Free Everglades Assault by Randy Wayne White

about. . . .”
    He made a sweeping gesture with his arm that included everyone in the bar. For just a moment he caught my eyes—then quickly went on with his story, talking a little quieter now.
    â€œSeems like a real nice guy,” Hervey said, his sarcasm thick.
    â€œZane Grey in a leisure suit.”
    â€œMaybe we can get him to show us what real fishing is all about.”
    â€œYou mean, invite him aboard my boat?”
    â€œRight,” said Hervey, his eyes twinkling. “Only you and me won’t be there to meet him. Just that ugly old dog of mine.”
    We both laughed.
    As Stella, the waitress, brought us our second round of drinks, a man I knew well came through the door of the small bar.
    He wore baggy pants and a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the collar. He was in his early sixties. Everything about him was long and lean, poor but proper. Dressed as he was, he looked like a country preacher looking for lost souls.
    â€œGrafton!”
    He squinted through the darkness, found me, then gave me a slow shy smile.
    â€œWhy, hullo there, Dusky.”
    I stood and took his hand. It was like shaking a leather bag of bones. I had met Graff McKinney years before when I was still a skiff guide, running that little boat seventy miles in a day searching for bonefish and permit and tarpon for my clients.
    Even then, Graff had been running his squatty little cruiser out of Flamingo.
    Occasionally we’d meet in that desolate expanse of Florida Bay midway between the Keys and Florida proper. It didn’t take me long to realize that where you found Grafton’s boat, the fish were not far away.
    Still, I refused to follow him in those early lean days—not so much out of pride as out of courtesy. On the water, few things are ruder than following a fishing guide.
    But one day, something happened to Graff’s boat. That old clunker engine of his finally went whoosh. The fire wasn’t bad at first—but it was spreading.
    Luckily, I was close enough to see what was going on. I gathered his clients aboard my skiff, anchored, then swam over to help Graff fight the flames.
    We saved the boat. And I had made a friend for life. After that, whenever Graff saw my skiff, he would unfailingly wave me over if he had found fish.
    And I did the same for him.
    So it was nice seeing this lean old man again; like a face from the past, it brought back some of the pleasant memories of my skiff guiding years.
    â€œTom Healy said you was around, Dusky.” He grinned then. “Went to your new boat, but there’s some kind of dragon creature aboard that said you weren’t aboard—and I wasn’t welcome. Figured the bar here was the next likely spot.”
    After I had made introductions, we all sat down again. Stella, the fading beauty, came over when she saw Graff and hugged him like a daughter.
    â€œYou keep threatening to come in here and dance with me, and now you’ve finally done it!”
    Grafton chuckled, half embarrassed. “Miss Stella, I’m gonna have to leave the dancin’ up to this blond fella here.”
    She actually blushed a little. For the first time, I noticed her eyes: a fine Nordic blue, as if they had been created by a watercolor artist. “Well, that’s fine with me,” she said, recovering. “Just so long as I get the next dance with you.”
    When she had brought Graff the coffee he had ordered, Hervey filled him in on his problem. Graff never said a word throughout the whole story—just nodded his head from time to time and made grunting noises.
    After a long thoughtful silence, he said finally, “I think I know your ma’s people.”
    Hervey looked surprised. “Yeah?”
    â€œThe Panther James clan? And the old man’s just known as James?”
    â€œDamn if you ain’t right. They live so far back in the ’glades I didn’t know there was another white man that knew ’em.”
    Grafton