Trouble in the Everglades, page 1
TROUBLE
IN THE
EVERGLADES
TROUBLE
IN THE
EVERGLADES
LEE GRAMLING
Palm Beach, Florida
An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Blvd., Ste. 200
Lanham, MD 20706
www.rowman.com
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
Copyright © 2020 by Lee Gramling
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Gramling, Lee, 1942- author.
Title: Trouble in the Everglades / Lee Gramling.
Description: Palm Beach, Florida : Pineapple Press ; Lanham, MD : Rowman & Littlefield, [2020] | Summary: “When Tate Barkley meet[s] up with a man who calls himself “Gator” he doesn’t know he’s the boss of a gang of “plumers” - men who kill thousands of birds in the Everglades so their [plumes] can adorn fashionable ladies’ hats. In fact, he doesn’t even know what a “plumer” is. But he learns quick enough, and more about the rough and dangerous bunch than he ever wanted to know. When he joins up with a rich Yankee detective who’s hunting a friend that’s gone missing in the vast and watery wilderness you can be sure there’s going to be trouble in the Everglades”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019048589 (print) | LCCN 2019048590 (ebook) | ISBN 9781683340805 (paperback) | ISBN 9781683340812 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Everglades (Fla.)--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3557.R228 T76 2020 (print) | LCC PS3557.R228 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019048589
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019048590
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
For Jeremy Frank
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
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35
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38
Historical Notes
1
I COULD OF SWORE THAT FELLER WAS DEAD. HE WAS LAYIN’ HALF IN AN’ HALF out the water of that li’l creek runs from the Everglades down into Biscayne Bay. Weren’t stirrin’ a-tall. It was gettin’ on towards dark an’ what little I could see of his face an’ hands ‘peared kind of grayish-white. Like some other corpses I seen time to time.
It didn’t hardly seem decent to leave him all sprawled out like that with the water flowin’ ‘round him. For one thing, they was folks downstream what prob’ly depended on that creek for washin’ and drinkin’ and such.
So I swung down from the leather an’ looped my reins over the saddle horn, meanin’ to fetch him up onto drier ground where somebody could come along an’ bury him proper. When I bent down an’ took hold of his shoulders to roll him over, that’s when he let out a kind of a low, shudderin’ moan.
I mean it give me a turn. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise up an’ I stumbled back a step so’s that I almost dropped him right back in the creek.
‘T ain’t that I’m afeared of h’aints an’ such. I seen a sight of dead men in my time, and nary one of ‘em ever come back later on to trouble the livin’. But the thing of it was, the light was kind of bad right there an’ that sound just come out of him all sudden an’ unexpected-like.
I knew right away that feller was still alive, though maybe only barely an’ maybe not for a whole lot longer. I dragged him up onto the bank and laid him out so’s I could have me a better look.
When I’d got him situated on his back an’ pulled open his coat it didn’t take no dee-tective to figure out what was his problem. He’d been shot twice, once in the shoulder an’ once in the leg. Bullets passed clean through both times, leavin’ the flesh all tore up where they come out the far side. That was good news, ‘cause it seemed no bones was broke nor nothin’ important inside him had got hit.
But it was bad news too. ‘Cause he’d been bleedin’ from four places for what ‘peared to be a while. I tugged off his jacket an’ slit his trousers with my Bowie, then tore off pieces from his shirt to plug up all the holes. It were a right fancy shirt when I started in on it, with ruffles down the front an’ at the ends of the sleeves. Didn’t leave him too much of it by the time I was done. But I figured he weren’t liable to object.
That jacket was a real fine one too: light-colored leather near-’bout soft as felt. ‘Course it had a couple bloodstained holes in it now that didn’t do much for its looks. He’d had him a tooled leather holster belted on underneath it, well-oiled an’ showin’ plenty of use. But when I pushed the coat back so’s I could see it, it was empty as a church on payday night. Whilst I was settin’ to work on his leg, I noticed his boots was of that Boston kind, shiny black an’ coming almost up to his knees.
Any way you looked at it this feller ‘peared to be some kind of real for-sure gent. Rich Yankee tourist maybe, come down here into Florida for his health.
Which hadn’t worked out too good for him so far. I was right curious to know what it was led to him gettin’ all shot up like he was. An’ I hoped he’d live long enough to tell me more about it.
Whilst I was pluggin’ up them bullet holes he’d moaned off an’ on but never onct opened his eyes. I figured he was out for the count an’ likely to stay that way for a spell. Considerin’ all the blood he’d lost, it weren’t no great surprise.
When I was done I listened to him breathe for li’l bit. Seemed regular enough but shallow. I reckoned I might’s well try movin’ him. Couldn’t leave him out here all alone with it comin’ on dark and nobody else to do for him.
I had me a li’l cabin a mile or two away, built tight against the weather an’ with food an’ fixin’s an’ such. Even a rope bed I hadn’t got real used to yet an’ what I reckoned I could do without for a spell.
So I brung my horse over an’ manhandled him up into the saddle. He was a good-sized gent, but I ain’t ‘zactly no midget my ownself. An’ when Tate Barkley takes hold of somethin’ it most generally moves.
That mare was a Cracker horse with a level coon-rack gait an’ a naturally gentle nature. Onct I’d got the feller up on top of her I could see he was a rider from the way he held on with his knees an’ kept his seat without never ‘pearin’ to wake up. Which made the job a heap easier under the circumstances. I worked his toes into the stirrups an’ started off walkin’ alongside, holdin’ on to his good arm to keep him from slewin’ sideways.
When we got up to the cabin I lit a coal-oil lantern over the front stoop to give us a tad of light. Then I lifted him down an’ kind of frog-walked him up the steps an’ in through the door. He showed a few signs of life durin’ that, but not enough to be much help.
When we got next to the bed I pulled back the covers an’ helped him lie down; then I laid a couple blankets over him ‘gainst the chills an’ fever I reckoned would come. Afterwards, I stood catchin’ my breath an’ just watchin’ him for a couple minutes. Even after all that ridin’ an’ movin’ about he still ‘peared to be breathin’ pretty regular, which I took to be a hopeful sign.
I went out on the porch an’ fetched the lantern to lead my mare ‘round back to where I’d got a log corral with a shed at one end that was roofed over by palmetto fans. My Ole Roan horse let out a snort when he seen me, ornery as always an’ jealous to boot. We’d covered a heap of country together when it was just him an’ me. But he was gettin’ a mite long in the tooth now, and I’d took to ridin’ the mare more frequent lately.
After I’d hung up the lantern I unsaddled an’ started to give the mare a rubdown, thinkin’ whilst I did it how I didn’t have no food in the house that wouldn’t need a bit of fixin’. It bein’ plumb dark now and me some tired after a day’s ride follered by manhandlin’ that gent hither an’ yon, I figured I’d just put off supper ‘til it got to be time for breakfast.
But I knew the horses wouldn’t of seen things that way, so I forked out hay for ‘em both. Then to keep peace in the family so to speak, I set about givin’ Ole Roan a rubdown of his own whilst he nipped at my legs more for form than out of any real meanness.
Time I’d made it back into the cabin that gent in my bed ‘peared to be sleepin’ peaceful, only mutterin’ to hisself a li’l now an’ again. Come daylight I’d try an’ find somethin’ to bind his wounds up more proper. But for now it seemed like a better idea to just let him sleep.
I fetched my ole bedroll
Next mornin’ I was up with the chickens, which I could hear cut-cuttin’ ‘round underneath my window. It weren’t full light yet, but they was a rosy streak of sky away off to the east. I rolled up my bedroll, slung on my gun belt, an’ stamped into my boots.
The gent in my bed still ‘peared to be sleepin’, or anyhow he was still breathin’. I knew ‘cause I bent over him to check.
I picked up the lantern off the floor an’ set it on the table, not botherin’ to light it an’ waste oil when day was right on the horizon. Then I went outside to tell the horses good mornin’ an’ put out a li’l dried corn for their breakfast.
Speakin’ of which, my stomach had started to growl by now an’ get my attention. I took a basket an’ rousted ‘round on my knees till I come up with a half-dozen brown yard eggs the hens had left here an’ there. Then I went back inside an’ cut a mess of thick slices off the side of bacon that was hangin’ from a rafter. I set my ole iron skillet up on the wood stove an’ bent down to light the fire.
Whilst that was gettin’ started good, I went over to take another look at my visitor. He was stirrin’ an’ mutterin in his sleep a tad now, but he still didn’t look near ready to wake up. I put the bacon in the pan an’ then rummaged ‘round in a cracker box I was usin’ for a chest till I found a ole sheet I could tear up for bandages. Took that an’ a pint bottle of turpentine to put by the bed for when I got ‘round to doin’ a mite of doctorin’.
But breakfast come first. Whilst the bacon was sizzlin’ an’ poppin’ I dipped out water from the li’l tank in the stove an’ put it in a pot with a handful of grounds to boil up some coffee. Then I whipped together a batch of cornbread batter to fry in the grease after I’d scrambled them eggs.
Time I sat myself down at my ole deal table, I’d fixed me a reg’lar early mornin’ feast.
I reckon it showed I was doin’ pretty good for myself these days. I had a cabin with a honest-to-God wood stove on several acres of scrub land, two horses, chickens, an’ a half-dozen hogs rootin’ round in the woods that I laid claim to. Only thing I might still use was a ox or a mule to make this homestead a goin’ concern.
‘Course none of it had come easy. I’d rode into Florida on Ole Roan a heap of years ago with nothin’ else to my name but a pistol, a Winchester rifle, an’ some mighty high hopes. Did whatever I could to make a dollar, which in those early days had more to do with them guns than too much else: a li’l deputy sheriffin’, a li’l private hirin’ out for this an’ that. But I’d turned my hand to cow huntin’ too, and lumberin’, an’ anything else that called for a feller with a strong back an’ a weak mind.
I’d lived poor an’ saved up. Li’l under a month ago I was able to make a deal with a Yankee an’ his wife who’d got sick an’ plumb tired of the skeeters an’ the gators an’ the once-in-a-while hurricanes at this here south end of the Unitey States. They’d left out for Ohio in what would of been a cloud of dust. ‘Cept it happened to be the rainy season just then.
Myself, I’d ‘bout had my fill of wanderin’ from pillar to post without no place I could call my own. I’d never had no ambitions to be a dirt farmer, and I weren’t real sure it was in my plans for the future. But I reckoned I could manage to dig coontie roots for a spell, an’ maybe even put in a crop of pineapples. Heard they was folks in this part of the country made a fair livin’ doin’ that.
I figured after while somethin’ better might turn up. It often did, an’ I weren’t a man that planned too far in the future.
When I’d got done eatin’ I dipped more water into a pan on the stove an’ shaved some beef jerky into it that I’d had left over from a trip up the country. Figured that shot-up gent might take a li’l broth when he finally woke up.
By now they was aplenty of sunshine comin’ in through the window facin’ towards the east, so I pulled a chair over next to the bed an’ rolled back the covers, fixin’ to have a more careful look at all that gent’s hurts.
But ‘fore I could get started good I heard voices outside by my front porch. They was men’s voices an’ they didn’t sound real cheerful.
It’s a kind of a custom wherever I been, both here in Florida an’ in the western lands, to call out from a distance ‘fore comin’ up to somebody’s house or campsite. Lets ‘em know you’re friendly an’ don’t mean to take ‘em unawares.
If they don’t do it there’s generally only one of two reasons for it: either they’re just plain ignorant, or they ain’t so friendly as a feller might want or expect.
I’d no way of knowin’ which it was right then. But my momma didn’t raise no careless children. I got up an’ went to fetch my Winchester from where I’d leaned it up against the wall. Then I stepped over to the side of the door an’ cracked it open just a tad so’s I could take a peek outside.
2
THEY WAS FOUR OF ‘EM, ALL LOOKIN’ SO SHAGGY AN’ ROUGH THAT I RECKoned they could of wore their clothes out from the inside. An’ all of ‘em was totin’ guns: three shotguns an’ a rifle.
I cocked the Winchester, which I knew would sound real sharp in the still mornin’ air, an’ maybe it’d give ‘em somethin’ to consider upon. Then I pushed the door open with my left hand an’ stepped out on the porch.
“Somethin’ I can do for you gents?”
“Well, I reckon that depends.” The feller with the rifle was talkin’, an’ he eyed me careful-like without ‘pearin’ too concerned since I was one against their four. His three companions each took a li’l step to one side, the shotguns under their arms not quite pointin’ at me but not ‘zactly pointed towards the ground neither. My Winchester kind of followed ‘em accidental-like whilst I kept my eyes on the man who was speakin’.
‘Sides the rifle he carried he had the only hand gun that I could see—an ole Army Colt shoved down into his belt. He was sportin’ a big wide slouch hat with a egret plume stuck in the band, an’ wore a scruffy droopin’ mustache stained yellow from tobacco juice. He spit on the ground by my front steps an’ squinted up at me. “You happen to see any strangers hereabout in the last couple days?”
I met his look without answerin’ for a second or two. Then I said, “Who is it that’s wantin’ to know?”
“Me an’ my three friends here, together with a bunch of other hard men back yonder in the Glades.”
If he was hopin’ to impress me with those numbers he’d gone an’ suggested he was talkin’ to the wrong Cracker boy. I had me seventeen shots in that Winchester of mine, an’ five more in the Smith an’ Wesson on my hip. All of it without reloadin’. Which ought to be aplenty considerin’ I ain’t too much in the habit of missin’ whatever I shoot at.
“You got a name?” I asked.
“Gator.” He spit some more tobacco juice there by my steps. “Just Gator’s enough. Most folks ‘round these parts has heard of me.”
“Well Mister Gator, I reckon I ain’t one of ‘em. Haven’t been livin’ here so awful long.”
“Well if you ‘spect to keep on livin’ here …” He put a little extra stress on that word livin’. “… you’ll come to know it soon enough. In the meantime you ain’t give me a answer to that question I asked you earlier.”
“You mean ‘bout whoever it is you-all are huntin’?” He hadn’t said they was huntin’ nobody, but it didn’t take no genius to figure it out. Folks don’t go ‘round armed to the teeth like that to greet some visitin’ friend or relative.
I frowned kind of thoughtful-like. “Don’t rightly know how to answer that. You got any kind of a description?” I’d a pretty good notion what was goin’ to say ‘fore he ever got ‘round to sayin’ it.
“Tall, good-lookin’ Yankee dude, maybe your height or a little under. Clean-shaved with black hair a li’l bit gray over the ears. All dressed up in fancy eastern duds.”
I shook my head. “Feller like that ought to stand out like a red flag in this country. Don’t ‘call seein’ anybody a-tall like that since I first got down here.”
