was delivered at Key West because he would not stand for having his young wife pawed over in her labor by that barefoot mulatta man at Lost Man’s River who would probably use his oyster knife to shuck her out. Ted didn’t like it when his wife talked rough like that. Said E. J. was good friends with Richard Harden but insisted on more up-to- date care for his young Edna, and anyway, he added, getting cross, there was quite a few was shucked by Old Man Richard that were still alive today to tell the tale.
Maybe Ted defended that old man because he let Hardens sneak into our store, not wanting to lose customers to Storters. Any Harden with a few pennies in his hand could knock on our door late of a Sunday evening and Ted Smallwood would go right down in his nightshirt, though he didn’t care for that mixed-breed bunch any more than I did: never knew their place or paid it no attention, I don’t know which is worse, and probably stole.
On their way home from Key West, E. J. and Edna and little Amy May passed through on their way to Chatham River. Told about the man awaiting him, E. J. stopped short and said, “That man look Injun?”
“Dark straight hair. Could be a breed.”
“Look like some shiftless kind of preacher?”
“No.” Ted would not grant any resemblance between that stranger and a man of God. I didn’t contradict my husband but Mister Watson glimpsed my doubt. Making that little bow, he asked “Miss Mamie” if he might impose on our hospitality once again? Would we look after Edna and the children while he saw to his visitor at Chatham Bend?
In two days he came back for the family. The Watsons had a quarrel up in our spare room before Edna came down teary-eyed to get the children ready. Plainly this stranger’s presence on the Bend was a dreadful blow to that young woman. Not that she ever spoke of him, that day or later.
All that hot summer, Edna and her children spent more time at Chokoloskee than at Chatham Bend. Stayed under our roof most of the time but also with Alice McKinney and Marie Lopez, who was newly wed to Wilson Alderman under that dilly tree at Lopez River. Wilson had worked on E. J. Watson’s farm in Columbia County, knew a lot about his murder trials in north Florida but would not speak about it. All the same, I reckon it was Wilson who let slip this John Smith’s real name.
OWEN HARDEN
With the wild things scarce and fishin poor, me’n Webster went to digging clams off Pavilion Key. We was glad to find Tant Jenkins there that we hadn’t hardly seen since he left Mister Watson, he was stilll lank as a dog and lots of fun. One day Watson showed up, and he hardly got ashore before ol’ Tant was riding him. “Lookee here what’s come to call! Damn if it ain’t that dretful desperader!” Us onlookers was hunting for a place to hide, but Watson was so tickled to see Tant, he just smiled and waved. Seeing that, Tant started showin off. “Well, men, I’m tellin you right here and now that Mr. S. S. Jenkins don’t aim to take no shit off this here dretful desperader just on account he’s some kind of a
Mister Watson dearly loved that bony feller, he’d take about anything off Tant where he might of took his knife to someone else. But after the Tuckers, it seemed like Tant’s teasing had grew an edge to it, and this day he strutted around cocking his head back like a turkey gobbler, looking Mister Watson up and down. “Nosir, boys, I ain’t a-scaird of no damn desperader just on account he’s packing so much hardware under that coat he cain’t hardly
Mister Watson laughed till he had to wipe his eyes. Tant purely made him feel good, you could see it. Only thing, feeling that edge, he made Tant finish what he started.
Tant seemed to know that if he dared grin, dared let the air out of his own joke, he would lose the game. And this day he went too far, went to bobbin and weavin in and out, fists up like a boxer. His little mustache was just a-bristling. “Step up and take your punishment lest you ain’t man enough!” Watson grinned some more but that grin was a trap. He enjoyed letting this mouse run. Tant knew that, too, but couldn’t help himself, he bust out laughing, and Watson’s grin closed down tighter’n a orster.
Ed Watson fished his watch out, looked it over, as if figuring how many minutes of life this man had left. The men all knew Ed must be foolin, but they couldn’t be dead sure so they edged away. Very sudden, Watson barked into Tant’s face, “You never heard about that feller who died laughing?” And them words purely terrified ol’ Tant, had him strugglin to pull some shape back to his face.
Knowin Ed Watson as he did, Tant guessed quick that the man wanted him to put up some kind of fight, so he come right back as best he dared: he turned to us onlookers and swore in a tight voice that S. S. Jenkins had just seen the light and would never again make fun of this here Emperor, not even if we was to pay him fourteen dollars.
With no money left when he came home and more work to be done than his home crew could handle, Ed Watson took any harvest labor he could find. Chatham Bend already had a reputation for hiring escaped convicts and got a worse one when rumors went around that field hands were disappearing. Course nobody knew who was down there in the first place, but people were hinting that Watson must be killing off his help when the time come to pay ’em. He had killed before, they said, he had that habit.
Us Hardens never put no stock in what folks took to calling “Watson Payday.” But knowing what we knew about the Tuckers, we couldn’t quite forget about it either.
The foreman at the Watson place was Dutchy Melville, a Key West hoodlum who got caught looting after the Hurricane of 1909, then burned down a cigar factory on account them Cubans wouldn’t pay him not to. Killed a lawman who tried to interfere but escaped the noose due to his youth and winning ways. Escaped from the chain gang, too, while he was at it, and stowed away on the
Dutchy Melville was a common-sized man, kind of a dirty complexion. Folks knew his people in Key West, good people, too, but if you didn’t know how much they hated Spaniards, you might of seen a hair of Spanish in ’em. In one way Dutchy was like Mister Watson, very soft-spoke, nice to meet, and everybody liked him, but some way wild and crazy all the same. Wore big matched revolvers on a holster belt for all to see. One day there on Watson’s dock, young Dexter Hamilton from Lost Man’s Beach got to hold his gun belts while he did a real front flip, landed on his feet soft as a cat like a regular acrobat out of a circus.
First year Dutchy come, Mister Watson made him foreman, cause those six-guns scared the crew so bad they was glad to work any way the foreman told ’em. Dutchy made fast workers out of slow ones by letting ’em think he had nothing left to lose; if he got the idea to blow their heads off, he might just do that for the target practice. But after him and Mister Watson quarreled over money, Dutchy spoiled a whole year’s worth of syrup while Watson was away, took off on some boat and wound up in New York City. From there he wrote his boss a sassy postcard.
Spring of 1910, a stranger come. “John Smith.” Turned out later that his rightful name was Leslie Cox. Some said Cox was Watson’s cousin and some said he saved Watson’s hide one time up north, and later we learned he was a killer that run off from the chain gang, same as Dutchy. Cox had a voice deep as a alligator and a sly mean mouth, said Isaac Yeomans, who run him down from Chokoloskee to the Bend, but he weren’t around here long enough for folks to picture him. Some said his black hair was long like a Injun, some said it was cropped short, looked more like fur. Maybe that was their imagination. I seen him myself a time or two but don’t recall what his hair looked like, only that I didn’t like his looks.
Tant Jenkins, out hunting in Lost Man’s Slough, come downriver in late spring with a young Mikasuki squaw and dropped her at the Bend. Injuns wouldn’t work for whites, wouldn’t work for nobody, but this girl was a drunk whose people had turned their back on her for laying with Tom Brewer to settle what she owed for Brewer’s moonshine; she was huddled on the bank dead sick, and if Tant hadn’t of come along, she might of died. Nobody at Chatham Bend spoke enough Injun to tell that girl where she should sleep at; probably figured that redskins mostly
