Peter Matthiessen: Shadow Country

“Shot and drowned, both, Mr. House. In Chatham River.”

Bill House said, “You was supposed to bring him in or bring his head.”

The crowd groaned and backed up when I reached into my coat, drew out that hat. I poked my finger through the new bullet hole and held it high. “Got kind of ventilated,” I said. A few men tried to laugh.

There were faces I was sorry to see-Wilson Alderman, for one, also Jim Howell, Andrew Wiggins, looking sheepish. The Lost Man’s refugees, my nearest neighbors except Hardens, were back up by the store and none came forward or spoke up to support me, not even Erskine Thompson. At the back of the crowd, young Crockett Daniels stood on a fish crate, craning for a better look.

Little Addison ran toward me from the store as women’s voices called him. Kate Edna, weeping with relief, came hurrying behind with Mamie Smallwood. On his store steps stood my friend Ted. Seeing me look his way, he shook his head, stepped back inside.

The women stopped short when D. D. House raised his big hand up like a prophet. A bad silence fell. “That hat ain’t good enough,” he growled. With those words came a sudden shift of atmosphere, like that waft of cold air across open water that precedes a squall. Mamie tugged Kate back toward the store. I longed to call out after them, No, don’t go! Wait!

“Not good enough?” I feigned astonishment. “Putting a bullet through the head of my niece’s husband? Hell, look at my damn boat! Got blood all over it!”

Isaac Yeomans waded out and peered into the cockpit at the blood.

“All the same, you best hand over your weapons,” Bill House said. “We’ll go to the Bend first thing in the mornin, have a look.”

“ Have a look ? What do you think I’ve been doing for the last three days?”

“Well, we been kind of wonderin about that, too,” Bill House said calmly. “We thought maybe you had lit out for the Keys.” The crowd muttered agreement, seeming resentful that I had not done so.

Isaac Yeomans stuck his finger in a blood smear. “Smells like fresh fish,” he said.

“You calling me a liar, Isaac?”

“Nobody ain’t callin you no liar, Mister Watson,” Bill House said. “We’re just askin you to put that gun down.”

“Asking me? Or telling me?”

D. D. House raised his gun a little. “We aim to hold you for the sheriff. Dead or alive is up to you.”

In the corner of my eye, I saw a man slip forward from the trees and wade a little ways into the water, holding a rifle down along his leg. In the dusk, the face was obscured; he seemed to gaze downward as if meditating on night water.

I said, “He has no business here.” To Henry Short I said, “They’ll lynch you, Henry, when they’re done with you. You get on home.” Bill House said, “He ain’t none of your concern.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me that?”

Up and down the line, the weapons jumped. My head throbbed, that’s how fast that anger took me, just when I had to stay calm and think quick; if I raised my gun now, some would break and run but more would shoot.

I looked past the House clan, appealing to the others. I had not come back looking for trouble, I said earnestly. I came back to notify my neighbors that the killer Cox was dead. I had kept my promise. Knowing I was innocent, it was not right to ask me for my gun, try to take me prisoner.

“What’s more,” I said, “today is my wife’s birthday. I made my wife a promise.” The more I pleaded, the more humiliated I felt and the more enraged. “I came here to pick up my family. We’ll leave right now for Ever-glade, go north tomorrow. You won’t see us again.” And I shouted out for Kate to hear, “Come quickly, Mrs. Watson! Bring the children!”

That old man said, “Nosir, you ain’t leavin.”

“We’re done talkin, Watson.” Bill House hitched his gun. “Drop your weapon on the count of three or take the consequences.”

“One,” the old man barked, raising his rifle.

The others backed and filled. The guns came up a little. I turned toward Henry Short, holding his eye. “Finish it,” I whispered.

“Two,” the old man said.

I took a deep breath and threw my shoulders back. “You boys want Watson’s gun that bad, you will have to take it.” And I swung the gun up in the face of D. D. House as if to fire.

finish it? that what he said?

good godamighty

well, he sure is finished

godamighty

star

moon masks

a mouth

eyes come eyes go

in the star shadow

how the world hurts hurts

a star

this world is painted on a wild dark metal

PETER MATTHIESSEN was born in New York City in 1927 and had already begun his writing career by the time he graduated from Yale University in 1950. The following year, he was a founder of The Paris Review. Besides At Play in the Fields of the Lord, which was nominated for the National Book Award, he has published six other works of fiction, including Far Tortuga and a book of short stories, On the River Styx. Mr. Matthiessen’s parallel career as a naturalist and explorer has resulted in numerous widely acclaimed books of nonfiction, among them The Tree Where Man Was Born, which was nominated for the National Book Award, and The Snow Leopard, which won it.