Killing Mister Watson

by Peter Matthiessen

  The hurricane had took away Ted's dock, so Old Man Watson run the Brave up on the beach. It was near dusk. He must of seen that body of armed men when he was still a hundred yards offshore, he must of known this was going to be a showdown he might not survive. Why did he keep coming, then?-that's what 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 wear no hat. I seen him."

  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 Brave's wake still coming in and coming in across the bay, still curling and whispering along the shore-all them soft sounds of wind and water that nag me every year, first time I see that old October twilight.

  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 ma
n 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 might be best to run on home and think this through. There come a whispering behind me-I mean to say, boys, if there ain't no warrant, well, to hell with it, maybe we'd best go home, mind our own business.

  But D.D. House had his dander up, the same as Watson, he had set like glue. People talked later about how our pap took such a fearsome hate for life in his old age, and how a angered-up old feller had nothing much to lose starting a fight that might get younger fellers killed, his boys included. Well, it weren't like that, it weren't that at all. Daniel David House had to finish what he started, boys or no boys, he didn't really know no other way.

  So Pap said, "Mister Watson, lay that gun down." That was meant as a last warning to Ed Watson, but it was also a warning to his boys to start in shooting at the first false move.

  Up until now, Watson had played for time, maybe figuring this crowd would lose its nerve. Or he might of suspected that we aimed to kill him whether he give his weapons up or not. He had to make a very quick decision. Truth was, if he'd surrendered up his guns, only one of his neighbors had the temperament it would of took to shoot him, and that feller was away, down to Honduras.

  Knowing how quick Watson was, there is no doubt in my mind he had calculated chances even before Pap asked him for his shooting irons-hell, even before his boat had struck the shore. Probably figured if he made it into court, he'd beat the charge, because only a nigra had him implicated in the murders, and the nigra had backed off his story in front of witnesses. There was no good evidence against Ed Watson, not one bit.

  Being so smart, he would also figure that we knew that, and knowing it, might take him out and lynch him, to make sure. After so many close calls in other places-in Oklahoma and Arcadia and Columbia County-he might conclude that his luck had just run out. Those stiff faces must of told him that this time he could not talk his way into the clear, but being so angry, it never occurred to him to give up. He must of seen these men were scared, which made 'em dangerous, but because we were bunched up and stiff, he had the jump on us.

  When Pap stepped forward, Watson raised up that big hand, like some kind of old-time prophet in the Bible, and Pap halted.

  Later we realized he had stopped us at what was the best range for a double-barrel if you wanted to kill and cripple more than two. Maybe that was not his plan, but that's the way we figured it out afterwards. To back that up, he carried a revolver in his coat, and maybe two. Two charges of buckshot right together would knock down the leaders and scatter the rest, and he might keep 'em ducking with his revolver while he pushed his boat back off the beach, shot his way out of there. At that range, with a panicked crowd, he might have got away with it, because when that anger took him, he moved fast and to the point, before we could take in what was happening-before we got it through our heads that a neighbor we had known near twenty years would shoot into the flock of us, like we was turkeys.

  Some tell tourists yet today how they seen a sudden blush on Watson's face and a hard shine of crazy anger in those eyes. There wasn't enough time nor light to see no such a thing. The ones that say they seen that was so scared they couldn't see straight, or more'n likely wasn't there at all. But I'll swear to my death I heard his teeth grit when he swung that shotgun to his hip and snapped both barrels right into our faces.

  I thought we was done for, I was curdling up inside myself, trying not to screech when that charge hit me, and I know Pap thought that he was done for, too.

  Watson had peeled them wet shells once too often, cause they didn't hold. Hardly a thump in that wet powder, and buckshot came rolling right out the barrels. Pap was facing both them barrels at the time, and he said he seen the muzzles jump, that's how hard Ed Watson yanked on his dead triggers.

  Watson was going for his revolver by the time I swung my rifle up and squeezed the trigger.

  P-dang-that fateful sound still comes back yet, the first lean crack of rifle fire. Two together. Maybe the first shot was mine, maybe it wasn't. After that the evening broke apart, it was purely uproar.

  Watson's legs shuffled him forward a few steps, leaning like a man on deck in a hard storm. But even while he walked, he was falling forward, falling against that roar and wind and fire, painful slow at first, like a felled tree. His coat and shirt jumped, buffeted by lead, the whack of a man's life being knocked out of him. His gun stock splintered, his revolver spun away. I seen his mouth yank, saw red jump out where his left eye burst, and still he fell.

  I reckon Mister Watson died before his shotgun hit the ground, but his legs drove that dead man on, pitching him forward. I believe he was killed by the first bullet but he kept on coming. We all seen it, there ain't one won't say the same. And seeing him come after 'em that way, most of them men yelled and crowded back and kept on backing, even after he was down, flat on his face.

  Ethel Boggess used to claim she was right under that big fig down there when Watson fell, and she swore he came eighteen or twenty feet before he struck the ground. With all that lead in him, he would not go down, that's how headstrong that man was even in death-that was the Devil in him, is what my mother said for long years after. Said only a demon could scare folks bad as that after he was dead.

  Then the line surged back around us, near to knocked me down. They were still shooting! They were a damn mob now for sure, men hollering and cussing, and young boys running up and down yapping like dogs, and bullets flying. It's a miracle some poor soul wasn't killed.

  I never seen a man struck down so hard. He lay face down on the bloody ground, the broad back with no breath to swell it, not a twitch, only stray threads on the holes tore through his coat, the night wind lifting them dark red curls on his creased neck.

  Them threads and curls was all that ever stirred. Mister Watson never gave a gargle. I never saw a man so dead in all my life.

  HOAD STORTER

  In Everglade, the cisterns was four-five feet below the ground, two-three above, and the water generally stayed cool and clear, but after the storm our cisterns was all flooded out with brine and mud, and no fresh water. What we had was a hard drought, more'n a month. Heavens was wrung dry, gray as old rags.

  On October 24, late afternoon, my brother Georgie and young Nelson Noble rowed over to Chokoloskee for some drinking water. They was just rounding the point west of Smallwood's store when they heard a bang and racketing of guns, broke out like firecrackers. It was dark enough by then to see the muzzle fire, which carried on for ten seconds or better. Then silence fell across the island like a blow, and out of that silence-they both tell it-rose the chanting of a chuck-will's-widow, so loud and clear they had to wonder if that night bird had been singing all along, and never even slowed to hear the shooting.

  Smallwood's dock was washed away, and the Brave was run up on the shore, and Mister Watson laying there like he'd fell from Heaven. Cepting two-three sniffing dogs, nobody wanted to go anywheres near him. Our boys stood with their water jugs but kept their distance.

  Some of the men there was upset, and some was angry, and some of 'em seemed kind of shocked, wouldn't talk to nobody at all.
Other ones could not stop talking-not listening, you know, just talking, the way crazy people like to do-and these ones were swearing how that man there tried to murder the whole crowd, how he kept on coming after he was shot to death three or four times over. And all this while, over the voices, that night bird never let up-over and over and over, wip, wip-WEE-too!

  Georgie and Nelson never got home till close to bedtime. George told us all he seen and heard, and still we pestered him with questions, not rightly knowing yet just how we felt. Mister Watson was well liked in our family, came for dinner every Tuesday noon and never arrived without something to offer, even if it was only jokes or news. "I ain't going to speak agin Ed Watson," our dad said. "We was in friendship, and he helped me where he could and never harmed me." All the same, Dad seemed relieved, he couldn't hide it.

  Watson claimed he had killed Cox, and Old Man D.D. House told Watson they would have to go to Chatham Bend, see for themselves, and said he'd better turn over his gun. Watson said Nosir, he sure wouldn't, being as how that bunch was there to lynch him. He swung his shotgun up, pointed it at Old Man House, and pulled the trigger, but it never fired-that's the story was told by them that done the talking. But something was wrong about the story no matter how often Georgie told it, and to this day we never figured what it was.

  Dad said, "Well, now, if that shotgun never fired, how come they're so sure he pulled the trigger?"

  "Seen his gun yank when he hauled on it," Georgie explained.

  "They tell you that, boy? Or is that what you imagine?"

  We were all upset.

  "You sound like you doubt your son's word," my mother said.

  "It ain't his word I doubt," he said. "But I doubt something."

  Some men come out with it in later years, said folks had enough of Mister Watson, said the execution had been planned, though not all knew it. Others claimed that was the first they heard about it, said if they'd of known, they wouldn't of took part. So the Bay people was already split up over Ed Watson.