Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [27]
Uhhh hmmm! That man Luke can sure shoot!
With a little smile, he stabbed his shovel in the ground, kicked it, bent the handle over his knee and tossed a clod of dirt. Ears was still standing up on the shoulder of the road, his mouth agape, holding his shovel behind a washout. He jerked awake when the clump of dirt landed square and solid against his shovel blade with a whack.
So the days went on. We built our Time. Jackson and the others began to harden. Their skin was turning dark and their hands were getting calloused. Their muscles began to swell. The Newcocks began to lose the awe of their surroundings and were more at home, accustomed to the routines.
Gradually Jackson began to change. Slowly he revealed a sardonic sense of humor that seemed to include everything. He could laugh at the movements of the ants on the ground, at the sun, at the traffic on the road. And whenever the Bull Gang would be standing by waiting for orders Jackson would pull his cap down over his eyes, lean on his shovel and drawl under his breath.
Well now. Come on. Shoot, Luke. Let’s go here.
Jackson began to sit in on the poker games in the evening, staying on after the Last Bell until Carr broke up the game. And it turned out that he was an excellent gambler. You never had the slightest idea of what he was going to do next. He would sit there and ante up for half an hour without playing out a hand and then suddenly he would call a bet purely on his nerve. He might raise you on sheer bluff. Or he might be holding a dead lock. But whatever it was that he was holding in his hand he would still look you right in the eye and smile.
One night everyone had thrown in his hand but he and Dragline. Drag had opened up the betting and then stood pat. Jackson drew three cards. Smirking, Drag bet the limit, a dollar. Jackson looked at his cards, looked at Dragline, saw the bet and then raised it a dollar. Drag sat there scowling, swearing in a harsh whisper and tapping the edge of his hand on the table. Jackson looked at him and smiled. Finally he drawled in that soft way of his.
Well, come on now, Luke. Shoot or give up the gun.
Ah am shootin‘—Ah mean—ah’m thinkin’. Damn yore ass. Ah think you’re bluffin‘. Ah calls yore bet.
Dragline had a queen-high straight.
Jackson had four threes.
The next day out on the road Jackson was joined by Dragline and Koko during Smoking Period. Koko wanted to know about Jackson’s war experiences, about his wounds and his medals, about all the girls he had laid in North Africa, in Italy and France and Germany. Dragline lay on the ground saying nothing. He himself had been a truck driver during the war, shuttling supplies from the ports along the Persian Gulf over the mountains into Russia. And he was still sulking from his poker defeat of the night before. But Koko persisted, eager and anxious.
Come on Jackson. How about this big medal that you got? That Silver Star thing. What did you do to get that?
Shoot man, nothin‘. Nothin’ at all. All them people were just runnin‘ around like crazy. Shootin’ guns and throwin‘ things. Screamin’ and hollerin‘. Everything blowin’ up and burnin‘. All them trucks and tanks and airplanes runnin’ races day and night. Me, I just played it cool, that’s all.
After Smoking Period Jackson began to work along with Dragline and Koko. They shoveled and shot the bull in whispers until Boss Godfrey drove off with Rabbit to fetch the Store Order. As soon as the Man was gone Dragline stopped to take out his chewing tobacco, calling out,
Gettin‘ a chew here, Boss Paul.
Yeah. Chew it up, Drag.
Dragline took a pinch of the coarse, loose grains from the crumpled package, stuffing them in his mouth and chewing it up and moving it over in a wad to one side of his cheek. He offered the package to Koko who took a chew and then spoke out loud.
Must be time for Boss Godfrey to get back. Must be time for beans. What time do you say it is, Dragline?
Drag stopped. He spit out a stream of tobacco juice to one side, shifted his quid with his