They heard the Ford Touring Car as they looked around and saw it up on the slope, moving along the north wall with the two boys running behind it. Nobody could figure it out. Somebody asked what were they chasing the car for. Another convict said they weren't chasing the car, they were being taken somewhere. See, there was a guard in the back seat with a rifle. They could see him good against the pale wall of the prison. Nobody had ever seen convicts taken somewhere like that. Any time the car went out it went down to Yuma, but no convicts were ever in the car or behind it or anywhere near it. One of the convicts asked the work-detail guard where he supposed they were going. The guard said it beat him. That motor car belonged to Mr. Rynning and was only used for official business.
It was the stone-quarry gang that saw them next. They looked squinting up through the white dust and saw the Ford Touring Car and the two boys running to keep up with it, about twenty feet behind the car and just barely visible in all the dust the car was raising. The stone-quarry gang watched until the car was past the open rim and the only thing left to see was the dust hanging in the sunlight. Somebody said they certainly had it ass-backwards; the car was supposed to be chasing the cons. They tried to figure it out, but nobody had an answer that made much sense.
Two guards and two convicts, including Joe Dean, coming back in the wagon from delivering a load of adobe bricks in town, saw them next saw them pass right by on the road and Joe Dean and the other convict and the two guards turned around and watched them until the car crossed the railroad tracks and passed behind some depot sheds. Joe Dean said he could understand why the guards didn't want the spook and the Indian riding with them, but he still had never seen anything like it in all the time he'd been here. The guards said they had never seen anything like it either. There was funny things going on. Those two had raced each other, maybe they were racing the car now. Joe Dean said Goddamn, this was the craziest prison he had ever been in.
That first day, the best they could run in one stretch was a little over a mile. They did that once: down prison hill and along the railroad tracks and out back of town, out into the country. Most of the time, in the three hours they were out, they would run as far as they could, seldom more than a quarter of a mile then have to quit and walk for a while, breathing hard with their mouths open and their lungs on fire. They would drop thirty to forty feet back of the car and the guard with the Winchester would yell at them to come on, get the lead out of their feet.
Harold said to Raymond, I had any lead in my feet I'd take and hit that man in the mouth with it.
We tell him we got to rest, Raymond said.
They did that twice, sat down at the side of the road in the meadow grass and watched the guard coming with the rifle and the car backing up through its own dust. The first time the guard pointed the rifle and yelled for them to get on their feet. Harold told him they couldn't move and asked him if he was going to shoot them for being tired.
Captain, we want to run, but our legs won't mind what we tell them.
So the guard gave them five minutes and they sat back in the grass to let their muscles relax and stared at the distant mountains while the guards sat in the car smoking their cigarettes.
Harold said to Raymond, What are we doing this for?
Raymond gave him a funny look. Because we're tired, what do you think?
I mean running. What are we running for? They say to run, we run.
It's that little preacher.
Sure it is. What do you think, these guards thought of it?
That little man's crazy, ain't he?
I don't know, Raymond said. Most of the time I don't understand him. He's got something in his head about running.
Running's all right if you in a hurry and you know where you going.
That road don't go anywhere.
What's up ahead?
The desert, Raymond said. Maybe after a while you come to a town.
You know how to drive that thing?
A car? I never even been in one.
Harold was chewing on a weed stem, looking at the car. It would be nice to have a ride home, wouldn't it?
It might be worth the running, Raymond said.
The guard got them up and they ran some more. They ran and walked and ran again for almost another mile, and this time when they went down they stretched out full length: Harold on his stomach, head down and his arms propping him up; Raymond on his back with his chest rising and falling.
After ten minutes the guard said all right, they were starting back now. Neither of them moved as the car turned around and rolled past them. The guard asked if they heard him. He said goddamn-it, they better get up quick. Harold said captain, their legs hurt so bad it didn't look like they could make it. The guard levered a cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester and said their legs would hurt one hell of a lot more with a .44 slug shot through them. They got up and fell in behind the car. Once they tried to run and had to stop within a dozen yards. It wasn't any use, Harold said. The legs wouldn't do what they was told. They could walk though. All right, the guard said, then walk. But goddamn, they were so slow, poking along, he had to keep yelling at them to come on. After a while, still not in sight of the railroad tracks, the guard driving said to the other guard, if they didn't hurry they were going to miss supper call. The guard with the Winchester said well, what was he supposed to do about it? The guard driving said it looked like there was only one thing they could do.
Raymond liked it when the car stopped and the guard with the rifle, looking like he wanted to kill them, said all right, goddamn-it, get in.
Harold liked it when they drove past the cemetery work detail filing back to prison. The convicts had moved off the road and were looking back, waiting for the car. As they went by Harold raised one hand and waved. He said to Raymond, Look at them poor boys. I believe they convicts.
Chapter 8
You know why they won't try to escape? Mr. Manly said.
Bob Fisher stood at the desk and didn't say anything, because the answer was going to come from the little preacher anyway.
Because they see the good in this. They realize this is their chance to become something.
Running across a pasture field.
You know what I mean.
Take a man outside enough times, Fisher said, he'll run for the hills.
Not these two boys.
Any two. They been outside every day for a week and they're smelling fresh air.
Two weeks, and they can run three miles without stopping, Mr. Manly said. Another couple of weeks I want to see them running five miles, maybe six.
They'll run as long as it's easier than working.
Mr. Manly smiled a little. I see you don't know them very well.
I have known them all my life, Bob Fisher said.
When running becomes harder than working, they'll figure a way to get out of it. They'll break each other's legs if they have to.
All right, then I'll talk to them again. You can be present, Bob, and I'll prove to you you're wrong.
I understand you write a weekly report to Mr. Rynning, Fisher said. Have you told him what you're doing?
As a matter of fact, I have.
You told him you got them running outside?
I told him I'm trying something out on two boys considered incorrigible, a program that combines spiritual teaching and physical exercise. He's made no mention to me what he thinks. But if you want to write to him, Bob, go right ahead.
If it's all the same to you, Fisher said, I want it on the record I didn't have nothing to do with this in any way at all.
Three miles wasn't so bad and it was easier to breathe at the end of the stretch. It didn't feel as if their lungs were burning any more. They would walk for a few minutes and run another mile and then walk again. Maybe they could do it again, run another mile before resting. But why do it if they didn't have to, if the guards didn't expect it? They would run a little way and when Raymond or Harold would call out they ha
d to rest the car and would stop and wait for them.
I think we could do it, Raymond said.
Sure we could.
Maybe run four, five miles at the start.
We could do that too, Harold said, but why would we want to?
I mean to see if we could do it.
Man, we could run five miles right now if we wanted.
I don't know.
If we had something to run for. All I see it doing is getting us tired.
It's better than laying adobes, or working on the rock pile.
I believe you're right there, Harold said.
Well, Raymond said, we can try four miles, five miles at any time we want. What's the hurry?
What's the hurry, Harold said. I wish that son of a bitch would give us a cigarette. Look at him sucking on it and blowing the smoke out. Man.
They were getting along all right with the guards, because the guards were finding out this was pretty good duty, driving around the countryside in a Ford Touring Car. Ride around for a few hours. Smoke any time they wanted. Put the canvas top up if it got too hot in the sun. The guards weren't dumb, though. They stayed away from trees and the riverbank, keeping to open range country once they had followed the railroad tracks out beyond town.
The idea of a train going by interested Harold. He pictured them running along the road where it was close to the tracks and the train coming up behind them out of the depot, not moving too fast. As the guards watched the train, Harold saw himself and Raymond break through the weeds to the gravel roadbed, run with the train and swing up on one of those iron-rung ladders they had on boxcars. Then the good part. The guards are watching the train and all of a sudden the guards see them on the boxcar waving to them.
Waving good-bye, Harold said to Raymond when they were resting one time and he told him about it.
Raymond was grinning. They see the train going away, they don't know what to do.
Oh, they take a couple of shots, Harold said. But they so excited, man, they can't even hit the train. We're waving bye-bye.
Yeah, while they shooting at us.
It would be something, all right. Raymond had to wipe his eyes.
After a minute Harold said, Where does the train go to?
I don't know. I guess different places.
That's the trouble, Harold said. You got to know where you going. You can't stay on the train. Sooner or later you got to get off and start running again.
You think we could run five miles, uh?
If we wanted to, Harold said.
It was about a week later that Mr. Manly woke up in the middle of the night and said out loud in the bedroom, All right, if you're going to keep worrying about it, why don't you see for yourself what they're doing?
That's what he did the next day: hopped in the front seat of the Ford Touring Car and went along to watch the two boys do their road work.
It didn't bother the guard driving too much. He had less to say was all. But the guard with the Winchester yelled at Raymond and Harold more than he ever did before to come on, pick 'em up, keep closer to the car. Mr. Manly said the dust was probably bothering them. The guard said it was bothering him too, because he had to see them before he could watch them. He said you get a con outside you watch him every second.
Raymond and Harold ran three miles and saw Mr. Manly looking at his watch. Later on, when they were resting, he came over and squatted down in the grass with them.
Three miles in twenty-five minutes, he said. That's pretty good. You reckon you could cover five miles in an hour?
I don't think so, Raymond said. It's not us, we want to do it. It's our legs.
Well, wanting something is half of getting it, Mr. Manly said. I mean if you want something bad enough.
Sure, we want to do it.
Why?
Why? Well, I guess because we got to do it. You just said you wanted to.
Yeah, we like to run.
And I'm asking you why. Mr. Manly waited a moment. Somebody told me all you fellas want to do is get out of work.
Who tole you that?
It doesn't matter who it was. You know what I told him? I told him he didn't know you boys very well. I told him you were working harder now, running, than you ever worked in your life.
That's right, Raymond said.
Because you see a chance of doing something nobody else in the prison can do. Run twenty miles in a day.
Raymond said, You want us to run twenty miles?
You want to run twenty miles. You're an Apache Indian, aren't you? And Harold's a Zulu. Well, by golly, an Apache Indian and a Zulu can run twenty miles, thirty miles a day, and there ain't a white man in this territory can say that.
You want us to run twenty miles? Raymond said again.
I want you to start thinking of who you are, that's what I want. I want you to start thinking like warriors for a change instead of like convicts.
Raymond was watching him, nodding as he listened. He said, Do these waryers think different than other people?
They think of who they are. An angry little edge came into Mr. Manly's tone. They got pride in their tribe and their job, and everything they do is to make them better warriors the way they live, the way they dress, the way they train to harden theirselves, the way they go without food or water to show their bodies their willpower is in charge here and, by golly, their bodies better do what they're told. Raymond, you say you're Apache Indian?
Yes, sir, that's right.
Harold, you believe you're a Zulu?
Yes-suh, captain, a Zulu.
Then prove it to me, both of you. Let me see how good you are.
As Mr. Manly got to his feet he glanced over at the guards, feeling a little funny now in the silence and wondering if they had been listening. Well, so what if they had? He was superintendent, wasn't he? And he answered right back, You're darn right.
You boys get ready for some real training, he said now. I'm taking you at your word.
Raymond waited until he walked away and had reached the car. Who do you think tole him we're doing this to get out of work?
I don't know, Harold said. Who do you think? I think that son of a bitch Frank Shelby.
Yeah, Harold said, he'd do it, wouldn't he?
On Visiting Day the mess-hall tables were placed in a single line, dividing the room down the middle. The visitors remained on one side and the convicts on the other. Friends and relatives could sit down facing each other if they found a place at the tables; but they couldn't touch, not even hands, and a visitor was not allowed to pass anything to a convict.
Frank Shelby always got a place at the tables and his visitor was always his brother, a slightly older and heavier brother, but used to taking orders from Frank.
Virgil Shelby said, By May for sure.
I don't want a month, Frank said. I want a day.
I'm telling you what I know. They're done building the place, they're doing something inside the walls now and they won't let anybody in.
You can talk to a workman.
I talked to plenty of workmen. They don't know anything.
What about the railroad?
Same thing. Old boys in the saloon talk about moving the convicts, but they don't know when. Somebody knows.
Maybe they don't. Frank, what are you worried about? Whatever the day is we're going to be ready. I've been over and across that rail line eight times nine times now and I know just where I'm going to take you off that train.
You're talking too loud.
Virgil took time to look down the table both ways, at the convicts hunched over the tables shoulder to shoulder and their visitors crowded in on this side, everyone trying to talk naturally without being overheard. When Virgil looked at his brother again, he said, What I want to know is how many?
Me. Junior, Soonzy, Joe Dean. Norma. Frank Shelby paused. No, we don't need to take Norma. It's up to you.
No, we don't need her.
That's four. I want to know you
're together, all in the same place, because once we hit that train there's going to be striped suits running all over the countryside.
That might be all right.
It could be. Give them some people to chase after. But it could mess things up too.
Well, right now all I hear is you wondering what's going to happen. You come with more than that, or I live the next forty years in Florence, Arizona.
I'm going to stay in Yuma a while, see what I can find out about the train. You need any money? Virgil asked.
If I have to buy some guards. I don't know, get me three, four hundred.
I'll send it in with the stores. Anything else? A good idea, buddy.
Don't worry, Frank, we're going to get you out. I'll swear to it.
Yeah, well, I'll see you.
Next month, Virgil said. He turned to swing a leg over the bench, then looked at his brother again. Something funny I seen coming here these two convicts running behind a Ford automobile. What do you suppose they was doing, Frank?
Shelby had to tear his pants nearly off to see Norma again. He ripped them down the in-seam from crotch to ankle and told the warehouse guard he'd caught them on some bailing wire and, man, it had almost fixed him good. The guard said to get another pair out of stores. Shelby said all right, and he'd leave his ripped pants at the tailor's on the way back. The guard knew what Shelby was up to; he accepted the sack of Bull Durham Shelby offered and played the game with him. It wasn't hurting anybody.
So he got his new pants and headed for the tailor shop. As soon as he was inside, Norma Davis came off the work table, where she was sitting smoking a cigarette, and went into the stock room. Shelby threw the ripped pants at the tailor, told Tacha to watch out the window for Bob Fisher, and followed Norma into the back room, closing the door behind him.
He's not as sure of himself as he used to be, Tacha said. He's worried.
The tailor was studying the ripped seam closely.
Tacha was looking out the window, at the colorless tone of the yard in sunlight: adobe and granite and black shadow lines in the glare. The brick detail was at work across the yard, but she couldn't hear them. She listened for sounds, out in the yard and in the room behind her, but there were none.