Killing Mister Watson

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.

Way Ted told it, these two Texans, Ed Highsmith and George Davis, come in and got drunk every Saturday, picked fights with anyone they wanted. Only feller they never fought with was a moonshiner, Ed Brewer, who kept 'em in liquor and told 'em he'd put 'em on the track of E. Jack Watson soon as they put two sober days together.

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