stop work was the problem! If a man had money in his hand, Ted would come down in his nightshirt just to wait on him, even on Sundays. But this man Watson never lacked for money, not since the first day that he showed up here. The Good Lord only knows where that money came from, and how much innocent blood might of been spilled.

That year we had us a young preacher that the skeeters hadn't yet run off the island, and this man of God came hurrying down to meet the newcomer, tell him how welcome he sure was to worship with us on a Sunday, when the Good Lord hung His hat in Chokoloskee. Mister Watson told the preacher that Chatham Bend was a long way from the house of God, but he certainly intended to continue his lifelong custom of reading aloud from the Bible on the Lord's Day whether his people needed it or not.

When everybody laughed, C.G. McKinney frowned. He pulled his long beard and he coughed, as sharp and sudden as a dog, to show folks he could take a joke but didn't like no jokes about the Bible. Besides, C.G. McKinney was our local humorist and never was one to encourage jokes from other people. This was the year we took over his post office, and without none of our mail to read, he was writing up our local news for the county paper, and if any jokes was to be cracked, it was our newshawk that was going to crack 'em or know the reason why. So what he done, he told the story of poor Reverend Gatewood, first man of God back in '88 over at Everglade. Reverend Gatewood come to the Bay on the old Ploughboy, and his first sacred duty on arrival was to preach last words over the body of a man killed in a dispute with the boat captain during the voyage. Captain Joe Williams was a woman man who was always in trouble with some husband or other, and the feller he put an end to was well liked, so Captain Joe had to lay low for some years after.

This Captain Williams was the selfsame feller who bought the honey farm from William Wiggins's brother at Wiggins Pass. Folks used to say that Captain Joe give some of his honey to Mary Hamilton at Fakahatchee when that old mulatta man of hers weren't looking, give her a boy with honey-colored hair.

I'm sure that Mister Watson knew the Gatewood story, but he had the manners to pretend he never heard it. Said he sure hoped good ol' Captain Joe had paid for all his sins, cause what was needed in the Islands was some law and order. Hearing that, Isaac Yeomans had a whooping fit till his eyes watered, and even Mister Watson had to laugh a little, though his laugh was quiet. Our men liked to tell each other that Ed Watson always spoke more quiet the more he got riled up, but most of 'em had no idea what they was talking about.

After the Santini business, when word come out about Belle Starr, a story got going how our Mister Watson had throwed in with those Jameses and Youngers who rode with Quantrill in the border wars and become outlaws. Our men could talk of nothing else for weeks. You would have thought them cold-blooded desperaders was the greatest Americans since Lighthorse Harry Lee. And some way, just for knowing outlaws and getting the blame for killing that outlaw queen, Ed Watson became some kind of a hero, too. If he'd showed up with a jug of moonshine and a bugle yelling Come on, boys, are you Americans or ain't you? Jump in them boats, we're headed for them Philo-peens, see if we can't finish off them Spaniards, why, half the fool men on the island would have marched off after him like the Rough Riders charging up ol' San Juan Hill, flags flying, tears in their eyes, without once asking where in heck they might be going, or what was right or wrong in the eyes of God.

"God works in mysterious ways," Mister Watson told us. "We must pray for the violent as well as for the victims." That prayer sure startled our poor preacher, who was small in the head, with tired ears, looked less like our shepherd than a sheep. He said in a kind of little bleat, "Amen."

Next thing we knew, Mister Watson was looking fierce, pounding his palm. Everyone fell still like they was in church and the preacher commencing to hand down the Word. "If the Ten Thousand Islands have a future," he declared, "and I, for one, aim to see to it that they do, then those who place themselves above the law have no place in a decent law-abiding community!"

Everyone stared and he stared right back with a great frown like Jehovah. "A-men!" he shouted, at which Isaac give a whoop which he cut off short, as if Mister Watson had shot off his Adam's apple. Excepting Isaac, my Ted was about the only one who dared to laugh, and even Ted held off a minute, and his chuckle never had much heart to it. Then Charlie T. laughed, imitating Ted, and Isaac whooped again and slapped his thigh, and some women started in to hissing about sacrilege-they was thrilled!- and some just tittered, tee-hee-hee, you know.

"Good thing you ain't smiling, girl," Grandma Ida said, with one of her big sniffs, to make sure this Mr. E.J. Watson heard her good. No, I wasn't smiling, I was vexed, cause this bold man was treating us like a bunch of ninnies. Mister Watson seen I seen this, and his gaze held me, them chestnut brows and blue eyes of soft stone. Mamie Smallwood and her brothers were not liable to forget about those Tuckers and he knew it, he knew what he was up against with our House family. And so he gave me that quick wink, the kind of wink made all our hopes and struggles in this world seem kind of silly, due to our sinful foolishness and greed. I bit my lip so as not to giggle, I pretended I never even seen it, because nothing mattered, according to that wink. It didn't matter that our mortal days were bloodsoaked, cruel, and empty, with nothing at the end but disease and darkness.