Shadow Country (90 page)

Bear and panther sign were everywhere in this wild country. Plenty of deer and wild boar, too, and scrub cattle spooked on their dim trails through the palmetto. I tended south and east along what one old bush rat called the Yeehaw Marshes, from the
yee
and
haw
of the wagon harness of the pioneers moving south down the peninsula. In the Peace River country, I met a man planting wild oranges. He had high hopes that citrus would do well here and invited me to throw in with him; I thanked him but said no. I aimed to clear my own piece of the backcountry. Next morning I rode down along the river and on into Arcadia that afternoon.

As far away as the Arkansas prison, the word was out that a closemouthed man easy with horse and gun could make good money a lot faster in De Soto County, Florida, than anywhere west of the Mississippi. Unlike most prison rumors, this one turned out to be true. For a few years in the early nineties, the range wars around Arcadia beat anything the Wild West had to offer. The ranchers were advertising for more gunslingers as far off as St. Louis and every outfit had its own gang of riders. With so many rough men in the saloons, a man could get his fill of fighting any time he wanted and be lulled to sleep at night by the pop of gunfire. A lot of these brawls might start with fists but every man was quick to use a weapon before the other feller beat him to it. Fifty bloody fights a day were not uncommon, it was claimed; four men were killed in one shootout alone. The year before, a new brick jail had to be built to hold the overflow, and as it turned out, that new jail saved my life.

A rancher with the wherewithal could hire new riders any day at the nearest saloon, but Arcadia House was where you met all the best people, and a stranger could lean back on the bar and wait there like a whore to be looked over. I had hardly started on my second whiskey when a big man, Durrance, bought my third. Will Durrance spoke of the hard feelings over the rangeland on Myakka Prairie and the cattle rustling all across the county—not just one steer shot to eat by some mangy cracker in the piney woods but whole damn herds up to a hundred head. Most of that range was unfenced and choked with dry palmetto thicket. A steer could wander halfway across Florida, get lost for two years before it wandered out again, and never be missed. Plenty of calves were dropped in the deep scrub and went unbranded, so naturally, an enterprising man burned his own brand as fast as he could get a rope on 'em, figuring the next man along would do the same. Local hospitality for any stranger in the bush was to hang him from the nearest oak for peace of mind. “Better safe than sorry” was a popular expression. A lone rider who wanted to arrive some place picked his own route across cattle country, telling no one.

I was here to put a stake together for a new start in life and had vowed to avoid trouble but Arcadia was no place to say any such thing, not if you wanted a good job. I told Durrance Jack Watson was his man.

“Well, now, Jack, I reckon you know how to ride?”

“Well, now, Will, I rode here from Arkansas by way of Carolina and never split my ass in two, not so's you'd notice, so I reckon I'll make it ten miles out to Myakka Prairie.” Durrance paid down cash for my drinks, supper, and bed, also the first real bath since I swam the Arkansas, and he threw in a week's pay in advance.

Next morning I bought me a shave and a new blue denim shirt and rode out to the ranch. Will Durrance lived in a cleared-off pinewood lot fenced with barbed wire. His two-story house had windows high up on the outside wall—too high for assassins to shoot through even from horseback, Durrance explained. He set out a tobacco can and gave me and two other hands new Winchester repeating rifles, saying, “All right, boys, let's see how good you can shoot these Winnies.” The other two shot well enough when they lined up each shot, and Durrance nodded: they slid their new repeaters into saddle scabbards, grinning. To buy these new-model Winnies would cost 'em two months' pay. Come my turn, I danced that can all the way across the cowpen about as fast as I could pull the trigger, till Durrance hollers, “That's enough, Jack, for Chrissakes! Don't go wastin them good bullets!”

His cow hunters, as they call 'em here in Florida, looked me over sideways, rolling smokes. Two backwoods brothers by the name of Granger, tall bony fellers with single thick black brows over long noses, looked like
T
's. I knew this breed, knew that easing by in life was their ambition: Durrance must have signed them on to keep 'em from rustling his stray beefs. The frowns on those T faces told me they were worried this man Watson might set a bad example, make 'em earn their keep. This Jack was no sodbuster, not the way he handled that repeater: this feller had gunslinger written all over him, and trouble, too.

Will Durrance confided that his life was threatened by a feller named Quinn Bass, the bad news in a big cattle clan around Kissimmee. Young Quinn liked to play with gun or knife “with any man at any time on any terms and on any provocation”—that was his boast. Quinn had escaped from the new jail where he was held in the killing of a nigra and what he did was go straight over and kill that nigra's friend who'd been arm-twisted to testify against him, and now he was walking around town acting untouchable. Because the citizenry was naturally upset by the expense and failure of their new jail, not to speak of the failure to arrest an escaped criminal charged with two murders, the sheriff had posted a reward of one thousand dollars for the capture of Quinn Bass, dead or alive.

Having lost faith in the law and having seen me shoot, Durrance made me a financial proposition: he'd add $500.00 bounty to the sheriff 's reward if for some reason Quinn was brought in dead.

I was a Carolina Watson and a farmer, not a hired gun, but I guess you could say I'd become a desperado, if that word means a man driven to desperation by ill fortune. At thirty-six, after a hard year in prison and a hard escape, I had no prospects—nothing to show for those long years of toil and deprivation but an undeserved criminal record and a forsaken family, pining away in the rough hinterlands beyond the Mississippi. I was deter-mined to make a fresh start in southwest Florida and avoid any more trouble and equally determined to succeed here in Arcadia in what might well be my last chance to seize hold of my life and take it back. If money was what was needed, a man could not be squeamish about the means, and anyway, I would be doing a good deed. Arcadia's citizens were tired of Quinn Bass, who was a menace to society, even this one; the time had come to put a stop to him. Yet no matter how often I told myself this young killer was better off dead, I had no right to deprive him of his life as a business proposition.

Or so I was counseled by that promising young farmer Edgar A. Watson, first cousin to Colonel Robert B. at Clouds Creek in South Carolina and justly proud of that man's good opinion. Plain Ed Watson or E. Jack Watson, accused killer and prison fugitive, was another matter. E. Jack Watson had his heart set on Durrance's bounty and the sheriff 's reward both.

Thus my mind went back and forth and forth and back, never admitting until after it was over that I knew all along I would kill Quinn Bass. For a Watson of Clouds Creek, this was dishonor. I had to accept that, and I did, and I do today. I will only say that many a prosperous businessman and proud American honored for his enterprise in his community got his start in unmentionable dealings such as these.

“All right,” I told Durrance, “let me think about it.” I went over to the jailhouse and got deputized by the sheriff, then went back to Durrance, told him I'd thought about it till my brain hurt and here were my damn terms, take 'em or leave 'em: “You pay me half your bounty in advance and I will do it.” He yelped, “Hell, no, I ain't payin no advance! Suppose somethin goes wrong?” However, he shortly came around to my position.

QUINN BASS, DEAD

One evening later that same week, I was standing at a bar with Tommy Granger when the man I awaited came banging through the doors and paused to scan the place. What I saw in the bar mirror was a whiskered runt whose lumpy hat and a big lumpy tobacco chaw made his head look too big for his squat body. To avoid being noticed, Granger turned away too quick—a bad mistake with a mean dog that has a nose for fear. When Bass caught his movement, Granger froze—mistake number two—then nudged his drinking partner with his elbow—number three. “That's him,” this idiot informed me.

When Bass strutted up, I took no notice, didn't even turn around. Annoyed, he sought my eyes in the bar mirror, sizing me up in an uncouth curled-lip way that told me the sheriff had wasted no time letting slip that he had deputized a stranger who was after that reward. “Lookit these two stupid turds! You boys signed on with any outfit yet? Will fuckin Durrance, maybe?” He spat on the floor between our boots. “Any sorry sonofabitch would take his orders from that shitty bastard ain't no kind of a man at all.”

Not wanting to toss him any bone to gnaw on, I inspected my drink, which of course enraged him. “You some kind of a dummy, mister?” He slapped my upper arm with the back of his hand. “I'm talking to you, shithead. What's your goddamned name?” He had half a mind, he said, to put me out of my fuckin misery right here and now, because I sure looked like some skunk on the run from someplace where folks would take my execution as a favor.

Arcadia in 1893 was no different from any pest hole in the backcountry: not to defend yourself against abuse only invited more violence. I could tell by the show of his dirt-colored teeth that Bass had mistaken my silence for a coward's fear, yet was galled by the fact that my gaze in the mirror was steady. Either this stranger was ignorant of Quinn's reputation or indifferent to it—unforgivable!

He was panting. “Let's me and you two yellerbellies get acquainted,” he said in a curdled voice. When Granger grinned, too eager to oblige, Bass hoisted a tobacco-yellowed forefinger in front of his nose. “Yank this lever, friend,” he said, shifting his chaw to the other cheek. “Just for the fun.”

Tommy's stiff grin, pasted on his face, might have looked more natural if he were dead. He pretended to grab his pecker through his pants—“How about you yank this one, Quinn?” When Bass ignored this, waiting for him, he yanked Quinn's finger, knowing full well that when he did, the other would open that brown mouth—here comes the joke—and let fly a jawful of tobacco spit into his face. Having permitted this, Granger turned to me with an aggrieved expression, wiping his nose and mouth with the back of his sleeve—a backwoods ruse, because his long frame was already uncoiling. Being drunk, Bass followed Granger's eyes and the roundhouse punch cracked him hard in the black bush of his chin and knocked him sprawling.

Tommy had all the time in the world to put Bass out of commission by kicking him fairly and squarely in the balls. Having failed to do so, he was in fatal trouble. Already Bass was reared up bloody-lipped onto his elbows, his knife upright in his hand. Savoring what was coming, he shook his head to clear it before rolling up onto his feet. “self-defense,” he reminded the onlookers almost amiably, and after that he was not smiling anymore.

Granger threw me a whipped look, backing up against the bar. “We sure ain't lookin for no trouble, Quinn! Hell's fire, Quinn, you wouldn't want no man for a friend who let another feller spit his chaw into his face, now ain't that right, Quinn?” He turned to me because he could not face that knife one moment longer. “Ain't that right, Jack?” He aimed to drag me into this, he was counting on Oklahoma Jack to save his ass.

Quinn had backed off enough to give them fighting room. “Come on,” he rasped, holding the knife high.

Granger fumbled his Bowie out and stared at it as if astonished to find a weapon on his person. When Bass shot me a warning look—
Stay out of this
—Tommy's nerves let go and he kicked off from the bar, launching himself with a godawful squawk like a dying goose. In a moment, they were down rolling around, holding each other's wrists. Granger was big, rangy, and strong, and pretty quick he had Bass's arm twisted up behind his back. Dropping his knife, Bass squawked, “Ah fuck! Okay, okay!,” growling at Tommy to let go. “Okay by me, Quinn!” that fool cried with a kind of sob and let go his own knife, too.

Bass grabbed his knife and sprang astride Granger before he could get up, holding the weapon to his throat; Tommy stretched his arms wide as the Christ Himself on the sawdust floor. His eyes were darting, trying to find mine; he was coughing pitifully, too scared to talk. Because Granger had struck first, in front of witnesses, Bass could play with him or take his life for free or maybe both. He poked the man's chest with small stabs through his shirt, drawing red blots, then raised the point to the tip of Granger's nose. “Slit nostril, maybe?” Bass panted, very excited and all set for the last panicky thrash of self-defense that would trigger and excuse the fatal thrust.

Never having met a man I disliked so much so quickly, I already had enough of him to last a lifetime. Stretching out my boot, I toed Quinn in the buttock. He twisted around on me quick as a viper. “That your fuckin boot?”

“Looks like it, don't it.”

With a hard grunt, he came for me, knife blade to the front, held flat and low; at this moment, his sole aim in life was to carve my guts. He was only checked by the sight of my revolver, aimed point-blank. One more step and I would have shot him dead. But like Tommy Granger, I had hesitated, I had failed to finish it—a common oversight among amateurs who aren't natural-born killers—and now he would feel honor-bound to seek my death another day. I would have no control over those circumstances, whereas in this place I had a dozen witnesses that the fugitive killer Quinn P. Bass had come at me with a knife. All this went through my mind in a split second. But if I aimed to claim self-defense, an instant choice had to be made here, and I made it. He was opening his mouth to jeer when I pulled the trigger.