Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [80]
Finally Dragline would permit himself to be cajoled into taking out the Movie Magazine from under his mattress, to look over and see what Carr and the Wicker Man were doing and then slip it to Babalugats who leaned against the wall and held the magazine up against his knees, pretending to be engrossed in reading. For a long time he would sit there without moving. Slowly his face would begin to relax, a smile of rapture spreading through the dirt and the sunburn, his eyes flitting here and there as he drank in the glory, the beauty and the sanctity of that very private view of the Free World.
24
IT HAPPENED ABOUT FOUR MONTHS LATER. We were working on the Dead Tree Road which was named after an enormous and macabre dead oak tree covered with moss, one side of the trunk blackened from some ancient brush fire. It stood in the center of an open prairie of marsh grass, an isolated giant, its gnarled limbs threatening and spectral.
We spent the whole morning piss anting the washouts along the edge of the pavement. The slope of the shoulder was steep and difficult and we clambered up and down with monotonous patience. About an hour after Bean Time the Captain’s black and yellow Chevrolet drove up. He got out and sauntered towards Boss Godfrey, a pistol stuck in his belt over his stomach, one hand in his pocket, jingling his change.
The Walking Boss yelled out for all of us to line up close together in the bottom of the ditch. Puzzled, we did as we were told, taking off our caps in acknowledgement of the Captain’s presence, leaning on the handles of our shovels. We looked at each other, at the shotgun guards who had moved in close, at the Walking Boss and the Captain standing there on the edge of the road staring down at us with their hands on their hips.
Then the Captain turned and waved. Two trustees got out of the Chewie and came forward carrying tools. Between them, wearing handcuffs and brand new convict clothes, walked Cool Hand Luke.
We stared. Some of us cursed under our breaths. Some men shut their eyes while others hung their heads. They made Luke stand on the edge of the road while the trustees knelt down and began to rivet a pair of shackles on his ankles. Luke stood facing us, motionless and inscrutable while the hammers were tapping at his heels. And after the trustees finished putting on the shackles, to our confoundment, they began to put on a second pair.
When the trustees were finished they stepped aside. The Captain unlocked the handcuffs and put them in his hip pocket. There was a pause and then he stepped behind Luke’s back, pulled the pistol from his belt and brought the barrel right down on his head. Luke fell forward, face down in the dirt, his hobbled legs kicking and squirming. The Captain growled to the trustees and they pulled Luke to his knees, each one holding him by an outstretched arm.
Three times the pistol cracked on his skull as blood spurted over his face and neck and dripped from his lolling head onto the sand. Impulsively some of us shifted forward but the guards aimed their shotguns right at us, their fingers on the triggers. Grabbing Luke by the hair and snatching his head backwards, the Captain punched him in the face with his other hand. Grunting and panting, he struck again and again, cursing through clenched teeth.
You son of a bitch you! You shit eatin‘ mother fucker! You run one time and you got yourself a set of chains. Huh? You done run twice and now you got two sets of chains. Don’t try to git yourself a third set. Huh? You hear? Ah’m warnin’ yuh! You’d better git your god damn mind right! Git it right. Or else!
With a final blow, Luke’s head was flung forward. He hung there by the arms, limp, sagging, held up by the trustees who turned their faces with sickened grimaces, unable to look at him, unable to look at each other. And we stood there staring up at Cool Hand’s body that was crucified against the sky, his bleeding head bowed toward us.
Behind him stood Boss Godfrey, his black hat outlined on the cloudy heavens beyond, his mirrored glasses catching the full