McKinney just nodded. He said, âBack in the twenties, I worked some long hot months building the Tamiami Trail with your granddaddy, Panther James. Fine man. Bunked with him and worked shoulder to shoulder with him for nigh onto a month before he spoke the first word to me. And that was under kind of unusual circumstances. Olâ Baron Collier had us building that road out of muck and swamp, from Naples to Miami, straight across the Everglades.â
Grafton chuckled and continued, âHeck, there werenât nothinâ out there but about a million snakes and gators, and so many skeeters you could swing a pint jar in front of your face and catch a quart ofâem. Only the âglades Indians, like your granddaddy, didnât seem to mind. In the afternoon that swamp became a hellhole, but we just worked on and on, a couple of hundred of us followinâ that floating dredge in the sun.
âNow, the way olâ Panther James started talking to me was this: Iâd gone off in the bushes to take a crap. Always had to stomp around firstâto chase the snakes away, donât you see. Iâd hung my shovel in a tree and every now and again Iâd reach up and hold it for balance. And I was just about doneâreached up one last time, but instead of grabbing the shovel I caught holt of a big old cotton-mouth moccasin by mistake. Iâm here to tell you, son, I took off a-runninâ, pants down and all. Your olâ granddaddy just thought that was funny as hell, he did. Damn near wet his pants laughinâ. Then in perfect English, you know what he said to me? He said, âOnly a white man would try to wipe himself with a snake.â How about that! For a whole month I thought he was deaf and dumbâand then to learn there werenât nothinâ wrong with him but a damn weird sense of humor.â
âYou became friends after that?â
Grafton McKinney sipped at his coffee thoughtfully. âI was closer than anybody else to him, but you still wouldnât call us friends. The Miccosukee Indians are a shy people, but I have plenty of friends among the Miccosukee. He was shyer yetâthatâs why I wasnât surprised when you said he thinks of himself as a Tequesta.â
âHe never told you that?â
âNever said a word about it.â
âDusky here says you know the âglades as good as anybody around. You got anything to say about that swamp-monster business?â
The older man shrugged. âSome of the old blanket Indians mention it every now and again. I donât personally put much store in it. Iâve spent most of my life in them swamps, and I never seen hide nor hair of it.â
âSo who do you think might be trying to chase the old man and his family off their property?â
âDamned if I know. This is the first Iâve heard about anything like that going on. But I can tell you this: The Indians in the âglades are changing. And changing fast. Especially the Seminole. Theyâre really starting to hit the tourist wagon. You ever been to that reservation up near Hollywood? The old Indians wonât even hardly go there no more. Because itâs Indian land, they can sell cigarettes tax-free there. Got big neon signs advertising âem, and they got a fastmoney bingo parlor up there that seats over a thousand people. Thereâs even some talk that they want to get Las Vegas-style gambling houses builtâanything to separate the tourists from their money. Like I said, they figure because itâs Indian land the state donât have no control over what goes on there.â
I said, âIt doesnât sound like you approve, Grafton.â
He snorted. âApprove? Why should I? The damn developers around the state are killing the Everglades fast enough as it is. Draining and dredging and buildingâall the time sayinâ pretty as you please that they ainât hurtinâ a thing. And