Forty Lashes Less One

7

Frank Shelby said, “A race, what do you mean, a race?”

“I mean a foot race,” Fisher told him. “The nigger and the Indin are going to run a race from one end of the yard to the other and back again, and you and every convict in this place are going to be out here to watch it.”

“A race,” Shelby said again. “Nobody cares about any foot race.”

“You don’t have to care,” Fisher said. “I’m not asking you to care. I’m telling you to close your store and get everybody’s ass out of the cellblock. They can stand here or over along the south wall. Ten minutes, I want everybody out.”

“This is supposed to be our free time.”

“I’ll tell you when you get free time.”

“What if we want to make some bets?”

“I don’t care, long as you keep it quiet. I don’t want any arguments, or have to hit anybody over the head.”

“Ten minutes, it doesn’t give us much time to figure out how to bet.”

“You don’t know who’s going to win,” Fisher said. “What’s the difference?”

About half the convicts were already in the yard. Fisher waited for the rest of them to file out: the card players and the convicts who could afford Frank Shelby’s whiskey and the ones who were always in their bunks between working and eating. They came out of the cellblock and stood around waiting for something to happen. The guards up on the wall came out of the towers and looked around too, as if they didn’t know what was going on. Bob Fisher hadn’t told any of them about the race. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. He told the convicts to keep the middle area of the yard clear. They started asking him what was going on, but he walked away from them toward the mess hall. It was good that he did. When Mr. Manly appeared on the stairway at the end of the building Fisher was able to get to him before he reached the yard.

“You better stay up on the stairs.”

Mr. Manly looked surprised. “I was going over there with the convicts.”

“It’s happened a sup’rintendent’s been grabbed and a knife put at his throat till the gate was opened.”

“You go among the convicts; all the guards do.”

“But if any of us are grabbed the gate stays closed. They know that. They don’t know about you.”

“I just wanted to mingle a little,” Mr. Manly said. He looked out toward the yard. “Are they ready?”

“Soon as they get their leg-irons off.”

A few minutes later, Raymond and Harold were brought down the length of the yard. The convicts watched them, and a few called out to them. Mr. Manly didn’t hear what they said, but he noticed neither Raymond nor Harold looked over that way. When they reached the stairs he said. “Well, boys, are you ready?”

“You want us to run,” Raymond said. “You wasn’t kidding, uh?”

“Course I wasn’t.”

“I don’t know. We just got the irons off. My legs feel funny.”

“You want to warm up first?”

Harold Jackson said, “I’m ready any time he is.”

Raymond shrugged. “Let’s run the race.”

Mr. Manly made sure they understood—down to the end of the yard, touch the wall between the snake den and the women’s cellblock, and come back past the stairs, a distance Mr. Manly figured to be about a hundred and twenty yards or so. He and Mr. Fisher would be at the top of the stairs in the judge’s stand. Mr. Fisher would fire off a revolver as the starting signal. “So,” Mr. Manly said, “if you boys are ready—”

There was some noise from the convicts as Raymond and Harold took off as the shot was fired and passed the main cellblock in a dead heat. Raymond hit the far wall and came off in one motion. Harold stumbled and dug hard on the way back but was five or six yards behind Raymond going across the finish.

They stood with their hands on their hips breathing in and out while Mr. Manly leaned over the rail of the stair landing, smiling down at them. He said, “Hey, boys, you sure gave it the old try. Rest a few minutes and we’ll run it again.”

Raymond looked over at Harold. They got down again and went off with the sound of the revolver, Raymond letting Harold set the pace this time, staying with him and not kicking out ahead until they were almost to the finish line. This time he took it by two strides, with the convicts yelling at them to run.

Raymond could feel his chest burning now. He walked around breathing with his mouth open, looking up at the sky that was fading to gray with the sun below the west wall, walking around in little circles and seeing Mr. Manly up there now. As Raymond turned away he heard Harold say, “Let’s do it again,” and he had to go along.

Harold dug all the way this time; he felt his thighs knotting and pushed it some more, down and back and, with the convicts yelling, came in a good seven strides ahead of the Indian. Right away Harold said, “Let’s do it again.”

In the fourth race he was again six or seven strides faster than Raymond.

In the fifth race, neither of them looked as if he was going to make it back to the finish. They ran pumping their arms and gasping for air, and Harold might have been ahead by a half-stride past the stairs; but Raymond stumbled and fell forward trying to catch himself, and it was hard to tell who won. There wasn’t a sound from the convicts this time. Some of them weren’t even looking this way. They were milling around, smoking cigarettes, talking among themselves.

Mr. Manly wasn’t watching the convicts. He was leaning over the railing looking down at his two boys: at Raymond lying stretched out on his back and at Harold sitting, leaning back on his hands with his face raised to the sky.

“Hey, boys,” Mr. Manly called, “you know what I want you to do now? First I want you to get up. Come on, boys, get up on your feet. Raymond, you hear me?”

“He looks like he’s out,” Fisher said.

“No, he’s all right. See?”

Mr. Manly leaned closer over the rail. “Now I want you two to walk up to each other. Go on, do as I say. It won’t hurt you. Now I want you both to reach out and shake hands….

“Don’t look up here. Look at each other and shake hands.”

Mr. Manly started to grin and, by golly, he really felt good. “Bob, look at that.”

“I see it,” Fisher said.

Mr. Manly called out now, “Boys, by the time you get done running together you’re going to be good friends. You wait and see.”

The next day, while they were working on the face wall in the TB cellblock, Raymond was squatting down mixing mortar in a bucket and groaned as he got to his feet. “Goddamn legs,” he said.

“I know what you mean,” Harold said. He was laying a brick, tapping it into place with the handle of his trowel, and hesitated as he heard his own voice and realized he had spoken to Raymond. He didn’t look over at him; he picked up another brick and laid it in place. It was quiet in the yard. The tubercular convicts were in their cells, out of the heat and the sun. Harold could hear a switch-engine working, way down the hill in the Southern Pacific yard; he could hear the freight cars banging together as they were coupled.

After a minute or so Raymond said, “I can’t hardly walk today.”

“From running,” Harold said.

“They don’t put the leg-irons back on, uh?”

“I wondered if they forgot to.”

“I think so. They wouldn’t leave them off unless they forgot.”

There was silence again until Harold said, “They can leave them off, it’s all right with me.”

“Sure,” Raymond said, “I don’t care they leave them off.”

“Place in Florida, this prison farm, you got to wear them all the time.”

“Yeah? I hope I never get sent there.”

“You ever been to Cuba?”

“No, I never have.”

“That’s a fine place. I believe I like to go back there sometime.”

“Live there?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Look like we need some more bricks,” Raymond said.

The convicts mixing the adobe mud straightened up with their shovels in front of them as Raymond and Harold came across the yard pushing their wheelbarrows. Joe Dean stepped around to the other side of the mud so he could keep an eye on the south-wall tower guard. He waited until the two boys were close, heading for the brick pile.

“Well, now,” Joe Dean said, “I believe it’s the two sweethearts.”

“If they come back for some more,” another convict said, “I’m going to cut somebody this time.”

Joe Dean watched them begin loading the wheelbarrows. “See, what they do,” he said. “they start a ruckus so they’ll get sent to the snake den. Sure, they get in there, just the two of them. Man, they hug and kiss, do all kinds of things to each other.”

“That is Mr. Joe Dean talking,” Harold said. “I believe he wants to get hit in the mouth with a ’dobe brick.”

“I want to see you try that,” Joe Dean said.

“Sometime when the guard ain’t looking,” Harold said. “Maybe when you ain’t looking either.”

They finished loading their wheelbarrows and left.

In the mess hall at supper they sat across one end of a table. No one else sat with them. Raymond looked around at the convicts hunched over eating. No one seemed aware of them. They were all talking or concentrating on their food. He said to Harold, “Goddamn beans, they always got to burn them.”

“I’ve had worse beans,” Harold said. “Worse everything. What I like is some chicken, that’s what I miss. Chicken’s good.”

“I like a beefsteak. With peppers and catsup.”

“Beefsteak’s good too. You like fried fish?”

“I never had it.”

“You never had fish?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Man, where you been you never had fish?”

“I don’t know, I never had it.”

“We got a big river right outside.”

“I never seen anybody fishing.”

“How long it take you to swim across?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

“That’s a long time to swim.”

“Too long. They get a boat out quick.”

“Anybody try to dig out of here?”

“I never heard of it,” Raymond said. “The ones that go they always run from a work detail, outside.”

“Anybody make it?”

“Not since I been here.”

“Man start running he got to know where he’s going. He got to have a place to go to.” Harold looked up from his plate. “How long you here for?”

“Life.”

“That’s a long time, ain’t it?”

They were back at work on the cell wall the next day when a guard came and got them. It was about mid-afternoon. Neither of them asked where they were going; they figured they were going to hear another sermon from the man. They marched in front of the guard down the length of the yard and past the brick detail. When they got near the mess hall they veered a little toward the stairway and the guard said, “Keep going, straight ahead.”

Raymond and Harold couldn’t believe it. The guard marched them through the gates of the sally port and right up to Mr. Rynning’s twenty-horsepower Ford Touring Car.

“Let me try to explain it to you again,” Mr. Manly said to Bob Fisher. “I believe these boys have got to develop some pride in theirselves. I don’t mean they’re supposed to get uppity with us. I mean they got to look at theirselves as man in the sight of men, and children in the eyes of God.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that part,” Bob Fisher said. “To me they are a couple of bad cons, and if you want my advice based on years of dealing with these people, we put their leg-irons back on.”

“They can’t run in leg-irons.”

“I know they can’t. They need to work and they need to get knocked down a few times. A convict stands up to you, you better knock him down quick.”

“Have they stood up to you, Bob?”

“One of them served time in Leavenworth, the other one tried to swim the river and they’re both trying to kill one another. I call that standing up to me.”

“You say they’re hard cases, Bob, and I say they’re like little children, because they’re just now beginning to learn about living with their fellowman, which to them means living with white men and getting along with white men.”

“Long as they’re here,” Fisher said, “they damn well better. We only got one set of rules.”

Mr. Manly shook his head. “I don’t mean to change the rules for them.” It was harder to explain than he thought it would be. He couldn’t look right at Fisher; the man’s solemn expression, across the desk, distracted him. He would glance at Fisher and then look down at the sheet of paper that was partly covered with oval shapes that were like shields, and long thin lines that curved awkwardly into spearheads. “I don’t mean to treat them as privileged characters either. But we’re not going to turn them into white men, are we?”

“We sure aren’t.”

“We’re not going to tell them they’re just as good as white men, are we?”

“I don’t see how we could do that,” Fisher said.

“So we tell them what an Indian is good at and what a nigger is good at.”

“Niggers lie and Indians steal.”

“Bob, we tell them what they’re good at as members of their race. We already got it started. We tell them Indians and niggers are the best runners in the world.”

“I guess if they’re scared enough.”

“We train them hard and, by golly, they begin to believe it.”

“Yeah?”

“Once they begin to believe in something, they begin to believe in themselves.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s all there is to it.”

“Well, maybe you ought to get some white boys to run against them.”

“Bob, I’m not interested in them running races. This has got to do with distance and endurance. Being able to do something no one else in this prison can do. That race out in the yard was all wrong, more I think about it.”

“Frank Shelby said he figured the men wouldn’t mind seeing different kinds of races instead of just back and forth. He said run them all over and have them jump things—like climb up the wall on ropes, see who can get to the top first. He said he thought the men would get a kick out of that.”

“Bob, this is a show. It doesn’t prove nothing. I’m talking about these boys running miles.”

“Miles, uh?”

“Like their granddaddies used to do.”

“How’s that?”

“Like Harold Jackson’s people back in Africa. Bob, they kill lions with spears.”

“Harold killed a man with a lead pipe.”

“There,” Mr. Manly said. “That’s the difference. That’s what he’s become because he’s forgot what it’s like to be a Zulu nigger warrior.”

Jesus Christ, Bob Fisher said to himself. The little squirt shouldn’t be sitting behind the desk, he should be over in the goddamn crazy hole. He said, “You want them to run miles, uh?”

“Start them out a few miles a day. Work up to ten miles, twenty miles. We’ll see how they do.”

“Well, it will be something to see, all right, them running back and forth across the yard. I imagine the convicts will make a few remarks to them. The two boys get riled up and lose their temper, they’re back in the snake den and I don’t see you’ve made any progress at all.”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Mr. Manly said. “They’re not going to run in the yard. They’re going to run outside.”

The convicts putting up the adobe wall out at the cemetery were the first ones to see them. A man raised up to stretch the kinks out of his back and said, “Look-it up there!”

They heard the Ford Touring Car as they looked around and saw it up on the slope, moving along the north wall with the two boys running behind it. Nobody could figure it out. Somebody asked what were they chasing the car for. Another convict said they weren’t chasing the car, they were being taken somewhere. See, there was a guard in the back seat with a rifle. They could see him good against the pale wall of the prison. Nobody had ever seen convicts taken somewhere like that. Any time the car went out it went down to Yuma, but no convicts were ever in the car or behind it or anywhere near it. One of the convicts asked the work-detail guard where he supposed they were going. The guard said it beat him. That motor car belonged to Mr. Rynning and was only used for official business.

It was the stone-quarry gang that saw them next. They looked squinting up through the white dust and saw the Ford Touring Car and the two boys running to keep up with it, about twenty feet behind the car and just barely visible in all the dust the car was raising. The stone-quarry gang watched until the car was past the open rim and the only thing left to see was the dust hanging in the sunlight. Somebody said they certainly had it ass-backwards; the car was supposed to be chasing the cons. They tried to figure it out, but nobody had an answer that made much sense.

Two guards and two convicts, including Joe Dean, coming back in the wagon from delivering a load of adobe bricks in town, saw them next—saw them pass right by on the road—and Joe Dean and the other convict and the two guards turned around and watched them until the car crossed the railroad tracks and passed behind some depot sheds. Joe Dean said he could understand why the guards didn’t want the spook and the Indian riding with them, but he still had never seen anything like it in all the time he’d been here. The guards said they had never seen anything like it either. There was funny things going on. Those two had raced each other, maybe they were racing the car now. Joe Dean said Goddamn, this was the craziest prison he had ever been in.

That first day, the best they could run in one stretch was a little over a mile. They did that once: down prison hill and along the railroad tracks and out back of town, out into the country. Most of the time, in the three hours they were out, they would run as far as they could, seldom more than a quarter of a mile—then have to quit and walk for a while, breathing hard with their mouths open and their lungs on fire. They would drop thirty to forty feet back of the car and the guard with the Winchester would yell at them to come on, get the lead out of their feet.

Harold said to Raymond, “I had any lead in my feet I’d take and hit that man in the mouth with it.”

“We tell him we got to rest,” Raymond said.

They did that twice, sat down at the side of the road in the meadow grass and watched the guard coming with the rifle and the car backing up through its own dust. The first time the guard pointed the rifle and yelled for them to get on their feet. Harold told him they couldn’t move and asked him if he was going to shoot them for being tired.

“Captain, we want to run, but our legs won’t mind what we tell them.”

So the guard gave them five minutes and they sat back in the grass to let their muscles relax and stared at the distant mountains while the guards sat in the car smoking their cigarettes.

Harold said to Raymond, “What are we doing this for?”

Raymond gave him a funny look. “Because we’re tired, what do you think?”

“I mean running. What are we running for?”

“They say to run, we run.”

“It’s that little preacher.”

“Sure it is. What do you think, these guards thought of it?”

“That little man’s crazy, ain’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Raymond said. “Most of the time I don’t understand him. He’s got something in his head about running.”

“Running’s all right if you in a hurry and you know where you going.”

“That road don’t go anywhere.”

“What’s up ahead?”

“The desert,” Raymond said. “Maybe after a while you come to a town.”

“You know how to drive that thing?”

“A car? I never even been in one.”

Harold was chewing on a weed stem, looking at the car. “It would be nice to have a ride home, wouldn’t it?”

“It might be worth the running,” Raymond said.

The guard got them up and they ran some more. They ran and walked and ran again for almost another mile, and this time when they went down they stretched out full length: Harold on his stomach, head down and his arms propping him up; Raymond on his back with his chest rising and falling.

After ten minutes the guard said all right, they were starting back now. Neither of them moved as the car turned around and rolled past them. The guard asked if they heard him. He said goddamn-it, they better get up quick. Harold said captain, their legs hurt so bad it didn’t look like they could make it. The guard levered a cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester and said their legs would hurt one hell of a lot more with a .44 slug shot through them. They got up and fell in behind the car. Once they tried to run and had to stop within a dozen yards. It wasn’t any use, Harold said. The legs wouldn’t do what they was told. They could walk though. All right, the guard said, then walk. But goddamn, they were so slow, poking along, he had to keep yelling at them to come on. After a while, still not in sight of the railroad tracks, the guard driving said to the other guard, if they didn’t hurry they were going to miss supper call. The guard with the Winchester said well, what was he supposed to do about it? The guard driving said it looked like there was only one thing they could do.

Raymond liked it when the car stopped and the guard with the rifle, looking like he wanted to kill them, said all right, goddamn-it, get in.

Harold liked it when they drove past the cemetery work detail filing back to prison. The convicts had moved off the road and were looking back, waiting for the car. As they went by Harold raised one hand and waved. He said to Raymond, “Look at them poor boys. I believe they convicts.”