Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [81]
At a grunted command, the trustees dropped Luke forward, face down in the dirt. The Walking Boss kicked him in the ribs and thighs and sent him whirling down the slope towards us, spinning in a whirl of rattling chains, a cloud of dust and a spatter of gore to come to rest in an anguished heap at our feet. Then he growled down at us, his voice deep and gritted with menace.
All right. There he is. There’s your Cool Hand Luke. If you all don’t want to end up just like him, you’d all better git your minds right. Ah mean right! Rabbit! Go fetch a bucket of water and throw it on this smart-ass bastard. And git another shovel from the tool truck. A new one.
No one knows how Luke finished out the day. One of his eyes was completely shut, his lips swollen and cut, his nose out of shape. Blood came from everywhere, making his face a hideous red mask, his hair a red knitted helmet that soon turned to mud in the flying dust, finally congealing in the heat of the sun into a hard black crust.
Dragline muttered and swore at the rest of us.
Aw right. Let’s git with it. Let’s git mad at it.
And the dirt flew. No longer did we crawl up and down the slope. Grunting and sweating, we pitched the dirt, the clumps arcing up in fast, neat accurate projectiles that exploded at the feet of the two Chain Men on top who brushed down the dirt with the edge of their shovels. Luke made nominal motions, weakly throwing the dirt as far up the slope as he could.
Rabbit brought around the water bucket for a drink. As Luke raised the dipper to his bruised mouth Rabbit murmured to him encouragingly, his lips in a straight line, unmoving.
We’re with ya boy. Take it easy now. It’s three thirty. You got about three hours more. But you’ll make it. I sneaked some aspirins into the dipper. Swallow ‘em down. But don’t let on. Or the Man’ll have my ass.
Once Luke stumbled and fell to his knees, feebly shaking his head with confusion. Boss Godfrey started towards him, grasping his Walking Stick stiffly. But under the encouragement and the command of our hissed warnings, Luke managed to stand up again and start moving.
At last we loaded up into the truck and started back to Camp, making a mattress on the floor with our shirts and jackets, laying Luke on his back and propping up his head, putting a cigarette into his mouth. There wasn’t anymore we could do until we got in except to sit there and keep hoping they wouldn’t put him in the Box. But they didn’t, allowing us to clean him up so that he wouldn’t be an embarrassing spectacle to the Free World traffic on the highways.
First we led him into the shower by the hand and bathed him like a baby. Then Dragline and Koko worked on him all evening. And so did Carr, who revealed a hidden tenderness in the delicate way he used his own scissors and razor to carefully shave away the hair from Luke’s head and doctor the wounds. Other men dug into their lockers and found a leather chain harness that would fit around his calves. Koko massaged his neck and shoulders. Carr got him some more aspirins and carefully taped his broken nose.
Then his one good eye glanced at the men gathered around him and his swollen, grotesque mouth feebly tried to smile.
Whattaya say, boys? What’s new?
His lips opening just enough for the words to come out, he managed to tell us what was new. For one thing he had just spent three months in a county jail awaiting trial. After that he was sent up to Raiford and reprocessed just like any other Newcock. Now he had a new serial number. And he had a new sentence—three more years for stealing the woman’s car and her groceries during his first escape. And for breaking and entering and stealing some Free World clothes during his last escape—ten more years.
We were silent. But Luke didn’t seem the least upset, bearing the weight of his Time with absolute cheer. Then someone tried to change the subject. What we really wanted to hear were the details of his adventures. We