Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

I left her there. Refusing to make way, a drunken whore had sassed a white man. He had scared her to teach her a lesson. That was that. And I was thankful Jack had done her no real harm. Yet a bad murmur followed me down that street and around the corner. Trouble-making nigras should be taken care of after sundown and somewhere out of sight, and inevitably Edgar Watson would be blamed for an unpleasant offense committed in broad daylight on a Sunday in front of an assembly of decent citizens. Why, that ruffian came within an inch of spilling nigger blood on our new sidewalk, right down the street from church! He had no call to give God-fearing folks such a bad fright!

When SueBelle vanished from Lake City, the madam started rumors that Edgar Watson knew more about her disappearance than perhaps he should. Hadn’t he killed some nigra back in Carolina? Soon the word was out that this Ed Watson hated blacks, shot ’em left and right. In Lake City, the coloreds shied across the street to get out of my way, causing painful embarrassment to my family, when the truth was, I got on fine with nigras, always had, ever since early childhood with the slaves back at Clouds Creek. Treated ’em as people in those days when most whites hardly knew one from another, couldn’t be bothered.

Our Watson ladies at Fort White heard all the gossip thanks to Sam Frank Tolen, who spared ’em no detail, not even those he had made up. However, in my star-crossed mood and ugly disposition, nobody dared ask questions, not even Mandy. Perhaps she didn’t care to learn more than she had to. But Great-Aunt Tabitha passed the word to Captain Getzen, who knew no way but to ride straight out and confront me in his field.

Captain Tom was a Confederate war hero, a small, fierce, feisty feller. He did not touch his hat when he rode up but stayed stiff in the saddle, whacking his peg leg smartly with his crop; that crop rapped that hardwood shin like the snap of rifle fire. I rested my hoe, touched my cap, and smiled politely, asking what I could do for him; he cleared his throat and said it might be best if I cleared out of this south county for a while. “Best for whom?” I said. He didn’t answer. “Cleared out?” I said. I much disliked the way he’d spoken, as if I were some kind of po’ white drifter. I reckon he saw that in my face, for he danced his horse back as I came forward, raising his crop just enough to give me warning. This good old man no longer trusted me not to attack him, and that hurt, too.

“Best for you,” he said.

I bowed my head as if to pray and took a few deep breaths. Then I said that Edgar Watson was the man who should determine what was best for Edgar Watson, who had been driven unjustly from his own plantation in South Carolina and did not intend to be driven out a second time, having done no wrong.

“No wrong, you say.” Tom Getzen shook his head, extracting a money packet from his coat. He refused to give reasons or name my accusers. I dropped his money in the mud and left at once, before Jack Watson could appear to worsen matters.

Confronted, Billy Collins said that “the family” agreed with Captain Tom: I should leave the county. “Which family do you speak for, Billy?” I demanded. “You weren’t a Watson, the last time I heard.” He shrugged that off, advising me I could come back when things blew over. “It’s not up to you to give me that permission,” I told him. “Anyway, don’t act like I’m the only one who has brought trouble to this family.” At this, Minnie fled the room.

“The reason my brother killed a man-if Lem was the killer-was self-defense.” Billy set himself as I swung off my horse, for he was nerved up now or at least felt safer in the proximity of my sister and my little nephews.

“ If? What are you saying, Billy?”

From the other room, his Minnie screeched, “Tell Edgar you’re sorry!”-the boldest thing I ever heard my sister say, which only shows what a terrified creature she was. Billy blurted, “How about Aunt Cindy’s man, back in Carolina?” I raised my hand in warning. “Never say that, Collins. It wasn’t me.”

“And those knife fights over in Suwannee? One of those men nearly died! And that darkie prostitute? Lake City? What became of her?”

I took out my clasp knife and opened it and tested the fine edge with the ball of my thumb. “You aim to insult me every time you open your damned mouth?” When I raised my eyes to his, his nerve ran out. An opened blade will do that to a man. He said, “You’d even murder your own sister’s husband? A man half your size?”

Billy was a Collins, he was proud; I was content to let his own shrill voice and shameful plea ring in his ears. I pared my nails. “As for your brother,” I resumed after a pause, mostly to reassure my sister, “I only advised him to leave this county because otherwise someone might be killed, most likely him.”

It must have been Billy who reported his version of Watson’s “confession” to the sheriff, which was all it took to implicate me legally. It wasn’t even evidence, it was just hearsay, but the sheriff issued a warrant for the arrest of E. A. Watson as an accessory before the fact in the Hayes murder. Knowing he had no real case, he leaked word of his warrant in the honest hope I might get lynched or flee the county as Collins had done, leave him in peace.

Job, my old strong-hearted roan, was spavined from long months of hard riding. Since it looked like I might need a sound horse in a hurry, I hunted up another roan of the same temperament and gave him that same name. Sam Tolen came to warn me. “Looks like you might be havin you a necktie party,” said pig-eyed Sam, who was all read up on the Wild West, knew all the lingo. “Better light out for the Territory,” he added. Sam’s little brain was working fast, I could hear it sizzle. He was after my prime hogs and he wanted ’em cheap with my gratitude thrown in.

I said, “Hell, no,” to his insulting offer. “Those hogs are the county’s best.”

“That’s why I’m buyin ’em,” Sam grinned, hauling out his greasy wad. “You’re runnin out of time, Ed. Better take it.”

“They say a Tolen will short-change you even when he’s cheating you,” I said, counting the money. Sammy guffawed and clapped me on the back. I told him not to laugh too hard, he just might hurt himself, but Sam didn’t scare as easy as his daddy. He was always a nervy sonofabitch, from lack of imagination or a fatty brain. In his view, fate had nothing disagreeable in store for such a fine fat feller. “Don’t forget to write!” he yelled, breaking wind in a loud carefree manner as he departed.

Anger and rotgut, burning bad holes in my lungs, made each breath hurt. I slung my farm tools into the wagon. Seeing my expression, even Mandy was alarmed. “Mister Watson,” she cautioned, raising her hands almost in prayer, “we have each other and we have our children. We will make a clean start somewhere else.”

“Clean start!” I turned my back on her. “How many do I have to make?” But remembering how often she’d been patient, and seeing anew the honest goodness in her face, I took my dear wife in my arms. “You don’t have to go with me, Mandy,” I whispered. “Oh, I do, dearest, I do.” She hurried off to pack provisions and our few possessions.

I rode over to my sister’s house to settle my account with Billy Collins, who had brought this banishment down upon my head by running to the sheriff. He knew I would be coming, too, because his horse was gone. Minnie ran out, fell to her knees. Clutching little Julian, she begged her good, kind brother to have mercy and not harm a little family which loved him dearly and hoped and prayed for his safe journey and deliverance wherever he might go.