“The Ichetucknee Kid,” I said, despising this awful pride in a point-blank shot.
Beyond Mike’s cabin, out toward the Banks place, light flashed and shimmered on the turning wheels of a farm wagon coming south down the white road. Under tall hardwoods of the forest edge, the flashing danced from sunlight into shade, sunlight again. Whoever drove that wagon-probably Calvin Banks-was not close enough to identify the killers, but he would be shortly, and Mills Winn, the mailman, might show up at any time.
“ ‘Leslie the Kid’-that what you said?” Cox was still grinning. “Go home,” I said. “Keep your damned mouth shut this time.” Taking back my shotgun, slipping the unused revolver back into my coat, I ran for the woodlot where my horse was tethered and jammed the shotgun back into its scabbard. Staying well clear of the roads, I galloped through the pine-woods: on the thick needle bed, the horse left scarcely a trace.
I felt weak as a runny egg, older than dirt. Knowing I had not pulled the trigger was no comfort. I had taken aim and intended to fire and was ready to finish him with the revolver, too, had that been necessary. There was no way to absolve myself of this one, not if I lived for another hundred years, and yet it was true: he had brought it on himself.
The revolver. Sensing the absence of its weight, I grabbed at my belt and pockets. My heart dropped to my guts, needles of fear raked at my temples. It was too late to hunt back along the trail. By now the postman would have come along and found Mike’s body. I left the woods, headed out across Reese’s field at a flat gallop.
That morning Jane had sent Frank out with a fresh shirt, sky blue against the dark brown of the loam. He had surely heard those shots over toward the Junction and he knew whose horse was pounding down on him right now. He never slowed or looked around but gazed fixedly at his mule’s bony rump as it shifted along between the traces. He refused to see me. Not until something thumped into the furrow right behind him did he stop the mule-
“Throw some dirt over that gun,” I called, cantering past. “Mark the place and keep on going.” Still he stared straight ahead. But over my shoulder, I saw him kick clods of earth over the weapon. Then he took up his reins and slapped the mule’s rump hard-
• • •
At my sister’s house, Julian and Willie and Jim Delaney Lowe were butchering a hog out by the smokehouse. I rode right up on ’em, scattering the dogs. “If anyone comes asking questions, boys,” I said, “I was right here in this yard since early morning, showing you the best way to dress that hog. I left for home just a short while ago, that clear?” I had been helping Billy Collins’s family since he died in the previous winter so this all made sense.
“We heard shots over yonder,” Julian said. My nephews were scared and unhappy, knowing I had come from that direction. Julian was looking at the empty scabbard. I pointed at his face. “Is that clear, Julian? I was here dressing that hog when you heard those shots. That is all you boys need to know or say to anybody.”
Sullen, they stood mute. Their friend Jim Delaney Lowe stared at his boots. Granny Ellen came to the kitchen door, then young May was in the window, waving, and Minnie’s pale face appeared over her shoulder. Seeing her brother talking with her sons, Minnie waved, too, but my bright-eyed little mother only watched me. “Tell them what I said,” I told the boys. I rode toward home.
Carrying fresh bread in a basket, Julian’s Laura left my house as I rode up. Her nervous glance in the direction of the Junction told me those shots had been heard here, too. Though surprised to see me at this time of day, Laura’s instinct told her not to inquire. Scarcely waving, she kept right on going.
CHAPTER 8
THE TRIALS
Sheriff Purvis in Lake City had been notified and a local crowd soon gathered at the Junction. When the law arrived that afternoon, bloodhounds were turned loose all around the mailbox. The early spring weather being cold and dry, the dogs lost my scent where I swung into the saddle, but Deputy R. T. Radford, fooling along a ways tracking the hoof prints, saw the glint on the woodland floor of what turned out to be a.38 revolver, fully loaded, not two hundred yards from the crime scene. Very few new Smith & Wessons had found their way into the backcountry, and it was known I had one. What Radford yelled back to the posse was, “I got Watson’s pistol!” So much for the presumption of innocence until found guilty.
“Where’s Watson’s nigger and the Cox boy?” others said. “Weren’t them two supposed to been in on it the last time?” So Purvis went to Sanfords’ place across the county line where the Coxes were now living with their kin, and Will Cox told him, “My boy Les been plowin yonder by them woods all day. We heard some shootin over east so Les reckoned he’d better go investigate.” Asked where Les might be right now, his father said he didn’t rightly know. And his old crony Sheriff Purvis said, “Don’t make no difference, Will, your word is good enough for me.” That being all the defense Les needed, he was never charged in the death of D. M. Tolen.
On the way to my place, the posse saw Reese working in the field and four of ’em rode over there to pick him up. This bunch was under Dr. Nance, who had always hung around the law and later took over Purvis’s job as sheriff. By pure bad luck, one of their horses stumbled in the furrows when its iron shoe struck metal, and the man dismounted and dug out the loaded gun. Nance ordered Frank to walk on over with his hands behind his head. Shown the shotgun, Frank said, “Please suh, us’ns got us a buck deer been usin in that field edge yonder-”
“That why you buried it?” Nance cuffed him. “Ain’t that Watson’s gun?” They marched him over to the road, hands high.
At my place, “Mr. Watson met them in good humor,” according to what I read next day in the Lake City paper. If that meant I was amiable, I guess I was, not knowing they already had both of my weapons. Kate and I stood on our porch as armed men lined up along my fence down on the road. Everything would be all right, I told her, hushing her questions.
Soon Josiah Burdett came up the hill, young Brooks Kinard behind him. Joe Burdett said, “Mornin, Edna,” but he never glanced her way, that’s how close he watched me. “Let’s go,” he said.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Joe,” I said, holding my temper. The boy’s knuckles clenched white on his gun. However, Burdett meant business and would shoot me if he had to, though he’d never shot a man in all his life. As for the Kinard kid, he would do whatever Joe did, and he had good instincts. Without being told, he moved back and to the side where he had a clear shot in case I tried something.
The posse took me to the same back room in Terry’s store where the late Sam Tolen had invited me to meet so he could shoot me. Reese sat on the floor against the wall. Hands cuffed behind and a murderous expression.
The Terrys were among the few folks in this section who’d been friends with Tolens so I was hooted by that dogless family when the deputies stood me on my feet and handcuffed me to my field hand for the train ride. I spoke right up, declaring that our great republic was in mortal peril when our own lawmen became lawbreakers, arresting citizens without warrants. By God, I would file a formal protest with my friend Governor Broward! Also, Jim Crow law had been Florida law for at least three years now, so how could they ride me handcuffed to a nigger when our trains were segregated?
“Principle of the damn thing. Nothing personal,” I whispered to my companion, who was still brooding over my role in his arrest.
“Mus’ be dat ’Merican justice you was speakin about.”
“I have my good name to think about. Law’s the law, you know.”
“That’s what she is, okay. Leastways for white folks.” His sulk was easing by that time, he seemed resigned. I tried to cheer him: we had come through worse than this in Arkansas. But in truth the law worried me less than the cold attitudes of these neighbors. The men scarcely glanced at us-not a good sign, because when men decide to hang someone, they can be shy about looking the doomed man in the eye. This is not true of their females. The Fort
