“That country back over by Whitewater Bay is sparse and lonesome, so he must been afeared someone was after him, likely this same Watson we got settin here this evenin. Mr. Henry fished and hunted, took care of his own needs—very good hunter and tracker, got to give Mr. Black Henry his due. Dug him a sand well for his water—ever try that? Put a barrel in a sand pit with the bottom knocked out and small holes drilled into the sides? Get brackish water?”
Not interested in their response, Speck lay back again with his hands behind his head, watching the night fill to the brim with stars and wind. “Some used to say Mr. Henry Short was huntin the gold that Ponce de León hid on Northwest Cape. Don’t know why of Ponce would hike way out across them salt flats and clear on over to Henry Short Lakes, do you? Prob’ly said to himself, Now darn it, Ponce, it stands to reason that the Fountain of Youth is right next to them Henry Short Lakes over yonder!”
Speck Daniels’s chest heaved in waves of drunken mirth which he did not care if the others shared or not. “Ol’ Ponce!” he exploded. “Probably lookin for that fountain cause his pecker weren’t so perky. Let him down too many times when he was out rapin Calusa princesses and such. Likely that’s what Ponce was up to when them redskins come along and put a stop to that greaser sonofabitch once and for all.”
“Speck? You got your daughter settin here.”
“That’s why he talks that way,” she said.
“When Short was livin at the Fountain of Youth, he never come around the Cape far as Flamingo. Went back north when he went anywhere.” Speck winked at Sally. “Mr. Henry Short, we’re talkin about here.”
“Sadie Harden told me that Henry did not banish himself because he was afraid,” Sally told Lucius. “He needed solitude because he was recovering from a broken heart.”
“Broken heart?” her father marveled, as if this affliction had been heretofore unheard of among black men. “Mr. Henry Short?”
Lucius demanded, “What makes you so damn sure that Short killed E. J. Watson?”
“Common knowledge. Got to be common, if I got it.” Speck laughed some more.
“It might be common,” Sally said, “but it’s not the truth.”
“No?” Speck Daniels measured her a long hard moment. “If I was you, Miss, I’d speak more respectful to your own blood daddy.”
“Your dad witnessed it, Sally,” Andy cautioned her.
“That never made him tell the truth before.”
Speck lay back again, ignoring her. “I seen this famous female on a TV show on the Wild West, and they claimed she was killed by a Florida desperader by the name of Watson. Clamanity Jane or some such of a name—called her Clam for short, wouldn’t surprise me.” He winked dirtily at Whidden. “When Mr. Nigger Short killed Mr. Desperader Watson, they found Clam’s name wrote down in Watson’s diary. Seems like there was fifty-five names in there, one for every last soul that he sent howlin to perdition.”
“It’s Calamity,” Sally informed her father. “Anyway, you’re thinking of Belle Starr.”
Lucius said, “My sister kept a diary because our father did, and he showed her what his journal looked like. She described it as a rawhide leather book with a small clasp lock and a title burned onto the cover. Footnotes to My Life. I don’t recall seeing that journal, but it seems unlikely that she made that up.”
Whidden said, “Mister Colonel? My ma seen that same journal once. Leather book with them same words burned on the cover. Said when he was drinkin, your daddy liked to tease. Claimed he’d took a life for each year of his own. And he called them deaths the footnotes to his life.”
“Fifty-five human beings? Does that make sense to you, goddammit, Whidden? I mean, why would the Hardens remain friendly with a maniac who had killed fifty-five people!” Lucius rose abruptly and went off down the beach in an effort to control an immense frustration. “And that ain’t countin niggers!” Speck called gleefully.
Lucius turned around to find Speck grinning at him. “Now let’s don’t tell him that I said so, but this Watson we are lookin at right here this minute ain’t but the shadder of his daddy. Course it’s possible”—Speck held his eye—“that Colonel Watson would do you hurt if you pushed him hard enough. Leastways that’s what he wanted us to think, back when he was makin up his list. But I believe this feller is weakhearted. Just wants to live along, get on with ever’body.” He paused again, then added meanly, “Wants to keep lookin for his Lucius truth and just make goddamn sure he never finds it.”