Killing Mister Watson

scent of haze from far-off fires in the Glades. The more us young fry thought about it, the more certain we become that Mister Watson would come get us, sooner or later. I was having nightmares. Mister Watson would loom up in the window, just the outline of him, that big barrel chest and that broad hat, and the moon glinting on his gun and whiskers.

Our mama never put no stock in it, I know that now-He's been our generous neighbor, not a thief!-but even Mama used him as a bogeyman. You don't jump in that bed quick, Mister Watson'll gitcha! Toward the end she give up, she seen how scared we was, and maybe she'd got a little nervous too.

Sure enough, Mister Watson came, maybe two-three days before the hurricane. We heard that motor popping from a long ways off, coming up across the Gulf wind, a sound like muffled rifle shots, but steady. He called that launch the Brave but us kids called her the May-Pop, on account she didn't always run too good. Later on Gene Hamilton had a launch just like her, but the Brave was the only motorboat down in the rivers before 1910, so we had no doubt about who was on his way.

When the motor stopped, kind of too sudden, we thought he'd beached her and was sneaking up along the shore. But soon he come drifting around the point on the flood tide, poling, y'know, the way the Injuns do it. He worked her over to our little dock, where he took his coat off and begun to tinker with his engine. My uncle Henry Daniels at Pavilion Key had fixed that engine earlier that season, and she had got the man all the way here. Not being so sure why she broke down smack at our place, we become uneasy.

My dad, Frank Hamilton, was back inland with Uncle Jesse Hamilton and Henry Thompson, grubbing out royal palms on the Johnson Mound, cause times was very hard and getting harder. Mama said, I hope our men have heard that motor. They heard it, all right, and they come quick as they could, but that weren't quick enough.

At that time, fall of 1910, we had just got word that the state of Florida had passed more laws against the plume trade, and gator and otter already so scarce down in the rivers that it didn't hardly pay to hunt no more. We couldn't compete in the fishing trade with them other Hamiltons, who had a rancho out there on Wood Key and a dock where the runboats could bring in ice and take their fish away. Our few vegetables didn't mean a thing no more in the Key West market, even when we could get 'em down there without spoiling. Wasn't nothing much left but grubbing out royal palms for Fort Myers streets or ricking buttonwood for charcoal. Got to cut ten cords a day, tote 'em and stack 'em, then cover the pile with grass and sand until it's airtight, all but a few holes at the bottom to fire it and a vent on top. You get you a crookback and maybe twenty bags of charcoal for all that heat and dirt and donkeywork, and twenty bags ain't going to buy a living.

Grandpap said, 'Get up at daylight, work like mules till dusk, lay down stinking and half bit to death by skeeters, too damn tired to wash. Get up next morning daylight, do it all again, year in, year out. See any sense to it?'

Grandpap weren't up to the cutting and stacking, not no more, not ten cords in a day. No old man is going to last long ricking buttonwood, and this one figured to die in the attempt. Down to Shark River, they cut mangrove for tanning, one of the Atwell boys was in on it, but that work was too heavy for Grandpap, too. It sure looked like we would have to leave all our hard work behind, say good-bye to Lost Man's, go to Pavilion Key, where Granddaddy Jim Daniels was foreman of the clam crews and Uncle Lewis Hamilton cooked on the dredge-either that or work in the Caxambas cannery longside the niggers. So Mister Watson was standing by to take over our claim on Lost Man's Beach, and Grandpap had it in for him on general principles, not on account Mister Watson done him wrong but on account he'd used up his old heart at Lost Man's, and it was too late in life to start again.

Our family always ambled out to welcome visitors at the landing, that was the custom among Island neighbors. But this day Grandpap stayed back in the cabin, sore as a damn beetle blister cause his arthuritis had flared up on him, he couldn't work. What with them life pains he was feeling, Grandpappy had his rifle cocked, and had drew a bead on Mister Watson's heart. He told his daughter-in-law before she went out to the dock, 'You hear me, Blanche? That outlaw makes just one false move, I aim to shoot!' And he told her to keep her children clear of his line of fire. My mother was disgusted, y'know, told him he had frightened us kids for nothing. He hollered back that he knew what he knew about this Watson, and I guess he did.

Mister Watson seen straight off that he weren't welcome. He never got out of that boat, never tied up. The onshore wind held her snug against the dock, but with that chop she made a steady bump against the pilings. I ain't never forgot that hollow thumping, like a shit-quick's ghosty booming in the swamp.

'Good day, Mister Watson!' calls my mother. Her hands was dead white, that's how hard she clenched 'em, she was almost whimpering. But she was a long sight more upset about not offering him a bite to eat than she was about him killing us to get our money.

That man took off his hat but he did not answer. This was unusual, being his manners was so up-to-date. His clothes weren't soiled but they looked slept in, he was hollow-eyed and grizzle-chinned, and we smelled whiskey. But he never seemed bothered by the silence in that clearing, which any moment was going to explode. He studied all around awhile, just listening, trying to feel out what was in the air. He must of wondered where my dad was, and Henry Thompson, whose boat was tied up at our landing, and why Grandpap James Hamilton stayed back into the house, never called hello.

Mister Watson was careful not to stare, he covered that window out the corner of his eye. It's like when a bear ambles out of the brake much too close by. You load quick but you load real easy, and no extra motions. You don't startle him, and you don't look in a bear's eyes, cause a bear can't handle any kind of challenge, he might charge.

Mister Watson studied up on the whole clearing but he kept coming back to the cabin window. In them gray old weatherboards, that window looked black as a square hole, and crouched back of there was Grandpap Hamilton, muttering and agitating with his trigger.

Poor Mama had the twitches, she was swaying back and forth like some old woman with St. Vitus dance. Ain't it strange? Mama was a plain embarrassment to me and Dexter even though we was fighting a hard fight not to piss our pants. Mister Watson stayed calm, smiled kind of quizzical, like he hoped some little bird might tell him why these Hamilton kids was acting so scared stupid and their mother crazy. Later we knew Mister Watson's calm was his way of getting set, like a cottonmouth gathering its coils.

Mama moved a step too quick between Mister Watson and the window. He paid no mind, like he never knowed she done it, but he knowed, all right, cause he kept his hands out wide so's to be seen by whoever might of drawed a bead on him. 'And a good day to you, Miss Blanche,' he says at last, with a warm smile for us children. 'Henry around?' It had been so long before he spoke that his quiet voice made Dexter squeak.

Mama says, 'Why, yes, he is! Frank, too! And Jesse!' Aiming to show how well we was protected, she done just the opposite. Anyway, she regretted it right off, cause hearing our men was near might make him stay.

To get his mind off it, I squawked, 'How's Betsey?' My voice was changing and my brother hooted, but Mister Watson shook his head, real serious. Betsey, he said, had ate her shoats and he had a good mind to eat her. Might teach her not to try that trick again, he said. And he give my mother a wink, and she busted out giggling, mostly from nerves. As she said later, A man could joke about his sow did not have killing on his mind, and Grandpap snapped, A female says such a fool thing as that don't know the first thing about killers!

A few years later it come out on his deathbed that Grandpap himself knew a thing or two along that line, which was why we lived at Lost Man's River with no neighbors-unless you would count them other Hamiltons, who were not our kind of people, Aunt Gert said. Well, maybe they had a nigger in the woodpile, maybe not. I always liked 'em. So far as we heard, they never had no killer in that family, and they had more claim to their family name than we did.

That day, Mister Watson told us he was calling in on his way back from Key West, just wanted to know if Henry Thompson could make a run for him to Tampa, cause he had four thousand gallons of last winter's syrup set to ship. If there was anything we needed in Fort Myers, why please say so, because he would be heading north in the next few days.

My mother thanked him kindly, said we lacked for nothing, meaning there wasn't a sack of beans that we could pay for. When she just stood twisting her hands, never invited him to eat, Mister Watson acted like he never noticed. Said that he'd like nothing better than to visit with us for a little, but he had to be getting back to his wife and children, and soon as he got his boat cranked up, he'd be on his way.

Her small moan told how shamed poor Mama was, it was all she could do not to bawl her head off over menfolk