Get up! Get up you d.a.m.n b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Don't you never smoke in front of me again! You hear? You hear? Never! Never! Now stand up there right. The way you're supposed to.

Luke raised up on one elbow, shaking his head and blinking his eyes, a trickle of blood streaming down his cheek, his ear and neck. He struggled, slipped, fell back again, almost lapsing into unconsciousness. The Captain stood over him, hissing.

Stand up, d.a.m.n you! Stand up when I talk to you.

Luke got up, swaying as the trustees went on with their work, bent over in an apprehensive crouch.

We stood there watching until they finished putting on the shackles. Then they took him by the arms and led him forward, stopping just a few feet in front of us. The Yard Man barked an order and we started through the gate, each of us looking into Cool Hand's face, trying to tell him something with our eyes just as we tried to tell him something with our voices as we turned our heads and counted off- -four-teen-FIFTEEN!-(Sixteen)-seven-TEEN?

So the glorious escape had failed. Luke was thrown into the Box and the next day sent out on the Road. All day he dug and pitched, clumsy with the unfamiliar links fettering his legs, the chain rattling and banging awkwardly as he kicked against the blade of his shovel.

All day Boss Kean stood over Luke, a.s.signed as his personal guard. Boss Kean has served on the Florida Chain Gang for twenty-two years. Before that he was on the Georgia Chain Gang for eleven years. A true Cracker, he was born and raised on the edge of the Okeefenokee Swamp, a dedicated, hard working, G.o.d-fearing man. And in all his years of guarding convicts he ain't never had to kill no white man. He killed a few n.i.g.g.e.rs in his time but never no white man. Course he wounded two of them once but they never did die.

But still you never can tell. And he'd sure hate to have to shoot no white man. But a body has to do his work. Boss Kean believes in work. And any time he catches either of his two no 'count sons fooling around reading or if he just finds some old book or magazine or one of them newspapers laying around the house, why, he just throws it out into the yard, that's all. He never had no use for reading himself. Never did have time to bother learning how to do it. Too busy out doing a man's work. In fact he don't believe in nothing that takes a man's mind away from his work. No sir. A man should never let nothing take his mind away from his work.

Not once during the day did Luke dare look up. Even when a car slowed down and the driver threw out a pack of Free World cigarettes that landed almost at his feet, he had to go on with his shoveling, leaving them lying there, untouched and unseen. And with the Heat as bad as it was, we didn't dare try to talk to him, to find out what had happened, pretending to ignore his very existence.

Hour after hour Boss Kean stood nearby, going on and on.

Ah hears tell you don't b'lieve in no G.o.d, Luke. Ah was wonderin' how come a nice lookin' young feller like you was to come to git in heah. But now ah reckons ah knows.

The old man began to pace back and forth, growing tense, anxious, his own thoughts making him angry, shifting his shotgun from one arm to the other and idly fingering the b.u.t.t of his pistol. Across the road the other guards watched. Farther down the line Boss Paul stood and smiled. And farther still Boss G.o.dfrey leaned heavily on his Walking Stick, the blank wall of his face turned Luke's way, seeing nothing, yet seeing all.

Boss Kean went on: Even the heathen, them Chinee people and them thar j.a.ps-even they they knows thar's knows thar's somethin' somethin' up yonder. Ah jes don' unnerstan' how a feller kin stan' thar and say he don't up yonder. Ah jes don' unnerstan' how a feller kin stan' thar and say he don't b'lieve. b'lieve. No suh! Don't nevah tell me that. That's one thing ah b'lieves in. The soopreme spir't. Eff'n thar warn't no hereafter-why-eff'n a man was to git in mah way, ah'd jes blow his haid off. Right off. An' think no more about it than eff'n it war a rabbit. Eff'n ah seen a gal and ah wonted a piece. Ah'd jes take it off'n her and go on. Eff'n they was to hang me, ah wouldn't keer. Ah could suffer a few minutes aw right. But for No suh! Don't nevah tell me that. That's one thing ah b'lieves in. The soopreme spir't. Eff'n thar warn't no hereafter-why-eff'n a man was to git in mah way, ah'd jes blow his haid off. Right off. An' think no more about it than eff'n it war a rabbit. Eff'n ah seen a gal and ah wonted a piece. Ah'd jes take it off'n her and go on. Eff'n they was to hang me, ah wouldn't keer. Ah could suffer a few minutes aw right. But for eternity! eternity! No suh. Don't tell me that. No spir't? Oh, man. Naw. Naw. No suh. Don't tell me that. No spir't? Oh, man. Naw. Naw.

That night when the Bull Gang got out of the truck and lined up, there was only one night shirt ready. After we were shaken down there was a pause while the Captain slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke through his nose.

Luke. Boss Kean says you were Eyeballin' today.

Luke said nothing.

Well? What about it?

Yes sir, Captain.

They put Luke in the Box. In the morning they took him out and sent him back to the Road. All day Boss Kean stood over him and heckled and jibed and that night the Captain again called Luke out and said he had been Eyeballing and again they put him in the Box.

This went on for a week. Luke was living on just two meals a day; a breakfast of thin grits, one egg, a couple of catheads; a dinner of corn bread and beans. But as far as anyone could tell, this didn't bother Luke any. He just ate more beans than he usually did, cut down on his smoking and learned how to be comfortable sleeping in the Box.

But since Luke was never allowed to come into the Building we never had a chance to talk to him. Finally we couldn't stand it any longer. So in spite of the Heat, a few of us gathered around him at Bean Time.

Cool Hand lay there stretched out on the ground, leaning his back against the trunk of a gigantic live oak tree that shaded the entire Bull Gang with its canopy of gnarled, twisted branches and its festoons of Spanish moss. He took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, stared up into the leaves overhead and in a matter-of-fact voice, he told us all about it.

For three nights and two days the chase had gone on. Luke would run and dodge the dogs and then lay down for short naps, his instinct telling him when to wake up and start running again. He lived on oranges he picked in the groves, vegetables he swiped from gardens and ate raw, water he drank from the ponds. But in the end he decided he was going to have to steal a car.

Coming to the outskirts of a town, he hid in a clump of palmettos, examining the rows of houses in the new development. He was still wearing his convict clothes and the posse was getting close. He was nearly cut off from the woods and was facing the prospect of trying to run through the streets of a residential area.

Then a woman drove up and parked her car in a front yard, getting out and carrying a baby into the house. Luke ran across the street and got in. The keys were still in the ignition lock and he started up and drove away.

Not until later did he realize that the back seat was loaded with groceries. Eagerly he ate white bread, cookies, b.u.t.ter in huge mouthfuls, sugar right out of the bag. He ate raisins, sardines, an apple, a banana-goodies some of us haven't tasted in years.

So anyhow. It's a good thing that woman took the baby out first. You know? Instead of the groceries? Otherwise they'd of had me up on a kidnappin' rap. That really would be somethin'. As it is I'll probably get more Time. For swipin' the car. They told me they're gonna bring me up on charges for that.

Off the ground at last, Luke roared away in the car to escape the immediate area. Then he drove off the main highway and went up a lonely dirt trail, just two grooved ruts winding through the woods. He parked under some trees and then curled up and went to sleep, getting his first real rest in days. He didn't wake up until long after dark, ate some more of the woman's groceries and then began driving back to the highway.

Behind a juke joint that was going in full swing he found some cars parked away from the glare of the bright neon lights out front. He swiped a license plate from one of them and used it to replace the one on the hot car, getting in and heading straight for the Alabama State line.

Luke was clever. He stayed on back roads, guided by a road map he found in the glove compartment of the car. He knew he could only count on a few hours before his ruse would be discovered but he was careful not to attract any attention by driving too fast.

But what Luke didn't know was that in the state of Florida the first number of a license plate signifies the county in which it is registered. And if the car is above a certain weight the first number is followed by a lower case "w." Inadvertently he had swiped the wrong kind of plate, taking it from a Buick sedan and putting it on a two-door Ford.

Cool Hand kept heading north and west, wondering how long his gasoline would hold out. By three in the morning he was in Pensacola, pulled up behind a semi-trailer waiting for a red light. And then a police car came out of a side street on a routine patrol and pulled up behind Luke's car. He saw them in the rear-view mirror. It was a delayed traffic light. The seconds dragged on. And then one of the two cops spotted the wrong tag and got out to investigate. Cool Hand saw him coming but there was nothing he could do. The semi-trailer prevented him from driving away and the prowl car was too close behind him to try to run for it. So all he could do was sit there, smoking a cigarette and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, hoping that somehow he could brazen it out.

But already suspicious, the cop approached the car on the side opposite the driver's seat. When he looked through the window he saw the stripe on Luke's pant leg. Immediately he pulled his pistol, aimed it at Luke and began yelling for his partner to come over. Not until then did the traffic light change and the semi-trailer drove away.

So Luke was caught. It was as easy as that.

20.

HE HOBBLED ALONG, DOING HIS TIME WITHOUT ever making a complaint, working as only he knew how to work. Every night they took him out of line and put him in the Gator. Every morning he was taken out and put back on the Road, never allowed to come into the Building to take a shower or shave or to change his clothes, the blood still there on the side of his head, matted in his hair above the raw cut left by the Captain's blackjack. After a few days he looked like a bewhiskered animal; a shackled, limping, foul-smelling beast. We growled and muttered among ourselves. No one had ever been hard-timed like this before. But the Free Men had a very special hard-on for Luke and they were never going to let him up.

The Dog Boy was delighted by the whole situation. Every morning he would be in the line of trustees in the Messhall, ladling out the coffee, the grits, the fat back and our very own egg. He would wait with a big grin until Luke was brought in from the Box and put at the end of the chow line. Then he would loudtalk at Luke, making all sorts of wisecracks.

Hey, hogbelly. You ain't got to eat so much no more. Your runnin' days are over. Ole Lawyer Bush said he couldn't git you no parole no way. So h.e.l.l, man. Take it easy. Look, ah'll jes give you one cathead. Fer now. You can always come back a little later if you want another one.

The Silent System applies to everyone in the Messhall, the trustees obliged to keep their own talking down to a minimum of business only. But the Dog Boy had always enjoyed a special status with the Free Men and in this case they were greatly amused by his wit.

Luke never said a word. He just looked at the Dog Boy and held out his plate, standing there quietly until he was served. Until the day the Dog Boy snarled at him, Well, hogbelly. It's gittin' so's you even smell like a gawd d.a.m.n pig. The way you stink we sure wouldn't have no trouble trackin' you down the next time. h.e.l.l, I could even follow your trail myself.

Luke stood there in his filth, bearded, bleary eyed and exhausted. In a low, deep voice that filled the Messhall, the kitchen and the Guard's Messhall next door, he growled, Your nose has been out of joint for so d.a.m.n long it wouldn't surprise me none. Besides, for a natural-born son of a b.i.t.c.h like you, it oughtta be easy.

Everyone stopped what he was doing. The Dog Boy just stood there, his hands trembling, his eyes popping wide. No one had ever dared to talk in the Messhall that way. Yet we all knew that Luke was going to get away with it. His other sins were of such an awful magnitude that he had a kind of immunity for the breach of ordinary laws such as these.

But we weren't fooled. One word out of any of us and it would have meant the Box.

One afternoon, in the middle of the second week of this routine, Luke had to go. He asked Boss Kean if he would take him off the road and into the bushes so he could dig a hole. At that moment Boss G.o.dfrey came strolling by and overheard the request. Waving his Stick over his head, he called out to Rabbit to bring him his rifle from the truck. When he came up with it, Boss G.o.dfrey took the bolt out of his pocket, inserted it into the breech and then put in a clip of cartridges. He looked at Luke, holding the rifle in the crook of his arm, swinging his Walking Stick very casually.

All right Luke. Go up and dig your hole. Go way out so n.o.body in the cars will see you. Take your time. Have a real good one. But keep shakin' a bush as you s.h.i.t. 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 pa.s.sing traffic in spite of the Walking Boss' invitations.

Go on Luke. What the h.e.l.l. 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 G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey 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 a.s.s with the sc.r.a.p of old newspaper. Then he stood up, b.u.t.toned 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 h.e.l.l with his buddy.

Man, oh man! man! Are you nuts? Are you out of your feeble, f.u.c.kin' mind? Defyin' the Walkin' Boss that a-way? You're jes Are you nuts? Are you out of your feeble, f.u.c.kin' mind? Defyin' the Walkin' Boss that a-way? You're jes askin' askin' to git your a.s.s shot off. You know that? Jes a-beggin' for it. to git your a.s.s 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? s.h.i.t. He could shoot the tail feathers off'n a good? s.h.i.t. He could shoot the tail feathers off'n a fly. fly. But ah knows more about that Man than you do. And ah'm tellin' yuh. You'd better watch yore a.s.s. But ah knows more about that Man than you do. And ah'm tellin' yuh. You'd better watch yore a.s.s.

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 a.s.s 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. But the bush-shaking never faltered and the rattling cadence of Luke's shackled step never stumbled nor hesitated.

This time Dragline had nothing to say. None of us did. It was all too much for us. Flabbergasted into complete silence, we just floated along through the day, thinking of other things, dreaming our fantasies which were far easier to understand and believe than the things that were going on around us.

The following morning we hadn't been working more than an hour when still again Luke asked if he could dig a hole. For the first time Boss G.o.dfrey showed some sign of being annoyed.

G.o.d d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l. Don't you never take a c.r.a.p in the mornin' before you check out? Didn't they give you a pot in the Box there with you?

Yes suh. Boss. But it's them beans. I jes cain't help it. It's all them beans I been eatin'.

All right, d.a.m.n it. Rabbit! Rabbit! Bring me mah rifle from the truck! And be quick about it!

Pickin' up this here paper, Boss Kean! Boss Paul!

Yeah. Pick it up, Luke.

It was still early in the day. The sky was overcast, the air was damp and everyone was sluggish. Even the Walking Boss seemed lethargic and didn't feel like playing his game. Without interfering he allowed Luke to climb the fence and go out into the bushes, turn over a clump of dirt and stick his shovel in the ground in front of him. Then the shaking of the bush began. There was silence in the air. And boredom. Everyone was doing the usual things.

Then the bush stopped shaking.

Luke!

Bang. Bang. Twice the Walking Boss fired in rapid succession, his hand working the bolt back and forth in a dim blur.

Everything was quiet, a thin blue cloud of bitter smoke hanging in the air. We stopped working and just stood there, the guards nervously holding their shotguns at the ready. Boss G.o.dfrey climbed the fence and ran towards Luke's shovel which was still visible, vertical in the ground. The shovel handle had been hit twice, the wood splintered, daylight visible through the bullet holes. But Luke was nowhere around.

Waving his rifle, Boss G.o.dfrey shouted, Jim! Bring up the truck! Hurry it up, d.a.m.n it! Drive it on up here! Run! d.a.m.n your lazy a.s.s! Run! Run!

He clambered down the ditch bank and up the shoulder to the road. Leaping into the truck, the Walking Boss roared away at top speed, headed for the nearest telephone.

What had happened was this: Luke had seen a dirty old kite string wound around a stick lying in the ditch that some kid must have thrown or dropped out of a pa.s.sing car. Instantly he recognized his opportunity. He called out to the guards and picked up a piece of sc.r.a.p newspaper but managed to cover the ball of string and pick it up in his hand at the same time. Reaching the thicket, going out a little farther than he had ever gone before, he tied the string to the trunk of a bush in the same time it would have normally taken him to drop his pants. He kept shaking the bush as he backed away, jerking on the cord as though he were flying a kite or playing a hooked fish, unwinding the string with his left hand as he went. The string was about three hundred feet long. When he reached the end, Cool Hand dropped it, turned around and ran. It was his own private version of the Indian Rope Trick, the rifle firing a salute as he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

When the Dog Boy and his hounds arrived they began the chase by following the string through the thicket. But the route was so simple they couldn't believe it. There was something eerie about the way that the thin white line led through the bushes. And after all, what can you trust in this world? For instance: if they pulled the string, would the bushes explode?

But the dogs began the hunt with straining eagerness, the posse and the Dog Boy following behind the pack in high spirits. This time it was going to be easy. And they were hoping they would be able to catch up with him alone in some isolated woods so they could fix him once and for all. At the very most Luke didn't have more than forty-five minutes start and they knew that no man can run very fast while wearing leg shackles.

But for the next several hours we could faintly hear the hounds barking and baying out in the woods. After a long period of silence we could hear them again, coming closer, their voices faint and far away. The day went by. We had our Smoking Period and then we had beans. Still the posse didn't return. Yet all this time we went about our work with straight faces and in dead silence, unable to express our inner hilarity, our derision for the inept forces of the Free Men who weren't even able to catch a man in chains.

After we checked into the Building that night and found that there was still no word of Luke we began to grin at each other. We knew. We knew that in some miraculous way he was going to make it.

So again, we were simply overjoyed. After the Last Bell we turned over in our bunks to smirk at the doubled mattress as Carr finished his count and reported to the Wicker Man.

Fifty-one, Boss. And two in the bushes.

What? Another one? Who is it this time, Carr?

The same one, Boss. Cool Hand Luke.

21.

AGAIN, THERE WAS NO SLEEP. IN THE SILENCE of the Building our imaginations were roaring. We lay there with closed eyes, the inner surfaces of our lids emblazoned with that fugitive landscape across which Cool Hand was running, his legs making that quick, shortstepping gait of a Chain Man, the shackle leaping and snapping like an iron viper clinging to his heels.

Fitfully we tossed in our bunks. It was a hot and airless night and we sweated in the dank humidity. At one end of the Building someone let go with a loud fart, one that made a moist flapping sound. Eighteen bunks away, someone answered with a high pitched, alternating note. For an hour there was the soft sound of a poker game, cards riffling, coins clinking, then the quiet tread of Carr's shoes as he paced away another night of his sentence. Always there were the noises of a man getting up to go to the john, the squeaking of springs as a man turned over in his bunk.

An hour or so before dawn there was a commotion outside the fence. A truck drove up. There were voices. The truck motor started again and droned its way around the Messhall, the kitchen and the laundry shed, past the woodshed and the Floorwalker's Shack. There were rattles and bangs. A few dogs let out some brief, unenthused barks. It was quiet. There were footsteps on the porch. A voice spoke to the Wicker Man who went outside and unlocked the door, locking it again as the Dog Boy stepped into the Chute. Carr swung the gate open, the Dog Boy came in, Carr shut the gate and the Wicker Man locked it. The Dog Boy shuffled over to his bunk, pulled off his shoes and his clothes and then fell back with a sigh, throwing his arm across his eyes to shut out the light from the bare bulbs in the ceiling.

A few of us rolled over on our sides, raising our heads and exchanging puzzled looks with other men. It looked as though they had given up. The dogs had been called off. But it wasn't until the end of the following day that we were able to get the full story of how Luke managed to get away, piecing it together from fragments of random information.

When the posse started out they expected to run him down in an hour, especially since he was making no attempt to lay down a false trail but instead was running in a perfectly straight line. At first they thought that he had no choice. He was in orange grove country. The ground was well cultivated and soft and his footprints were so clear and unmistakable they didn't even need the dogs.