“That crewman and the other feller stayed below but both of ’em heard Bradley’s answer. He said, ‘Put down that rifle, then, and I will come aboard.’ Heard them words and then right away two shots.
“That evenin, we seen Walt Smith’s boat come into Flamingo. He picked up his family and took off again. When Guy never showed up, Fronie got worried, come to see me. She said, ‘Gene, my man never come home so I’d appreciate you have a look around first thing in the mornin.’
“I started across at daybreak, feelin bad. Not a sign of nothin at Bird Key, but scannin up and down the coast, I seen Guy’s little sailing sloop drifted up on shore. I went on over there and found Guy slumped forward, dead, shot through the neck.”
“Walt Smith went straight back to Key West,” I told Lucius, “and spread the word that the bird warden was dead. Someone said, ‘Ed Watson kill him?’ And Smith said, ‘That could be.’ When it turned out I was away up north, he changed his story, admitted he might of done the job himself in self-defense. Said Bradley fired first-‘malice aforemost,’ he called it-and showed two slugs he had dug out of his mast to prove it. Guy not being likely to miss a man at point-blank range, it seemed pretty clear that Smith shot those holes himself, but his crewmen would not testify against him.”
“Didn’t want no trouble,” Gene agreed. “I went to Key West and told the court that all six cartridges was still in Guy’s revolver when I found him. Smith’s bullet had pierced into his neck and down his spine because it was fired from above. I said Bradley never left his boat and probably took a very long time dyin. And my daddy, Steve L. Roberts, who built Guy’s coffin and helped bury him, told that jury about the death threat Smith made two months earlier, said that was a message Smith meant Guy to receive and Guy received it. He knew about that threat when he sailed out there.
“Well, them young Smiths stepped up and swore on their Smith family honor that Guy Bradley weren’t nothin but a deep-dyed plumer hidin behind all that Audubonin, that he was still partners with his brother Lew and them dang Roberts boys, who was not only Mainlanders but the most bloodthirstiest aigret butchers in all south Florida. Swore that Bradley harassed God-fearin Key Westers cause they give his Mainland partners too much competition. Naturally the grand jury was dead set against putting a Key West man on trial for a thing like that so they opened up the jailhouse door and sent him home.”
Gene Roberts told Lucius that thanks to Walter Smith, a lot of people still believed Guy’s killer was Ed Watson. “So when people talk about your daddy, son,” Gene said, raising his glass to me, “you has got to remember there’s been plenty killins blamed on E. J. Watson that he never done. Compared to some of the low skunks I seen around the Glades, your dad here is a fine upstandin feller. I myself have heard Nap Broward say that his friend E. J. Watson was that old leather breed of frontier American that made this country great.”
I believe Lucius felt much better, hearing these things.
Few years later, another warden named MacLeod was waylaid at Charlotte Harbor. Found his sunk skiff, found his hat, which had two ax marks through it. They never came up with the body and nobody was ever brought to court. Of course I was blamed for that one, too, but Lucius knew I was in Fort White throughout that period. He loves his Papa and I love him back as well as I know how, which is probably not as well as other dad-dies. On the other hand, I am the best he’s got.
CHAPTER 6
YOUNG KATE EDNA
William Parker Bethea, a Baptist minister, sharecropped a piece of the plantation across the Fort White Road from Joe Burdett, and his family grew close to the Burdetts and Porters. His widowed daughter from his first marriage came to visit, and John Porter, a born meddler, suggested to both parties that Mrs. Lola McNair and Mr. E. J. Watson might take kindly to each other. Having nothing in the world against sweet widows, I fluffed up my whiskers, borrowed the red trap with bright gold spokes in which Billy Collins had once courted his Miss Minnie, and sparkled over there of a nice Sunday to pay my respects.
The Reverend in black preaching suit, white socks, and high black shoes was sitting in a rocker on his front porch. “Good day, sir,” said I. “E. J. Watson is my name. I am a friend of John L. Porter, come a-calling.” When I lifted my hat and introduced myself, he rose from his chair as if preparing to defend his hearth and home. Like so many in the preaching line, he looked like a more steadfast man than he turned out to be.
“Yessir,” he said in a stiff voice. “We know who you are.”
Hearing those cold words, I almost left without another word. But even as he spoke, Preacher Bethea was hastening out into the sunlight for a better look at my red trap with its fringed canopy, and after an uneasy kind of pause while he scratched his neck, this man of God stuck out his knobby hand. I gave it a good honest shake and he waved me up onto the porch, saying, “Make yourself to home here, Mr. Watson.”
Watching me was a young girl in a white frock who stood behind his rocker like a servant. She had wide brown eyes in a calm and kindly face and long soft taffy-colored hair down past her shoulders. This was not Lola but her younger sister Catherine Edna, who was of that age when a female of our species can be handsome and pretty both. Showing nice manners for that part of the country, she curtsied to her father’s guest and ever so winsome skipped away to fetch her sister.
What Preacher Bethea was up to in that moment only his Lord knew, but my guess would be, he was tussling with the Devil. And ol’ Beezlebub whipped God’s messenger well and quick, because even before I flapped my coattails up and sat my arse down in his rocker, I knew this man would never give me trouble. As farmer and preacher, he was well acquainted with my neighbors, including his landlord, the loud and loose-mouthed Tolen, and surely he’d heard rumors about E. J. Watson. Yet never once, on this day or later, did this man seek to assure himself that this stranger of dark repute would not sully his daughter.
By the time I left that afternoon, I had concluded that the Preacher’s plan was to sweep out the leftover girls from his first marriage, make room for the second batch coming along. He had two new kids and a third one in the oven, and no doubt dreaded the burden of the widow and her children somewhat more than permitting the younger sister to fall into the grasp of a known criminal.
By now Catherine Edna had returned, busting out onto the porch all in a flurry. When she smoothed her skirt and bowed forward a little to sit down on the steps, I could not help but note the apple bosom swelling in her frock. However, that was my own need, there was no guile in her. If she noticed all my noticing, she gave no sign, just beamed into my face like a fresh fruit pie. By the time Mis Lola and her little girl had joined us on the porch, it was already too late, I had my wicked sights set on her sister. All in a moment, Catherine Edna, whom I would call Kate, had twisted my loins harder than any female since poor Charlie Collins, who had moldered in the Bethel graveyard many a long year by the time this randy man of God, panting and croaking, had clambered aboard and fired up the womb of his late wife, setting this sweet child on the path of Life and Glory.
“Expected you Saturday,” the Preacher said, a little sour. “Lola’s just fixing to leave.”
The Widow Lola had the same calm, kindly manner as her sister, but also the sad quiet in her face of a young woman suddenly condemned to live mostly in the past who expects little or nothing from the future. Her hair was up in a big roll on her head, the way all married women wore it, and childbearing had thickened her a little through the midriff.
Lola McNair did not stay long. She was taking the afternoon train to Lake City, and the Reverend went off to hitch up his buggy to drive her and her children to the Junction. When she rose to go, she took my hand, smilng a little, having sensed what was already taking place. “So-o”-she drawled that small word slowly-“Mr. Watson.” I bowed, we exchanged a smile. Releasing my hand, she said how much she’d enjoyed meeting me, adding, “Next time, y’all come calling just a little sooner.”
Miss Lola was not flirtatious and she was not teasing me, only herself, having lost a suitor before she had even laid eyes on him-even before she knew whether she might want him. And she did not mind that I had seen her
