Shadow Country

trolling two handlines. The tin spoons gleamed in the white lace of the wake. Almost at once they were struck hard by a Spanish mackerel, then a crevalle. I hauled the big fish in hand over hand and knocked them off the hooks with hard smacks of my fish club-not on the crown, which makes a nice clean job of it, but on the gill covers, to send blood flying as they slapped and skittered in the stern. When the fish lay quiet on the bloodied deck, gill covers lifting and closing, I went aft and dropped them overboard. Too late I noticed the small boat in an open channel between islands. That boy might have seen me dealing with those fish but by the time he brought his catch in after dark, it wouldn’t matter.

In Rabbit Key Pass when out of nerves I slowed the Warrior to check the weapons a last time, her overtaking wake, lifting her stern and running on, slapped into the stilt roots all along the channel. In a little while she cleared the Pass and turned north up the Bay toward Chokoloskee, which rose dead ahead like a black fortress as the western sky withdrew its light from the iron water. In this twilight of late October, all my days had gathered.

I slowed the boat and unloaded every weapon.

Gurgling softly at low speed along the oyster bars, the engine sounded much too loud, unbearable. They would be waiting yonder in the shadows of the trees, the rifles pointed at my heart. As the boat neared, the helmsman’s silhouette would offer a target that even men quaking with buck fever could not miss. I might see but I would never hear that burst of fire. All was too late, there was no sanctuary and nothing left undone. The War-rior rounded the last bar into the anchorage and slipped between the moored and anchored boats, coasting toward shore, as what had looked like vegetation in the dusk emerged as a misshapen mass of human figures.

I was now well within rifle range. I was afraid again. Fear seeped into my lungs, gave me the shivers. I longed to crouch down out of view but that instinct was the wrong one. I stood rigid.

In the last light, the wind had backed around into the east. There it was, my darkling star, fleeing the sharp point of the quarter moon. In the days past, I had imagined I’d experienced the innermost despair, the utmost loneliness. I was mistaken.

DARKNESS

Since Smallwood’s docks had been stripped away by storm, my rough plan was to idle close to shore until any and all arguments were settled: this would permit me to back out in a hurry. But in that last moment of choice, I realized that the least sign of wariness or hesitation must be avoided: in the absence of a dock, E. J. Watson would damn well coast right in and beach her near the boatways. I took a deep breath and yanked the spark plug wire.

The ringing silence when the engine quit seemed louder than the engine: crossing the water to the foreshore, it broke that mass of humankind into clusters, moving shapes. Behind these figures, others crossed the yellow lamplight in the doorway of the store. Fearing that any sudden shout might turn this hydra-headed thing into a death mob, I stifled a desperate impulse to cry out, Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!, and raise my hands as high as possible.

The Warrior had come within shotgun range on her final glide to shore. I forced myself to turn my back on all those guns and toss out a stern anchor, but this harmless maneuver caused a groan that swelled in the next moment when the boat’s stem, colliding with the bottom, went aground on the shelly sand with a loud harsh scrape.

I had my bow line coiled and ready at the helm. I tossed its loops onto the shore for some willing boy to hitch around a tree. Throughout I kept my movements slow and easy, counting on the stir and shift caused by my arrival to provide the distraction I would need just to survive the next few moments.

Smiling to show how much their friend E. J. appreciated this fine welcome party, waving and calling in the direction of the store-“I’m here, Mrs. Watson! Happy Birthday!”-I picked up the shotgun and, as the crowd surged back, stepped quickly up onto the bow and leapt, forcing my breath hard against my chest to meet the burning whack of lead on its way to strike me dead in the next moment. On shore, I straightened, the shotgun resting harmlessly on my left arm; for a moment, I felt dizzy, all went black. No voice spoke. The moment passed.

“Evening, boys,” I said.

Willie Brown’s screech came from way back by the store. “E. J.? Lay that gun down!” I grinned as if Willie were joking.

Old Man House was right up front, flanked by his older boys, Bill and Dan Junior. Counting Houses, they were close to twenty, every one of them aiming a weapon, with a few squinting over their raised barrels. I smelled moonshine.

Willie again: “You hear me, Ed? Lay down that shootin iron!”

Waving in Willie’s direction, I declared how darned tickled I was to see such a fine turnout of my friends taking the evening air.

“Never mind that, Watson. Where’s he at?”

“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.