…how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind but now I see.
Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come.
Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
Before his family come, Mister Watson never had no interest in religion, not one bit, and he never had none after they was gone. I didn't neither. Time he was done with me, all I believed was what I saw in front of my own face, day in, day out. Later in life, there was a few held my Godless ways against me, but I couldn't help it. I didn't know who God was, or Him me.
One morning not long after Aunt Jane and the children arrived, I heard men's voices shouting off the river, and I knew his visitors from the north had come for Mister Watson. I run downstairs as he jumped to get his gun. Mrs. Watson went all trembly, saying, "Oh, please, Edgar!" She didn't want no trouble and I don't guess he did neither, not with little children in the house. So what he done, he took a bead and skinned half the handlebar mustache off of the ringleader, who had stood up in the boat and was hollering about how E.J. Watson was under arrest. Mister Watson shut him up and run that posse off his river with one bullet.
Later Bill House come along and told me how it started, and I told him how it all panned out. Bill thought it was funnier'n I did, but he was excited all the same, and had all kinds of questions about Mister Watson. Bill House was in that Chokoloskee crowd on that black Monday in October 1910, and he talked about Mister Watson all his life.
BILL HOUSE
Not long after Elijah Carey fixed up Richard Hamilton's old house, along come a well-knowed plume hunter and common moonshiner from Lemon City way, south of New River. Crossed the Glades and paddled up to Possum Key from Harney River, brought quite a smell of the east coast into our cabin. Kept his old straw hat on even in the house, leather galluses, shirt buttoned to the collar, wore a lot of beard and grime to head off miskeeters. Big chaw of Brown Mule stuck into his face, and spat all over our nice clean dirt floor. What Ed Brewer liked the best, folks said, was to spike a barrel of his shine with some Red Devil lye, then head out into the Glades, pep up his heathen clientele so's they couldn't think straight, let alone chase him, then trade the dregs of what them redskins called wy-omee for every otter pelt and gator flat he could lay his hands on. Rotgut sold by fellers like Ed Brewer killed more Injuns than the soldiery ever done, and give us honest traders a bad name. He had a squaw with him that day, couldn't been more than twelve years old, and so dead drunk he laid her out under the eaves and just forgot about her. Later her band would throw her out for sleeping with a white man, and this was the one who come to a bad end, down Chatham River.
Ed Brewer were a watchful and slow-spoken man, thick-set and sluggish as a cottonmouth till that quick moment when he lets you have it. Passed for white but more likely a breed, with bead-black Injun eyes and straight black hair. His hands set quiet but them black eyes flickered in a funny way, like he was listening to voices in his head that had more interesting business with Ed Brewer than what was happening around our table. Sheriffs was after this poor feller on both coasts for peddling wy-omee to the Mikasukis, so he was looking for a place to settle, get some peace of mind.
When he finally spoke, he cut off Captain Lige like he wasn't there. "Way I heard," Ed Brewer said, handing around his deluxe jug without no lye in it, "that big old Injun mound at Chatham Bend might be just the place for an enterprising citizen such as myself."
Captain Carey, a big red-faced feller with soft and easy ways, took him a snort of Brewer's hospitality that made his eyes pop. He shook it off, banged down the jug, and give a sigh like some old doleful porpoise in the channel.
"Whoa!" he says, and puts a big soft hand up. "Feller already on there, Ed."
"So I heard," Ed Brewer said. Them other two looked at him like they expected him to explain hisself. He didn't.
While we was pondering, the Frenchman poured himself a little lightning, eyebrows way up higher than usual and his bony nose just a-twitching with disgust, as if to say, This shit sure ain't what your quality likes to drink back in the Old World! But Captain Lige grabbed the jug again and hoisted it onto his elbow, American-style, just to be sociable, and helped himself to another slug of our guest's hootch. Next time he surfaced, he coughed out a Key West rumor: The one who cleared the way on Chatham Bend, letting on to the sheriff where he could find the late Will Raymond, was none other than a feller named Ed Watson.
"Heard that one clear across to Lemon City," Brewer said, pushing his jug at Lige again, "Any sonofabitch would do that to another human bein ain't got nothin comin, if I take your meanin."
"In a manner of speaking, yes and no," Captain Lige told him, raising his pink palm to advise caution. "Paid off the widow for the claim, so he has rights. According to the law," Captain Lige added.
"Law!" the Frenchman scoffed, disgusted. "In la belle France, we cut off foking head!" We done our best to work around him, but he went off on one of his tirades, quoting Detockveel and Laffyett and some other old Frog fellers that could tell us boys a thing or two about America.
"Foking!" Ed Brewer said, trying that word out. I can't explain why Ed spoke in French, lest he wanted to befuddle up the Frenchman. Then Brewer told us that the news was out in Lemon City how this skunk Watson were a wanted man in two-three states. Here was our chance, says Ed, to do our duty as good citizens and a good turn to ourselves while we was at it.
So all us citizens sat forward, put our heads together, while Brewer laid his cards upon the table, at least some of 'em. Them three able-bodied men-him and Carey and the Frenchman-was going to get the drop on Watson, claim they had a warrant, hogtie that sonofabitch, Ed Brewer said, and take him in. Even if there weren't no reward, Watson was sure to get sent back to Arkansas, serve out his term, and while he was paying his debt to society, us honest citizens would have the plume trade to ourselves.
Here's where Brewer got the lowdown on Ed Watson. Over there in Lemon City, Brewer's friend Sam Lewis worked as bartender in Pap Worth's Pool Room, and Sam Lewis introduced him to two hombres on the dodge from Dallas, Texas. They was old friends of the late Maybelle Shirley Starr, and they was asking questions about Watson. Well, they sat down at the bar and told Ed Brewer how they come east to Arcadia to take work in the range wars for a while. A gunslinger from Oklahoma, one Jack Watson, had put some bullets in a Quinn Bass while in town, and they got the idea from the description that this Watson was none other than the polecat that shot poor Maybelle clean out of the saddle on her own birthday, February '89. So Ed Brewer told them Texans, Boys, a feller of that selfsame description sliced the daylights out of somebody down to Key West.
"Jack Watson?" I said.
"E. Jack Watson," said Ed Brewer, waving me off. "Selfsame sorry sonofabitch as we are talking about right here tonight."
That was the first and last I ever heard about Watson traveling under the name Jack-I had my doubts. But the Frenchman hissed at me, "Wheep-aire snap-aire!" so I hushed up.
Well, one of these Texans, name of Ed Highsmith, vowed he would go gunning for Jack Watson soon as he sobered up enough to figure out where Jack Watson was at. "Yessir," Ed Highsmith declared, "when I ain't snot-flyin drunk, this E. Jack Watson goin to be my hobby."
Well, I knew Ed Highsmith weren't made-up, cause I recognized his name, Sam Lewis, too, from Ted Smallwood's story of the year before when him and Isaac Yeomans were clearing citrus land around Lemon City.
Lemon City, north of the Miami River, was a few groves and maybe two hundred people counting all of the outlying homesteads. The east coast railroad coming through brought chain-gang workers to lay track, had foremen out there with black whips to keep them criminals on the job, and ones that died was dumped in the limestone sinkholes by the right-of-way. After that come saloons and a whorehouse, there was a lot of scrapes, a lot of shooting.
One day Ted and Isaac run into these fellers, and Davis had a lot of teeth knocked out and bleeding. According to Smallwood, Davis said, "We are old boys from Texas, slightly disfigured but still in the ring." A couple of days later they caused a uproar at Pap Worth's Pool Room & Bar, got to winging billiard balls at the bar-keep's head cause he wouldn't leave off telling 'em to behave.
This barkeep, Sam Lewis, was known to be a hothead and a deadeye shot with his Marlin.44, could shoot a man's bung hole out so clean he'd wonder if he might of cut a fart. So when Sam grabbed his rifle off the wall, them two decided it was time to take their leave. As they went out, Sam's bullet split the doorframe maybe a possum's-pecker-length over Highsmith's head, and only that much because somebody had sense enough to knock his arm up. Highsmith and Davis were so irked on top of being drunk that they hollered at Lewis through the window they would be back to settle their account first thing next morning. Might have had a second thought when they woke up, but having said that, why, they had to do it. In them days there was still some honor, and a man was careful not to say nothing he wouldn't stand by. Otherwise nobody took him serious, they walked all over him.
Ted and Isaac was eating up their grits in Doddy and Rob's Restaurant when them two Texans come along the street, and Sam Lewis stepped out with his Marlin.44 and got the drop on them. He told Highsmith if he did not get down on his knees in that there mud and apologize for braying like a goddamn Texas jackass, he would have to shoot him. So Highsmith said, Well, shoot then or shut up, you sonofabitch! Never thought to ask his partner whether Davis thought them words was wise or not. So Lewis put a bullet through Ed Highsmith, and Highsmith went in by the back door of the restaurant so's not to bother nobody and lay down on the floor to think it over.
George Davis spun sideways to give Lewis a hard target, and Sam Lewis shot him through the heart, dropped Davis dead there in the road. They dragged him in and laid him out beside his partner, and Highsmith opened his eyes up, took a look, and closed his eyes again. "Slightly disfigured," he sighed, "and all my fault."
Ted and Isaac went in with the crowd to hear Highsmith's last words. "Tell the Freemasons," he said, "that Ed Highsmith is gone. Tell 'em I brought damnation down without no help from nobody at all."
Might seem to some that Lewis done what was meet and proper to keep them highfalutin boys in line. But Sam Lewis come from other parts and was not popular, and poor George Davis left behind a little family, so they called Sam Lewis a bloodthirsty killer that would shoot a family man as quick as look at him, and being family men themselves, they all took cover. Not one would come out, help dig the grave, for fear Sam Lewis might take it in his head to send a few more family men to meet their maker.
The two pretty Douthit girls was looking on, so Isaac and Ted stepped forward. They dug the one grave big enough for both, and them two fellers went to hell together. Bob Douthit and some other fellers formed a posse-Ed Brewer claimed he was on that posse, wanted to try the other side, I guess-but Sam Lewis hid out and got away, went on across to the Bahamas.
The people knew Sam Lewis was dead stubborn. They expected him back to get his gear cause he'd said out plain he had not done one thing wrong, so the whole settlement was armed and laying for him. And out of his honor he come back, knocked on a door after dark and asked for food, and when the woman asked Who's there?, damn if he didn't come right out with it-Sam Lewis! A homesteader guarding that house shot Sam Lewis, broke his leg. He took Sam's Marlin.44, then bent and lit a match, and the woman hollers, If that there is Sam Lewis, shoot again!
There was a young boy on guard, too, and that boy was raring to do his duty and put a bullet in the culprit. Sam Lewis pulled a pistol and put a bullet in the homesteader and sent another singing past that boy. After that he crawled into a shed. He told the lynch mob through the door he would go peaceable if he could go to trial, otherwise he aimed to take as many straight to hell with him as the law allowed.
They rode Sam Lewis to the jail at Juno, Florida. When the homesteader died a few days later-this was July of 1895-the men went to Juno and took Sam Lewis out and lynched him, and shot the nigger jailkeeper while they was at it. Made what you might call a nice clean job.
Anyways Ed Brewer figured that bringing in the famous E. Jack Watson would improve his reputation with the sheriff on top of earning the reward. But Chevelier warned him there was no way of coming up on Watson by surprise. The small stretch that overlooked the Bend was the only break in them green walls, cause the place was surrounded on three sides and more by a mangrove tangle a greased Injun couldn't slip through. Besides that, everybody knowed how that high ground, in storm, drew every critter on these rivers, it was one of the worst places for rattlers, let alone cottonmouths, in all the Islands. Them vipers piled up on Chatham Bend, time of high water, and they never left.
"We'll come down the river in the dark," Ed Brewer said, "surround the house, and take him when he comes out in the morning."
Lige Carey's chuckle didn't sound too good. "Mister Watson never goes unarmed, and he is a dead shot," Lige says. I catch the tightness in his voice and so does Brewer, who says, "That so, Cap'n?" He takes up his rifle and steps out the door and shoots the head clean off a snake bird that's craning down from the top of a dead snag over the creek. He let that bird slap on the water and spin a little upside down, legs kicking. Then he comes back in, sets his gun back by the door, and says, "I reckon three can handle one, we put our mind to it."
I ain't spoke up for a while so I says, "Better make it four!" I ain't got one thing in the world against Ed Watson but I don't want to miss out, and I shoot pretty fair, too, if I do say so. (Also I want to make damn sure that none of these drunks goes over there and shoots poor Henry Thompson, who is somber enough already without getting shot.) Them men just scoff cause the way they see it, I am still a boy. So I missed my chance to join a Watson posse, had to wait another fifteen years.
In Captain Lige's opinion, which me and the Frenchman got to hear a lot, we gentlemen was sick and tired of violence in south Florida. Why, taking the law in your own hands was worse in Florida, yells Lige, than out in the Far West, where men was men, what with so many desperadoes and bad actors hiding out down here in our trackless swamps like dregs in the bottom of a jug of moonshine. Ol' Lige come right out and shouted the word moonshine! as a hint to our guest to do his bounden duty, he give me a big wink when he done it, and Ed Brewer sloshed some shine in my tin cup, glug-glug, glug-glug, to get the whippersnapper liquored up long with the rest.
"Now you take this Watson fellow!" Lige was shouting. Down in Key West, most people said that Dolphus Santini was smart to take that money-well, Elijah P. Carey disagreed and didn't care who knew it, he slapped his hand down on the table, spilling drinks. "Watson had that sum right in his pocket! Nine hundred dollars! And every red cent of it ill-gotten, you may rest assured!" What happened to a leading citizen should not go unpunished, Captain Carey said. Well, nine hundred dollars were pretty good punishment back then, was my opinion; that's what Smallwoods would pay for Santini's whole damn claim on Chokoloskee. Lige Carey never knew Santini, never knew how he got to be leading citizen in the first place. You show Dolphus nine hundred dollars, his eyes would glaze right over like a rattler. He was a rich man by our standards, and he earned every penny, and I guess you could say he earned it this time, too.
Anyway, he took Ed Watson's money. Maybe Dolphus was worried about lawyers' fees, or maybe he thought the federal attorney, who was one of Watson's drinking partners, might bring a poor attitude to the case. This weren't unlikely, cause ol' Ed was just as popular as not around Key West. And maybe Watson had him scared so bad that he didn't
want to rile him any further. He had no choice about the scar, so he decided he would take the money. This way, next time they met, there'd be no hard feelings. Watson could say, How's that ol' scar doing, Dolphus? And Dolphus could holler, Why, just fine, E.J.! Coming along fine!
Elijah Carey was still shouting. "How could Santini accept a bribe after such an experience, instead of putting that villain behind bars where he belonged? Gentlemen," he yells, "I am astonished!"
"Astonish!" sniffs the Frenchman, inching a little more lightning into his glass like it was medicine. "I am astonish from first foking day I set foots in America. What is require is la guillotine, in every foking vee-lage in this foking con-trie."
Might seem sassy for a boy to interrupt, but being from Chokoloskee Bay, I was the only one acquainted personal with D. Santini, and the time had come to tell my partners what was what. "Nothing astonishing about it, gentlemen!" pipes up young House.
The other citizens all stared at me, kind of impatient, and I had to get my say in quick before Chevelier could shoo me off. "Old Man Dolphus likes money, that's why he's got so much. For nine hundred dollars he can buy what little farm land he don't already own on Chokoloskee."
There was no law in the Islands, I reminded 'em, a man took care of his own business, and a killing was not what you might call scarce-though the Islands was kind of like them Hamiltons, as Tant Jenkins used to say, they never was as black as they was painted. However, Key West was trying out some law after a long spell without none, so Watson paid Dolphus in hard cash not to take the case to court, let bygones be bygones. That was that. Nobody at home thought much about it.
Killing Mister Watson Page 10
