plagues me. He never hesitated, he never shied, just cut the motor and let her stern wave ride her in, west of the boat way.
Coming ashore hard and quick as that, he took the whole bunch by surprise. Mister Watson's eyes were opened up real wide and kind of comical, like he never noticed all them neighbors until now. He waved and smiled, looking pleased to see such a fine welcome, never mind all the shifting eyes and scowls and shooting irons. He looked eager for us to let him in on our big joke, let him know what we all had in mind.
Some will tell you today he never left his boat, but it ain't true. Hadn't hardly waved when he jumped ashore, and was already set when he hit the ground, his shotgun down along his leg on the left-hand side. He must have known the risk of that bold move, he could of got himself shot to pieces out of pure buck fever. But he knew his neighbors, knew the most of 'em lacked his experience at pointing loaded guns at men, never mind the will to pull the trigger. There we was standing in a herd feeling more and more stupid, like all the grown men on Chokoloskee had come out here of an evening to have 'em a miskeeter shoot or something.
That innocent grin, that twinkle, took the last fight out of the men that wasn't scared half sick to death already. They seen that shotgun down along his leg and knew how fast we could be looking down them two black holes.
'Well!' he said, with a big smile all around. 'And where are Mrs. Watson and the children?' This was his way of reminding us he was a family man and neighbor. Ed Watson knew from start to finish just what he was doing, he had bluffed us twice in the last fortnight and had no doubt he would bluff us this time, too. But just to make sure, he slid his pistol hand not so casual into his pocket, and there come a kind of shiver from the crowd.
Daniel David House was closest man to Watson. I was alongside Pap on his right hand, young Dan and Lloyd were on his left, and all the rest were kind of bunched on that left side.
When Watson jumped ashore with his old shotgun, Henry Short must of crossed behind the crowd, because very quick he was right there beside me. Couldn't see around me, so he waded out a little. He was near up to his knees in water, and he had his Winchester down along his leg on the right side. I thought, That nigra's getting set to rust up Dad's old rifle in salt water. But Henry Short made no mistakes like that, he always was a man who paid attention, and his rifle was kept cleaned and oiled, as good as new. With his elbow hitched for a quick swing, his bead must of been a foot above the surface.
Ed Watson, he saw Henry, too. He raised his eyebrows, drew his head back on his neck as if asking that nigra to explain himself. Henry had worked for him one time, and those two got on pretty good, but Watson didn't care to see him with no rifle. The anger flickered all over his face, quick as heat lightning.
Slowly Henry lifted his left hand, took his straw hat off, put it on again. 'Evenin, Mist' Ed' is what he murmured, but I don't think nobody heard it cepting me. And Watson gave a kind of little nod, said something quiet that I didn't catch because skeeters was getting to Pap bad, and Pap was slapping. Us other men was getting bad bit, too, and didn't even notice, that's how stiff we was.
Pap was always in a hurry, never liked to wait. Pap said, 'Well now, Mister Watson. Where is Cox?'
Watson said, Boys, here was the story, and he sure was sorry. Said he'd shot Cox through the head when Cox came down to the boat, but damned if he didn't roll right off the dock. Dragged for two days, high tide and low, and never come up with the body, not in that terrible high water pouring down out of the Glades after the hurricane. Nosir, boys, the best he could come up with was his hat. And he grinned a hard grin and dragged a old felt hat out of his coat.
Holding out that old hat with the hole in it, as if that proved something-that was an insult, and Watson knew that was an insult. He poked a finger through the bullet hole and beckoned, like he was trying to distract small kids or idiots. He was rubbing our nose in that fool hat, defying us to do something about it.
Maybe it was Lloyd House whispered, 'Cox didn't never
Mister Watson waited us out, looking polite. Looked like he enjoyed the little wind and water wash along the landing that was rasping our nerves worser than a skeeter whine. Probably figured time was on his side. He was still offering that hat, and meanwhile he looked from face to face, watching 'em flinch when he brought his hand out of his coat to slap a skeeter. Didn't slap it exactly, just reached up slow and pinched it, then looked at the blood between his thumb and finger and opened his eyes wide with that look of his that was almost comical but not quite.
Nothing was said. Somebody broke wind, nobody laughed. The slapping was well started now, it was getting to that fiercest time of evening. Probably them swamp angels plagued me, too, but I was too tense to pay 'em any mind. On that dark evening, the only man who appeared easy-only man 'look like he leev in his own skeen,' as the old Frenchman used to say-was E.J. Watson.
Afterwards, when my heart eased, I heard that breeze that racketed the battered palms, and the
Finally my pap shook his head and said to me, not loud, not soft, 'Hell, that's not good enough.' Watson heard that, cause Pap meant it to be heard.
'Mr. House? You questioning my honor?'
'That hat's not good enough, is all.'
'Good enough for what?' Ed Watson said. His voice was calm, too, and very, very cold.
Seeing Watson so cocksure as that, Isaac Yeomans coughs and spits, maybe more loud and disgusted than we might have wanted. Isaac pointed at the hat. He growled, 'That hole were never made by that there shotgun.'
Watson looked at him a minute. He said, 'Well, Isaac, are you calling me a liar?' And Isaac, glancing at the rest of us for some support, said, 'I am asking you a question.' And Watson nodded, very, very calm. Not that it's anybody's business, he remarked, but it so happened he had put away the shotgun to make sure Cox would let him come in close enough to talk, after which he done the job with his revolver.
So Pap informed him they were sorry but they would have to send some men back to the Bend, see if Cox might of come up and washed ashore. Mister Watson would surely understand why they'd have to hold him till they came up with that body or till the sheriff got there, either one. Said, no hard feelings, but it might be a good idea if Watson was to hand over his shooting irons.
At that, there come a little gasp and shuffle. I didn't have to look across my shoulder to know which ones was getting set to scatter.
Watson said, kind of slow and growly, Nosir, I can't understand any such a thing. Another thing he couldn't figure-and he hitched his gun-was why his neighbors was acting so suspicious. When those murders was done, wasn't he right here with his friends on Chokoloskee? And he smiled a sad and disappointed smile, shaking his head.
Pap pushed right ahead, that was his nature. 'We are warning you to lay that gun down, Mister Watson.'
Ed Watson gazed over our heads, inland toward the store. His Lost Man's friends were watching from the steps, none said a word. He must of seen they were keeping a good distance, out of shotgun range. Perhaps he saw his wife start down the rise and perhaps not, for his shoulders sagged a little, and again he shook his head.
For just one moment there he looked uncertain, like a dreaming man who has woke in a strange place. I felt bad about him then, or sad-that once I seen him look unsure was the one time I felt sorrowful about Ed Watson. Well, that sad feeling passed quick, I'll tell you that much. There come a eye shift, and he didn't look confused no more, he had that ears-back look, hard and sly and mean. He looked like a man who would take your life away from you and not think twice about it.
Nosir, he could not figure out, he said, why his good friends and neighbors were treating him this way when they knew he'd took no part whatever in them crimes. They knew Les Cox was the guilty man, and Cox was dead.
'Till we make sure of that, you are under arrest,' I told him, just so Pap would know he was backed up.
Watson winced. He sucked his teeth and spat, and ground the spit into the ground, hard, with his boot.
'No, I am not under arrest,' he said, shifting sideways a little, shifting that gun a little, 'because you people don't have no fucking warrant.' And he stared up the line and down again, jerking his chin when he came to Henry Short.
Hearing that anger, so sudden and so cold, the line of men went kind of wobbly, and some of 'em, we won't say who, commenced nodding and frowning in a hurry, like there sure was something to what Mister Watson said, like it
