Like I’m sayin, that is only their excuse, because long before they went off soldierin, them kind done what they pleased around the backcountry. And that is because they know for a damn fact that the Everglades is their God-given inheritance. Got it straight from the Bible, Faith, and Revelation that the Merciful Lord hates nigras and won’t stand for Yankees, turned His back on Injuns and despises Spanish. The Almighty, He detests a Jew, the same way they do. Nosir, their Redeemer won’t put up with nobody who ain’t Old-time Religion, which is why it’s okay to go persecutin in His Holy Name.
So when them fellers say, “This here is God’s Country,” what they mean is, it is their country, and not only the Park but the Big Cypress. Not countin Injuns—who just naturally don’t count—their granddaddies was the first to hunt out here in the last century, so these boys don’t give a hoot in hell whether it’s state, federal, or private-owned. A man who ain’t local born and bred tries to build him a legal huntin camp back in the Cypress—well, it just don’t matter if he paid his lease, paid up his taxes. If he ain’t one of ’em, they burn him out, cause he don’t belong out there no more’n them Australia trees or them walkin catfish that come in from Louisiana. Them boys get wind of that invader, they’ll grab their guns and a few six-packs of beer, go roarin over there, swamp buggies or airboats, high-power rifles and bad dogs, throw gasoline and torch that camp right to the ground. Maybe they’ll look-see who’s inside, maybe they won’t. And what’s to stop ’em, way to hell and gone out there back of that Glades horizon?
Tryin to deal with that mean kind is like baggin up a bunch of bobcats. Older generation now, they played hell with a new warden or park ranger, but they wouldn’t kill him, not if they could help it. These fellers here, I ain’t so sure. Older ones, if the warden was a local man, they’d tease him, play along with him, maybe throw a scare into him so next time he might shy away, all the while knowin that no local jury would convict ’em.
A few years back, this young ranger spotted Ol’ Man Speck in his binoculars, slippin across between two hammocks in the sloughs. Speck was mindin his own business, just huntin along in his own private preserve, maybe two-three miles inside the Park boundary. He was snarin his gators, so’s not to create no disturbance. This ranger used a scullin pole to sneak around the backside of a hammock, took him half the mornin probin through the saw grass, but finally he was set. Let Speck work his way to him, he had him dead to rights—Mornin, Mr. Daniels! Speck’s rifle was layin where he couldn’t reach it, and havin the drop on this bad ol’ feller, that ranger laughed at him, feelin real cocky. All that sweat and nerves and plain hard work had made him the first man and the only man who ever brung this wily old rascal to the bar of justice.
When that young ranger comes up alongside, Speck is shakin his head real pathetic, doin his best to look old and slow and heartbroke, is what he told me. Real wore-out and discouraged. He takes this three-foot gator by the tail, says “Ye ain’t fixin to run a old man in for this here lizard, are ye?” Distracted that ranger for one second, which was all Speck needed. Before the poor feller could speak up and say, “Yessir, I sure am!” Speck is uncoilin like a cottonmouth. Brings that young gator up off of the deck, whaps that feller upside of the head and knocks him sprawlin. Grabs that boy’s rifle, pumps the cartridges into the water, jams the muzzle deep into wet mud, then lays it back real careful in the ranger’s boat so’s nobody can’t never say he broke nor stole no gov’mint property. Ol’ Speck cranks up and heads for home, and no hard feelins. And sittin up watchin him go, that poor feller felt so sheepish and so stupid that he clean forgot to report his great adventure with Speck Daniels!
In the old days, we had a tougher breed of warden. A lot of them men was hunters theirselves and knew the country, and generally they had a local clan behind ’em. You messed with one, you was messin with ’em all. You take and hit one them old wardens with a gator, you better finish it. You best leave him out there.
Whidden watched Sally’s boat on its way from shore. “Before them other boys come home from overseas and Speck went over into runnin guns, we was just your common moonshiners and gator hunters, puttin to use what Speck was taught by his uncle Tant and Old Man Joe Lopez. We never bothered with no gator longer’n eight feet, cause after that they grow these hard buttons inside that spoils the hide. No market for that hornback, not no more. We stripped off the belly flat and left the rest, except for maybe a few tails to sell to restaurants. Any damn fool can shoot a gator, skin it out, but strippin that flat quick without nickin it or tearin it, that’s another breed of gator man entirely.