Deadly Waters Read Online Free PDF Page B

was the body of a young Indian woman. She’d hanged herself!
    Mr. Watson said he’d been away on his boat when the murders took place, but he got accused anyway. By then, the townspeople of Chokoloskee decided they’d had just about enough of Bloody Watson. They blamed him for all the bad things that were happening around here, and they began to plot against him.
    Twenty men, all armed with shotguns and rifles, gathered on the shore in front of the store owned by the Smallwood family, just waiting for Mr. Watson to arrive in his boat.
    â€œIf we all shoot him at once,” they reckoned, “why, then, they can’t blame any one of us fellers for his murder.” When Mr. Watson arrived by boat and stepped onto the shore, all 20 men shot him at the same time. They kept on firing even after he fell dead, pumping 33 or more bullets into him, not counting buckshot. His blood reddened the ground.
    They buried Mr. Watson on a lonesome sand bar not far from here. But the troubles weren’t over. For many years the slaughter of the animals continued, and the Indian curse hung over this land like a shadow. When another family moved into the Watson house, here on the island, they found bloodstains on the walls. No matter how hard they scrubbed, the blood would never wash off….
    Bridger scoffed, “What’d I tell you? A ghost story! A place is just a place, Ashley. These trees—just trees. Grass—just grass. No bodies in the water. No curse.”
    â€œI’m not scared of bodies,” she said. “It’s just—maybe other bad things could happen while we’re here! Maybe the old Indian curse is still working. How do we know it isn’t?”
    Turning to Jack, Bridger raised his eyebrows. This time he didn’t say “Girls!” but that’s what the look meant. Instead, he swatted at the mosquitoes on his arms and asked Jack, “You think Frankie might have some of that bug juice in the box of fishing tackle? These mosquitoes must think I’m a T-bone steak, the way they’re chewin’ on me.”
    â€œI have some in my camera bag.” Jack found the can, and this time Bridger squirted it all over himself. Jack and Ashley sprayed themselves again, too, because the mosquitoes were thick, and the repellent did seem to keep them from biting.
    After that, Bridger pulled out the fishing gear and the portable canvas seats Frankie had given them. Ashley moved up and down the boardwalk, rubbing her arms as if she were cold, which Jack knew was impossible in the 90-degree heat. Maybe she was just trying to rub the repellent farther into her skin.
    With a sure, quick motion, Bridger baited his hook, then silently handed Jack the plastic tub of minnows. Ashley was suddenly at Jack’s side, her dark eyes big and round.
    â€œWait—Jack—you’re not going to stick a hook through that little minnow, are you? It’s still alive!”
    â€œLive bait’s the best kind,” Bridger answered her. “Mr. Watson used live bait, too, I bet—’cept maybe it was people, not minnows.” He laughed out loud.
    â€œOoooh! That’s sick!”
    â€œLighten up, Ashley, I’m just kidding you. You can’t let stuff like that story get to you.”
    Ashley narrowed her eyes at Bridger. “I guess you’re not scared of anything ’cause you’re a guy, right?”
    He scratched the skin under his ear. “Well…” he said slowly, “me and Jack just heard the story, and we didn’t freak out. Guys are different, I guess. Watch your brother now—he’s gonna bait that hook, no problem. Right, Jack?”
    â€œRight.” Actually, Jack wasn’t too comfortable about putting a hook through a live minnow; before, when he’d gone trout fishing in Wyoming, he’d always used artificial flies. His parents had taught him that every living creature, no matter how small, was