Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [73]
All right Luke. Go up and dig your hole. Go way out so nobody in the cars will see you. Take your time. Have a real good one. But keep shakin‘ a bush as you shit. You hear? Don’t never stop shakin’ that bush. You know what’ll happen if you do.
We all kept working, concentrating, looking down at our feet. Again. Something was up.
Luke stared directly into the mirrored eyes of the Walking Boss. There was the faintest sign of a smile on his lips. Then he took up his shovel and bent over to pick up a piece of old newspaper lying in the ditch. Clambering up the bank, he awkwardly began climbing up and over the post of a barbed wire fence, hampered by his chain and getting over it with great difficulty. But he stayed fairly close to the road, almost in plain view of the passing traffic in spite of the Walking Boss’ invitations.
Go on Luke. What the hell. Make yourself comfortable. Go on way out so’s you can drop your britches in peace. A man’s got to have a little privacy sometimes. Right?
Luke just smiled. Digging up a shovelful of dirt, he dropped his pants and squatted. And all the while he hung onto a small live oak bush in front of him, shaking it continuously, the hard, tough little leaves rustling audibly so that all of us down in the ditch could plainly hear the sound.
The Walking Boss let the rifle dangle loosely in his hands as though he were thinking of something else. Switching his Stick to the same hand that held the rifle, he dug out a cigar and lit it clumsily, bending his neck down to strike a match. For a second or two it seemed as though he were vulnerable. We held our breath. But the bush kept on shaking.
We almost jumped out of our skins when the gun went off. Neither aiming nor raising his arms, Boss Godfrey fired, the bullet ricocheting off the ground right under Luke’s bare behind. But there wasn’t the slightest reaction from Luke. There was no outcry. He didn’t even flinch. It was as though he had felt nothing, as though he hadn’t even heard.
Are you still shakin‘ that bush, Luke?
Yes suh, Boss. I’m shakin‘ it all right.
Again Boss Godfrey fired. Again the bullet threw sand on Luke’s behind, bouncing off the ground and ricocheting through the bushes and trees with a vicious snarl and a delayed, spiteful echo.
Still shakin‘, Luke?
Still shakin‘, Boss.
Again and again the rifle fired, the woods echoing with the shots, the air bitter with gun smoke. But the bush was still shaking. Luke finally finished. Carefully he wiped his ass with the scrap of old newspaper. Then he stood up, buttoned his pants and buckled his belt, still kicking at the trunk of the bush with his left foot. Covering his cat hole with a shovelful of dirt, he called out loud and clear.
Comin‘ out, Boss.
All right Luke. Sure. Come on out.
We were aghast at this performance on the part of the Walking Boss, dumbfounded at the degree of coolness displayed by Luke. And as soon as we loaded up into the truck that night Dragline began to raise hell with his buddy.
Man, oh man! Are you nuts? Are you out of your feeble, fuckin‘ mind? Defyin’ the Walkin‘ Boss that a-way? You’re jes askin’ to git your ass shot off. You know that? Jes a-beggin‘ for it.
But Luke just grinned.
What’s the matter Drag? Ain’t you got no faith? You know that man Luke there is a pretty good shot.
Pretty good? Shit. He could shoot the tail feathers off’n a fly. But ah knows more about that Man than you do. And ah’m tellin‘ yuh. You’d better watch yore ass.
So when Luke asked to dig another hole the very next day we couldn’t believe it. Yet the same performance was repeated, the Walking Boss firing away at Luke’s feet as he climbed up the ditch bank, a bullet cutting a strand of wire right out of his hands as he climbed the fence, three or four shots flicking sand on his bare ass as he squatted and another making the pan of his shovel ring like a bell as he returned to work, the handle slung over his shoulder.