When that black prisoner was delivered to Fort Myers, I telegraphed the Monroe County sheriff that he could find his witness in my jail. That same day, I traveled south as far as Marco, which was an unholy mess after the storm. Collier’s Mercantile Store, built of burnt oyster shell, had a wall crack three inches across from roof to ground and was still draining the eighteen inches of floodwater inside. The homes were worse, and having no place to roost, nearly every man in the small settlement was in there drinking hard to ease his nerves. Left their women and kids sloshing around back in the shacks, waiting in darkness for a scrap of food or maybe another beating if the husband was a drunkard, which many were on the Florida frontier.
“You boys know Sheriff Tippins,” Bill Collier said when I came in. Worn by the hurricane to a nervous edge, the unwashed men looked snarly, set to bait me. These people complain that they have no law so they have to make their own, but when the law shows up, there’s not much of a welcome. One man belched and another rasped, “Finally turns up when he ain’t needed.” Another wiped a stubbled chin with the back of his hand, got me in focus. “Them bankers and cattle kings gone to cover up for him again, ain’t that right, Sheriff? Got you in their pocket, too, from what we heard.”
Collier put down the ax blade he was filing and hoisted this small feller off the floor and set him down again, facing the other way. Teeter Weeks turned, drawing his fist for a roundhouse punch while letting himself stagger back to a safe distance. There he spat on his hands and commenced bobbing and weaving. “Cap’n Bill? You lookin for a scrap? You found the right man this time, Cap’n Bill!”
Bill Collier was storekeeper and postmaster, trader and ship’s master, shipbuilder and keeper of the inn, also the owner of the dredge that worked the clam flats at Pavilion Key. Had a copra plantation of five thousand palms and a citrus grove on the mainland at Henderson Creek with fifteen hundred orange-bearing trees. So naturally it was this lucky feller’s spade that struck into those Calusa treasures back in ’95 while getting out muck for his tomatoes. Having done much and seen more in life, he had no time for the likes of Teeter Weeks; he banged his ax head on the counter to command attention for the sheriff and resumed filing.
I asked what anyone could tell me about the whereabouts of E. J. Watson or his foreman. So far as they knew, Cox was still at Chatham Bend. As for Watson, he had come through yesterday on his way north to Fort Myers, looking for me.
“If I’da knowed what I know now, boys, I’d of never saved his life.” The men half-listened as Dick Sawyer told his story of that day he’d hailed the Gladiator at Key West and had gone aboard and found his friend Ed down sick with typhoid fever: he had run to fetch a doctor. “Not a word of thanks for saving the man’s life,” Sawyer complained, “and that is funny, cause Ed’s manners is so excellent.”
Jim Daniels grinned. “Friend Ed is a mannerly man, for sure, especially when he has you where he wants you.”
“Had a couple of your sisters, Jim, right where he wanted ’em. Netta, and then Josie-”
Jim Daniels cut him off just by sitting up straight, but Sawyer, drunk, refused to let it go. “Them Hardens now, they’s kin to you, ain’t that right, Jim?”
Bill Collier intervened smoothly. “I bet Dick ain’t forgot that time E. J. needed a boat ride back to Chatham River because Hiram Newell setting over there who was Watson’s captain at that time had Watson’s boat up on the ways. So them two went over to Sawyer’s, that right, Hiram? And Hiram hollered through the winder that Mister Watson was outside, wanted to know if Dick would take him home to Chatham River. Thinking Hiram was joking, Dick sings out, ‘Why don’t you and your damned Watson go to Hell?’ But when he seen who was standing at his door, ol’ Dick turned nice as rice. Said, ‘Howdy, Ed! You needin a ride home?’ ”
Hiram Newell cleared his throat. “Well, I ain’t ashamed to be in friendship with Ed Watson. If Cap’n Bembery or Willie Brown was here tonight, he’d say the same. Under that rough bark, Ed got him a big heart-”
“Jesus, Hiram!” Jim Daniels wheeled around. “Too bad them Tuckers ain’t here tonight to tell us about that big heart of his! Jesus Sweet Christ!”
“One time in Tampa, what I heard, he knocked some Spaniard down, hauled out his Bowie knife. Says, ‘Maybe I’ll fillet this greaser here cause I never got to ride up San Juan Hill!’ ”
The door banged open in the wind, banged closed again. The Marco men heaved back, groaning like cattle. Back to the door, Ed Watson stood observing me; probably had me spotted through the window before he came in, and he didn’t miss the shift I made to free my holster. I heard a voice whine, “Oh my God!” Not till I hoisted my boot onto a nail keg and clasped both hands on my knee where he could see ’em did he withdraw his hand from the right pocket of his coat.
Ed Watson looked exhausted, waterlogged, his ruddy face packed with dark blood, his breathing hoarse, but the man could have been dead drunk and buck naked and still had this bunch buffaloed. One feller that made a half move toward the back door froze like a dog on point when Watson turned, and his tin mug clattered to the floor. Scared faces were watching me to see what the law would do, knowing this man would resist arrest and somebody was going to get hurt.
Keeping his hands loose at his sides, Watson spread his feet a little. “I didn’t do it, boys.”
“Ed? Ain’t none of us never said you done it, Ed.”
That was Dick Sawyer. Watson never glanced at him, never took his eyes off mine. “Looking for me, Sheriff?” When I said, “Yep,” he yanked open the door. “Let’s go,” he said.
“You men stay put.” My voice was pinched and reedy. When I crossed the room, Watson swung the door wide to the wind, followed me out. But not until the door was closed did he show his revolver, waving my hands up before he took my weapon. Even at this galling moment, prodded toward the dock, I had to appreciate his tact in not disarming me inside.
“That gun necessary?” I said. “We’ll see,” he said.
Swift black clouds across the moon, a pale light on the sand: we boarded Collier’s schooner. At her mess table, by lantern light, I had finally met Ed Watson face-to-face. He was slouched into the corner of the bulkhead where he could not be shot at through the cabin window. “You’d be safer in my jail,” I remarked sourly, my heart not calm yet.
He shook his head. “Ever hear Smallwood’s story about Lemon City? Mob goes right into the jail to lynch this feller, shoots the nigra jailer, too, while they are at it.” He emptied my revolver, dumping the cartridges onto the table. “Don’t try telling me they won’t hang Watson the first chance they get.”
“Not in Fort Myers.”
“You can’t promise that. And if a mob gets to me first, I’ll get no chance to clear my name.” He hauled a small flask from his pocket, found two blue tin cups. “Deputize me, Sheriff. I’ll go get the man you want.”
“He’s still there?”
“No way to get off. John Smith can’t run a boat, can’t even swim, and he’s dead scared of the water. Doesn’t know where the nigra went, doesn’t know anything went wrong. I can come right up on him because he won’t suspect me.”
“Something went wrong, then?”
“If you were John Smith and the only witness to your crimes got away to Pavilion Key and shot his mouth off, I reckon you might conclude something went wrong.”
“If I was Ed Watson, I might feel the same.” I paused. “Mr. Watson, you are under arrest.”
Grimly he considered me. “Am I a suspect, then? I wasn’t even there.”
“Your nigger said you were behind it.”
“ ‘Nigger said.’ That good enough for a Lee County jury?”
“Why don’t you use John Smith’s real name, Mr. Watson?”
“Because he don’t.”
“What was his motive?”
“That boy don’t need a motive. Not to kill.”
“Yet you kept him at Chatham Bend with your wife and children.”
“They stayed away.” He shrugged. “Owed him a favor.”
“You still owe him? Why should you be trusted as a deputy?”
He picked up my weapon, making a face as if to say, You’re asking too many stupid questions for a man at the wrong end of this revolver. He sipped a little. “Tastes like some lawless sonofabitch been distilling my good syrup.”
I spoke carefully. “You’re resisting arrest. You have disarmed and abducted the Lee County sheriff. You want a fair hearing, Mr. Watson, you better stop breaking the law.” I was talking too much and too fast because he made me nervous.
“Look,” he said, suddenly impatient. “I traveled to Fort Myers in a hurricane to report a dreadful crime. I wanted to tell you my side of the story before a damn mob put a rope around my neck. If I was guilty, would I chase after the law?”
“In Fort Myers, I have no jurisdiction, as you know. And you have family and friends-”
“My daughter’s friends. They’ll do their best to get me off to avoid a family scandal, yes, but it’s a gamble.” Watson offered the flask. I shook my head. “I thought about running. Very simple. Railroad north or a ship out of Key West.” He looked up. “Where would I go this time?” He shook his head. “I’m tired of running. Anyway, I’m innocent.”
We sat silent for a time, listening to the schooner creak against the pilings, the clack and rustle of her rigging. Over by the store, torn metal banged on metal.
“I never told Cox to kill those people. You ask about his motive-how about mine? I have the best plantation in the Islands. Most every household, Tampa to Key West, uses my syrup. One day you’ll find it on every table in the country.” He paused. “I have grown children, pretty grandchildren, a fine young woman for my wife and three new kids. I have a land claim pending and a great plan for developing this coast. Emperor Watson! Ever heard of him?” He grinned briefly. “Why would Emperor Watson ruin his imperial prospects?”
The ship lifted and banged.
“It’s no dream, Frank. I get things done and I know powerful people. I know Governor Broward. Hell, I knew Nap Broward at Key West back in the days he was running guns on the Three Brothers. He came to my rescue in north Florida and he’ll help again.”
“Mr. Watson?” I cleared my throat. “The governor is dead.”
Shocked despite himself, he raised his gaze, making sure I had told the truth. “That’s too bad,” he said then, seemingly indifferent. “You met the Chicago railroad man, John Roach? Bought Deep Lake with Walt Langford for growing citrus?” Watson sat back, eyes alive and shining. “Those men have as much as promised that if I stay out of trouble, I’ll take over there as manager, because Deep Lake has serious labor problems, transport problems, and I have ideas. As John Roach told my son-in-law, any planter who can prosper on forty acres of hard shell mound way to Hell and gone down in the mangrove rivers, there’s no limit to what such a man could do with three hundred acres of black loam at Deep Lake!” He was nodding to himself. “No limit,” he repeated. “With new canals draining Okeechobee and the Glades, you’re going to see modern agriculture across this state and I’ll be in on it. Why would I risk such a great future by doing something stupid at the Bend?”
He sounded reasonable, sincere, yet something was very wrong. Did he really think coldblooded murder was merely “stupid”?
“I want my children proud instead of nervous and ashamed. I want my Carrie proud.” He eyed me carefully, nodding a little, and I saw he had always known I loved his daughter. “If I was the killer some folks say, do you think my family would be loyal? The only man against me is the biggest crook in southwest Florida. Uses the law to break the law.” Holding my eye, he nodded. “I bet you don’t like him any more than I do, Sheriff.”
“Weren’t for Jim Cole, you might have been hung up north, from what I hear.”
“Rigged the jury, that what you heard? Probably did. Spared Langfords a big scandal and got damned well paid for it.” He continued drunkenly, as if suddenly determined to make things worse. “Pays you, too, I hear.” He cocked his eye. “Slave labor at Deep Lake?”
Sending county road-gang labor to Deep Lake to help our friend Walt Langford had been Cole’s suggestion. But the original idea, Cole told me once, came directly from this man across the table.
“I can’t wait for Deep Lake,” he was saying. “Know what Glades drainage means? A big road across the state and development of both coasts in your lifetime.” Wind-whipped sand from the bare yard scoured the schooner cabin. His gaze searched my eyes. “But not in Ed Watson’s lifetime-that what you’re thinking?” He drank off his cup.
“We’re wasting time. Why would I want those people dead? Hell, they were friends of mine. Miss Hannah? Green? Some days I even liked young Dutchy!” His voice was rising. “Think I don’t know the rumors? Sure I have debts. Those lawyers ruined me. But killing off hands on payday-that’s not going to help! I’m a businessman, dammit. I pay my goddamned bills. Ask Storters. Smallwoods.” In his despair, he seemed to lose his thread. “Just deputize me. I’ll take care of Cox.”
“Deputize a man pointing a gun at me?”
Watson opened his hand, let my cartridges roll across the table, then extended my revolver. He extended it barrel first, pointed straight at me. I pocketed the cartridges, then I took hold of the barrel. For a moment he did not let go. “All right, Frank? Yes or no?”
“If Cox is taken alive,” I said, “it becomes your word against his, and his word might get you hung even if you’re innocent. If I deputize you, you can go kill him legally or help him escape.”
Disgusted, he released the revolver. “Don’t try reloading.” He took up his own weapon. I rose carefully to my feet. “Mr. Watson, you are under arrest.” I stuck my hand out to receive his gun. “Your clean record in Lee County will help, of course-”
“Just shut your stupid mouth, all right?”
Waving me ahead of him onto the deck, Watson turned his back as he closed the door behind him. Was he inviting me to jump him, try to overpower him? To the back of his head, I said, “If you go down there and shoot Cox, you’ll be making a bad mistake. You’ll be suspected of those murders and charged with a new one.”
Watson said, “You’re a fucking idiot.” Seeing his expression, I was suddenly so scared I had to piss. “Just trot over to the store,” he said, contemptuous, “and don’t look back.”
In a stew of bad emotions, I crossed the moonlit sand. Before going inside to brave the questions, I reloaded my gun, peering about into the night. My nerve had unraveled, I was exhausted. I had no idea where he had gone and no stomach for pursuit. I should go back to Fort Myers, wait for the Monroe sheriff, find some deputies. Whatever I did, Ed Watson would reach Chatham Bend with a three-day head start.
In the heavy wash of seas in the night channel, I pissed my fear and my defeat into the roaring dark.