Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

“One time in Tampa, what I heard, he knocked some Spaniard down, hauled out his Bowie knife. Says, ‘Maybe I’ll fillet this greaser here cause I never got to ride up San Juan Hill!’ ”

The door banged open in the wind, banged closed again. The Marco men heaved back, groaning like cattle. Back to the door, Ed Watson stood observing me; probably had me spotted through the window before he came in, and he didn’t miss the shift I made to free my holster. I heard a voice whine, “Oh my God!” Not till I hoisted my boot onto a nail keg and clasped both hands on my knee where he could see ’em did he withdraw his hand from the right pocket of his coat.

Ed Watson looked exhausted, waterlogged, his ruddy face packed with dark blood, his breathing hoarse, but the man could have been dead drunk and buck naked and still had this bunch buffaloed. One feller that made a half move toward the back door froze like a dog on point when Watson turned, and his tin mug clattered to the floor. Scared faces were watching me to see what the law would do, knowing this man would resist arrest and somebody was going to get hurt.

Keeping his hands loose at his sides, Watson spread his feet a little. “I didn’t do it, boys.”

“Ed? Ain’t none of us never said you done it, Ed.”

That was Dick Sawyer. Watson never glanced at him, never took his eyes off mine. “Looking for me, Sheriff?” When I said, “Yep,” he yanked open the door. “Let’s go,” he said.

“You men stay put.” My voice was pinched and reedy. When I crossed the room, Watson swung the door wide to the wind, followed me out. But not until the door was closed did he show his revolver, waving my hands up before he took my weapon. Even at this galling moment, prodded toward the dock, I had to appreciate his tact in not disarming me inside.

“That gun necessary?” I said. “We’ll see,” he said.

Swift black clouds across the moon, a pale light on the sand: we boarded Collier’s schooner. At her mess table, by lantern light, I had finally met Ed Watson face-to-face. He was slouched into the corner of the bulkhead where he could not be shot at through the cabin window. “You’d be safer in my jail,” I remarked sourly, my heart not calm yet.

He shook his head. “Ever hear Smallwood’s story about Lemon City? Mob goes right into the jail to lynch this feller, shoots the nigra jailer, too, while they are at it.” He emptied my revolver, dumping the cartridges onto the table. “Don’t try telling me they won’t hang Watson the first chance they get.”

“Not in Fort Myers.”

“You can’t promise that. And if a mob gets to me first, I’ll get no chance to clear my name.” He hauled a small flask from his pocket, found two blue tin cups. “Deputize me, Sheriff. I’ll go get the man you want.”

“He’s still there?”

“No way to get off. John Smith can’t run a boat, can’t even swim, and he’s dead scared of the water. Doesn’t know where the nigra went, doesn’t know anything went wrong. I can come right up on him because he won’t suspect me.”

“Something went wrong, then?”

“If you were John Smith and the only witness to your crimes got away to Pavilion Key and shot his mouth off, I reckon you might conclude something went wrong.”

“If I was Ed Watson, I might feel the same.” I paused. “Mr. Watson, you are under arrest.”

Grimly he considered me. “Am I a suspect, then? I wasn’t even there.”

“Your nigger said you were behind it.”

“ ‘Nigger said.’ That good enough for a Lee County jury?”

“Why don’t you use John Smith’s real name, Mr. Watson?”

“Because he don’t.”

“What was his motive?”

“That boy don’t need a motive. Not to kill.”

“Yet you kept him at Chatham Bend with your wife and children.”

“They stayed away.” He shrugged. “Owed him a favor.”

“You still owe him? Why should you be trusted as a deputy?”

He picked up my weapon, making a face as if to say, You’re asking too many stupid questions for a man at the wrong end of this revolver. He sipped a little. “Tastes like some lawless sonofabitch been distilling my good syrup.”

I spoke carefully. “You’re resisting arrest. You have disarmed and abducted the Lee County sheriff. You want a fair hearing, Mr. Watson, you better stop breaking the law.” I was talking too much and too fast because he made me nervous.

“Look,” he said, suddenly impatient. “I traveled to Fort Myers in a hurricane to report a dreadful crime. I wanted to tell you my side of the story before a damn mob put a rope around my neck. If I was guilty, would I chase after the law?”

“In Fort Myers, I have no jurisdiction, as you know. And you have family and friends-”

“My daughter’s friends. They’ll do their best to get me off to avoid a family scandal, yes, but it’s a gamble.” Watson offered the flask. I shook my head. “I thought about running. Very simple. Railroad north or a ship out of Key West.” He looked up. “Where would I go this time?” He shook his head. “I’m tired of running. Anyway, I’m innocent.”

We sat silent for a time, listening to the schooner creak against the pilings, the clack and rustle of her rigging. Over by the store, torn metal banged on metal.

“I never told Cox to kill those people. You ask about his motive-how about mine? I have the best plantation in the Islands. Most every household, Tampa to Key West, uses my syrup. One day you’ll find it on every table in the country.” He paused. “I have grown children, pretty grandchildren, a fine young woman for my wife and three new kids. I have a land claim pending and a great plan for developing this coast. Emperor Watson! Ever heard of him?” He grinned briefly. “Why would Emperor Watson ruin his imperial prospects?”

The ship lifted and banged.

“It’s no dream, Frank. I get things done and I know powerful people. I know Governor Broward. Hell, I knew Nap Broward at Key West back in the days he was running guns on the Three Brothers. He came to my rescue in north Florida and he’ll help again.”

“Mr. Watson?” I cleared my throat. “The governor is dead.”

Shocked despite himself, he raised his gaze, making sure I had told the truth. “That’s too bad,” he said then, seemingly indifferent. “You met the Chicago railroad man, John Roach? Bought Deep Lake with Walt Langford for growing citrus?” Watson sat back, eyes alive and shining. “Those men have as much as promised that if I stay out of trouble, I’ll take over there as manager, because Deep Lake has serious labor problems, transport problems, and I have ideas. As John Roach told my son-in-law, any planter who can prosper on forty acres of hard shell mound way to Hell and gone down in the mangrove rivers, there’s no limit to what such a man could do with three hundred acres of black loam at Deep Lake!” He was nodding to himself. “No limit,” he repeated. “With new canals draining Okeechobee and the Glades, you’re going to see modern agriculture across this state and I’ll be in on it. Why would I risk such a great future by doing something stupid at the Bend?”

He sounded reasonable, sincere, yet something was very wrong. Did he really think coldblooded murder was merely “stupid”?

“I want my children proud instead of nervous and ashamed. I want my Carrie proud.” He eyed me carefully, nodding a little, and I saw he had always known I loved his daughter. “If I was the killer some folks say, do you think my family would be loyal? The only man against me is the biggest crook in southwest Florida. Uses the law to break the law.” Holding my eye, he nodded. “I bet you don’t like him any more than I do, Sheriff.”