Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

Wrapping the revolver into his brother’s dirty sweater, Lucius replaced it in the satchel, noting what constituted Rob’s worldly goods. He owned three spare socks, a grayed pair of spare undershorts, a cheap checked spare shirt, a rusted razor, a frayed toothbrush but no paste, also a few loose cartridges, a large envelope, and a stained packet of folded sheets of yellowed paper with soft slits where the dark creases had worn through. Lucius tucked his old posse list into his breast pocket.

The envelope, marked “For Lucius,” contained a penciled manuscript. He considered it a moment, put it back. Why read the thing? Even if Rob had his facts straight and his memory was dependable, his testimony might only mean that Papa had been temporarily out of his mind. Should the extraordinary life of a bold frontier entrepreneur be discounted because of the mad acts of a few minutes?

Well, Lucius, should it? Are you scared to read it?

He put the list back, too. Let Rob have the chance to return it if he wished.

Closing the satchel, he took a last look out the window. In soft evening rain, the black car still squatted in the middle of the street and the crowd was larger. Oh Lord, Rob, he thought, you’re finished.

The fire stairs resounded with footfalls and the shouts of people bursting into corridors. From the night streets came the howl of sirens. In the rain slick and night glare, he drove the few blocks to the saloon.

“For a wanted man, you made a bad mistake,” he said, sliding into the wooden booth. “I just hope you missed him.”

“I never shot at him. Just shot one tire out with Papa’s old revolver. Nailed the rear wheel on a moving vee-hickle!” He grinned with bitter pride. “Seeing Sonborn work his shootin’ iron would have made ol’ Bloody proud.”

“You think Dyer will believe that you weren’t shooting at him?”

“Who cares? It’s the damned truth.”

Lucius nodded. “His car’s still sitting in the street. Looks like nobody got out. That’s the damned truth, too.” They listened to the sirens. “Even if what you say is true, you gave him more reason than he’ll ever need to have you put away for good.”

“I never shot at him, I told you! You don’t believe me?”

“Who gives a damn what I believe? You think the law is going to accept that story? Slugs ricocheting around right outside the hotel? Suppose he was hit by accident?” He rose abruptly from the booth. “Let’s go,” he said.

“It was just kind of a joke,” Rob whispered.

“We’ll see how hard they laugh.” Lucius tossed money onto the table. “C’mon, sober up. You’re already a fugitive, ‘armed and dangerous,’ and you fired a lethal weapon in a public place at the car of a man you were seen quarreling with by forty witnesses only a few minutes earlier. If you get caught, they will rack your sorry ass.”

Rob followed him into the street. “Where we going, Luke?” His chastened tone made Lucius feel like the older brother. “Home, I guess, till we figure out what to do. They won’t find their way out there for a day or two.” But Caxambas would be no solution. He saw no solution anywhere.

In the car, Rob was subdued. “Lucius? Listen. I’m not going back.”

“To prison? You might have no choice.”

The rain came harder. They passed through a wiper-washed phantasmagoria of dissolving shapes and glimmerings of gold-red liquid light, as if they were newcomers to Hell, he thought, coming in on the highway from the airport.

Nearing a roadhouse, Rob yelled Stop! into his ear and Lucius pulled off the road. Grabbing his satchel, Rob clambered out and slammed the door. He bent to the window, blinking away the rain. “They’ll come hunting me and drag you into this,” he said. “Go on home, nail down your alibi.” He waved off his brother’s protests, finally persuading Lucius that it might be best to separate. “Let’s have that gun before you’re caught with it,” Lucius said.

Rob fished the revolver from his satchel, but after holding it a moment, put it back. “Family heirloom. I’d better hang on to this. As the oldest son, you know.”

“Where did you get this damn thing anyway?” Lucius said irritably.

“Long story. Read all about it.” Rob tapped the manuscript envelope. “Sure you want this? I wrote it for our archives like you asked but if you’re smart, you’ll never read it.” When his brother took it, Rob straightened up to peer around him before leaning in again. He said, “Luke? I’m no killer. Remember that, no matter what.” Stepping back, he spread his arms to the night rain as if summoning the gods of the night highways of America to come bear him away home.

In the refracted neon light, his wet stubble glistened. “Maybe I’ll show up at Naples for your ‘New Look at Ed Watson’ show, throw rotten eggs.

“That’s really crazy, Rob! Don’t do that!” Lucius yelled after him. “They’ll be looking for you!”

Rob’s silhouette crossed the gleaming mirrors of the puddles in a reeling run toward the roadhouse. The door opened in a crack of light, venting a wail of country music and a waft of deep-fried food. Then the light closed on the silhouette and Robert Briggs Watson was gone.

From Caxambas next morning, sleepless, at a loss as to what to do, Lucius drove to the nearest telephone at Rusty’s and called Bill House. “Mr. House? This is Lucius Watson.”

“ Colonel Watson?”

“Yessir.” He explained that he had never interviewed a House for his Watson biography and would be grateful for his opinions and conclusions in regard to his father’s death. He tried to remain calm as Bill House measured his sincerity in silence, as if awaiting a more persuasive reason for this call.

Lucius studied his scarred boot toe among the cigarette butts and soda bottle caps in the phone booth. A shining grackle waddled past in gawky grackle gait, its cruel eye cocked for a likely scrap to pick apart and gobble.

House’s voice was there again. “Just so we’re clear about this, Mr. Watson: me and my dad and my brothers Dan and Lloyd, we was all in on it and we ain’t never denied it.” The voice paused a moment to let that settle. “I ain’t real proud about the way it finished but I don’t aim to tell you I’m sorry cause I ain’t. Want to come all the way out here just to hear that news in person? You sure you ain’t got nothin else in mind?”

“I hoped you might discuss your deposition in Lee County Court. And Henry Short.”

Another pause. “Wife here wants to know if I’m still on your list.”

“I imagine so. I haven’t looked at it in years.”

“Maybe I can help you, maybe I can’t,” House said. “Depends.” Then the voice growled, “Long as you ain’t this sonofabitch that’s after Henry with a sniper rifle.” When Lucius exclaimed, “No! I know nothing about that!” House said shortly, “Come ahead, then.” The telephone was fumbled while being hung up and the man’s voice continued through the bump and clatter. “It’s all right, Betty, all right, sweetheart. No need to be scared just cause he’s a Watson.”

Bill House lived northeast of Naples at the edge of Big Cypress, in a new development where the stumps and burned snags and scrub jungle had been pushed back in muddy barriers and broken tangle by the steam shovels left behind by road construction on the Trail. Everywhere brush fires smoldered, the smoke rising to a thick whitish sky. In the distance, the tall cypress, shrouded in graybeard lichen, drew back affrighted from the steel machines at rest among the pale clay pools and the litter of mud-stuck pipe and rusting cable. The makeshift outhouse had a monkey stink and a warped door which banged on its loose hinges in the humid wind.