Lost Man's River(262)

Aunt Josie and poor pale little Pearl were hidden someplace in that silent house. I remember a shaft of sunlight through the window that struck an open jug of shine on our pine table, and I had a gulp of it to get my nerve up. Then I went to my father, who was snoring like a bullfrog on his bed, with muddy boots on. I opened up the storm shutters to have some light, then shook him awake and said, “Forgive me, Papa.” I was scared to death! Then I took a deep breath and told him about those colored boys. “The hogs found ’em,” I said, to fill an awful silence.

Papa opened up one eye, so red and raw it looked like the slit throat of a chicken. Then he heaved away, dragging a pillow over his head, he couldn’t take the light nor stand the sight of me. But after a while his voice growled out that he knew nothing about it. Next he snarled that Mr. Wally Tucker better be damned careful about spreading slander against E. J. Watson. He asked if I knew that those damned Tuckers had forfeited back wages by running out on their damned contract? This reminded him that he was shorthanded for the harvest, and he reared up with a roar and hurled himself out of bed as if he could still catch them, but he blacked out and crashed against the wall and sagged down in a heap behind the door.

At these times, “hair of the dog” was all that helped. By the time I came back with the jug, he was sitting on the bed edge holding his head, wheezing for breath. He stunk like a bear and his skin was blotchy and his breath was terrible. I was very much afraid. I whispered, “You told me you paid them, Papa, took them to Fort Myers.” He opened his eyes and looked me over and then he shook his head. “Those two owed me money, they were thieves.” He took a last big slug out of his jug and sighed. “I couldn’t pay ’em, boy,” he muttered. “Nothing to pay ’em with.” He shoved the jug at me. “I have some business to take care of. Hide this jug from me.” He pulled it back and gulped at it one last time before handing it over, and I went outside and hid it on that ledge under the cistern cover where we placed the buckets when we fetched water, remember?

I missed those Tuckers badly, they were my good friends. Without them, the Bend seemed very grim and lonely. Even Tant had gone away, there was no one to talk to but Aunt Josie. My father went out with me to rebury Ted and Zachariah, even mumbled some kind of a rough prayer. I wanted to believe what he tried to hint (not very seriously) that other field hands must have killed them for their pay, and meanwhile he instructed all of us to forget this. There was nothing to be done about it, he said.

After their long year of hard work, the poor Tuckers had departed unpaid and penniless, without stores, in worn-out clothes. They got no farther south than Lost Man’s Key. They lived there in their little sloop while they built a shelter, borrowing a gillnet and a few tools from the Hardens while they farmed a piece of ground across the river mouth, back of South Lost Man’s.

Toward the end of that year, Winky Atwell from Rodgers River showed up at the Bend with his younger brother. He wanted to let Mr. Watson know he was moving his family back south to Key West—was Mr. Watson still interested in buying up their claim on Lost Man’s Key? But after he had bought and paid for it, and everyone was celebrating, the Atwells advised him that the Tuckers had been camping there to get away from the mosquitoes, though Wally rowed across the channel every day to tend his crop. They had a little shack there on the shell ridge, and a small cistern and a little dock. Since Bet was in a family way, perhaps Mr. Watson would not mind if those young folks got their little harvest in before they had to leave. Papa roared that he would mind that very much. Being drunk on that day, too, he sent a rough note back with Atwells notifying the Tuckers that by Monday next, they must get off his paid-up claim at Lost Man’s Key.

Two days later the Atwells, very nervous, brought an answer from Wally Tucker reminding Mr. Watson that they were owed a year’s back pay and would not leave there “until hell burns over.” Those back wages amounted to full payment of a five-year lease on Lost Man’s Key. My heart sank when I saw what Wally wrote, because Mr. Watson took that as a challenge and a threat. He muttered something about hell burning over somewhat sooner than some people might think, and he didn’t seem to care that Josie heard him.

That woman was so crazy for him that nothing bothered her, I guess, and no secret that would do him harm ever passed her lips. Even if Josie knew about those hog-chewed cadavers in the woods, she would have claimed she didn’t know a thing about “those darned ol’ niggers,” all she knew was that her “Jack” Watson had had a showdown with the Tuckers because they were squatters on his claim who insulted and defied him when he sent word to get off.