In early October when E. J. Watson brought his family, he told us all signs pointed to a hurricane. “Something bad is coming down on us”-those were his very words. I don’t know how he knew about the hurricane but he sure did, though it held off for another fortnight. You reckon that man felt it in his bones? Inkling of his own dark fate or something? Said he trusted his house on Chatham Bend to stay put in any storm, but with Baby Amy only five months old, he was taking no chances on a flooded cistern and bad water, and Chokoloskee was the highest ground south of Caxambas. Later he told Sheriff Tippins he’d brought his family here to Chok because “John Smith” was a killer, but he never said anything like that to us. By this time it was well known that John Smith’s real name was Leslie Cox.
E. J. Watson came back here alone on October 16th, a Sunday. Late that same day, young Claude Storter came in from Pavilion Key with word of dreadful murders. Claude’s news caused a hubbub of excited talk about arresting E. J. Watson, talk that was still going on when Watson came into the store and took a seat with its back into the corner. When no one could look him in the eye, he eased onto his feet again and straightened his coat, gazing around the room. Maybe he didn’t growl the way Charlie Boggess told it, but he sure smelled trouble, and he picked out the Storter boy right away. “Something the matter, Claude?” Seeing E. J.’s burning face, the poor boy whispered as soft as he knew how what some nigger said Cox had perpetrated at the Bend.
“By God,” Watson swore, “that skunk will pay for this!” He was off to Fort Myers to fetch the sheriff before “that murdering sonofabitch-if you’ll forgive me, Miss Mamie-can make his getaway!” Well, it was E. J.
Watson made the getaway, right from under the men’s noses. His determination to seek justice was so darn sincere that it put ’em off the scent, or so they told each other after he was gone.
Was I the only one suspected that E. J.’s outrage was put on to fool us? You never saw an upset man with eyes so calm and clear. Runs upstairs, hugs his wife and children, comes down again with that double-barrel shotgun, shouting out how he had to rush to catch Captain Thad at Marco and question that black man. He was out the door before anybody thought to stop him, they were falling all over themselves to clear his way.
Our men weren’t cowards-well, not most of ’em. My brothers were all strong young fellers who enjoyed a scrap and most folks would speak up for a few others. But that day the men were upset and confused and they had no leader. Mr. Smallwood was across the island on some business with Mr. McKinney and my dad and Bill were harvesting down at House Hammock.
E. J. Watson took our island by surprise.