Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [8]
Off to our right, coming out of the scattered secondgrowth pines and scrub oaks, we saw the row of poles supporting the arcs of high tension power lines. Later we could see the embankment of the railroad tracks. It drew closer to the road and then began to follow it on a parallel course.
It had been a long time since we had last worked on the Rattlesnake Road but we recognized the landmarks. On the left there was a small house all by itself built out of pale green stucco in the pseudo-Mediterranean style that was common during the great Florida land boom of the twenties. Then we saw the creek up ahead, the fish camp, the wooden drawbridge and its sister, the railroad trestle built of heavy, black pilings and creosoted cross-timbers.
For a moment we hesitated at the foot of the bridge until all the men had gathered together. At a signal from Boss Godfrey we started across, following the guard who took the lead, walking backwards a few paces and then turning around, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder. We followed along, herded by the guards behind us.
On the other side of the creek the railroad began to curve away from the road, bending away behind the Negro general store, an old and dilapidated wooden shack. Beyond the store was the railroad station consisting of a bare wooden platform. On the other side was a nameless, unincorporated village of about a dozen unpainted shacks with rusty, corrugated roofs.
Again the country began to change, getting dry and sandy, scrub oaks growing in small groves mixed with patches of scrawny-looking pines. About a half mile beyond the bridge the road began to curve to the right, following the right of way of the Atlantic Coast Line. Slowly we worked our way around the bend. And then up ahead of us, emerging out of the trees that blocked the horizon, we could see the watchtower of the forest rangers.
Nothing was out of the ordinary except that everything was deliberately ordinary. Rabbit was ahead of us, carrying the red warning flag further forward like an advance scout carrying the guidon of a squad of troops. Boss Kean shifted his double barreled shotgun from his left shoulder to his right shoulder. Boss Paul held the repeater in the crook of his arm, looking at the Bull Gang and smiling. Boss Godfrey relit his cigar and strolled along the edge of the road, swinging his cane by the handle with one finger.
But softly, with the gentleness of grass fragments floating over our heads to settle down on our shoulders, there was a single word among the whisperings of tools slashing through the weeds, the scuff of footsteps and the rattling of chains, the traffic swishing along beside us.
Luke.
We could tell it was nearly noon by the position of the sun and by the feeling in our stomachs. There wasn’t much grass to cut and we kept moving at a comfortable pace, our yo-yos making easy, idle motions, swishing away at little or nothing as we herded down the road.
Up ahead of us we could see the church. It still looked the same; a square frame shack supported on concrete pillars about a foot and a half above the ground, the paint nearly gone, the metal roof showing streaks of rust, the walls buckled and out of line. On one side of the building was a leaning brick chimney. There was a steeple in front but it had no bell, the hexagonal peak covered with weathered cedar shingles, dried out and split by the years and by the sun. On one side of the church yard was a tiny cemetery. On the other side, under some trees, were a few picnic benches made of old, sagging boards laid over two stacks of cement building blocks. The front yard was of loose, dry sand and there was a jalopy Ford in the middle of it, the paint gone, one fender missing.
The Walking Boss spoke to the trustees and they drove off with the trucks. We could see them park across the road from the church. Rabbit and Jim began to get things ready