I'll agree with you there, Fisher said, but in a prison you never know. We got men with no women, and women with no men, and I'll tell you we got to keep our eyes open if we don't want any funny business.
I've heard tell of men, Mr. Manly said the sudsy water running down between her breasts but women. What do you suppose they do?
I hope I never find out, Fisher said. He meant it, too.
He got Mr. Manly out of there before the women came out and saw them standing in the yard; he walked Mr. Manly over to the main gate and asked him if he had read the report on the escape attempt.
Mr. Manly said yes, and that he thought it showed the guards to be very alert. He wondered, though, wasn't this Raymond San Carlos the same one the Negro has assaulted in the mess hall? The very same, Fisher said. Then wasn't it dangerous to put them both in the same cell? Dangerous to who? Fisher asked. To them, they were liable to start fighting again and try and kill each other. They already tried, Fisher said. They were chained to the floor now out of each other's reach. Mr. Manly asked how long they would leave them like that, and Fisher said until they made up their minds to be good and kind to each other. Mr. Manly said that could be never if there was a grudge between them. Fisher said it didn't matter to him, it was up to the two boys.
Fisher waited in the lighted area as Mr. Manly passed through the double gates of the sally port and walked off toward the superintendent's cottage. He was pretty sure Mr. Manly had believed his story, that he was checking on the women to see they didn't do queer things. He'd also bet a dollar the little Sunday school teacher wouldn't make him chink the hole up either.
That was dumb, taking all his books over to the office. Mr. Manly sat in the living room of the superintendent's cottage, in his robe and slippers, and didn't have a thing to read. His Bible was on the night table in the bedroom. Yes, and he'd made a note to look up what St. Paul said about being in prison, something about all he'd gone through and how one had to have perseverance. He saw Norma Davis rubbing the bar of soap over her body, sliding it up and down. No what he wished he'd brought were the file records of the two boys in the snake den. He would have to talk to them when they got out. Say to them, look, boys, fighting never solved anything. Now forget your differences and shake hands.
They were different all right, a Negro and an Indian. But they were alike too.
Both here for murder. Both born the same year. Both had served time. Both had sketchy backgrounds and no living relatives anybody knew of. The deserter and the deserted.
A man raised on a share-crop farm in Georgia; joined the army and, four months later, was listed as a deserter. Court-martialed, sentenced to hard labor.
A man raised on the San Carlos Indian reservation; deserted by his Apache renegade father before he was born. Father believed killed in Mexico; mother's whereabouts unknown.
Both of them in the snake den now, a little room carved out of stone, with no light and hardly any air. Waiting to get at each other.
Maybe the sooner he talked to them the better. Bring them both out in ten days no matter what Bob Fisher thought about it. Ten days was long enough. They needed spiritual guidance as much as they needed corporal punishment. He'd tell Fisher in the morning.
As soon as Mr. Manly got into bed he started thinking of Norma Davis again, seeing her clearly with the bare light right over her and her body gleaming with soap and water. He saw her in the room then, her body still slippery-looking in the moonlight that was coming through the window. Before she could reach the bed, Mr. Manly switched on the night-table lamp, grabbed hold of his Bible and leafed as fast as he could to St. Paul's letters to the Corinthians.
For nine days neither of them spoke. They sat facing each other, their leg-irons chained to ring bolts that were cemented in the floor. Harold would stand and stretch and lean against the wall and Raymond would watch him. Later on Raymond would get up for a while and Harold would watch. They never stood up at the same time or looked at each other directly. There was silence except for the sound of the chains when they moved. Each pretended to be alone in the darkness of the cell, though each was intently aware of the other's presence. Every day about noon a guard brought them hardtack and water. The guard was not allowed to speak to them, and neither of them spoke to him. It was funny their not talking, he told the other guards. It was spooky. He had never known a man in the snake den not to talk a storm when he was brought his bread and water. But these two sat there as if they had been hypnotized.
The morning of the tenth day Raymond said, They going to let you out today. The sound of his voice was strange, like someone else's voice. He wanted to clear his throat, but wouldn't let himself do it with the other man watching him. He said, Don't go anywhere, because when I get out of here I'm going to come looking for you.
I be waiting, was all Harold Jackson said.
At midday the sun appeared in the air shaft and gradually faded. Nobody brought their bread and water. They had been hungry for the first few days but were not hungry now. They waited and it was early evening when the guard came in with a hammer and pounded the ring bolts open, both of them, Raymond watching him curiously but not saying anything. Another guard came in with shovels and a bucket of sand and told them to clean up their mess.
Bob Fisher was waiting outside. He watched them come out blinking and squinting in the daylight, both of them filthy stinking dirty, the Negro with a growth of beard and the Indian's bony face hollowed and sick-looking. He watched their gaze creep over the yard toward the main cellblock where the convicts were standing around and sitting by the wall, most of them looking this way.
You can be good children, Fisher said, or you can go back in there, I don't care which. I catch you fighting, twenty days. I catch you looking mean, twenty days. He looked directly at Raymond. I catch you swimming again, thirty days and leg-irons a year. You understand me?
For supper they had fried mush and syrup, all they wanted. After, they were marched over to the main cell-block. Raymond looked for Frank Shelby in the groups standing around outside, but didn't see him. He saw Junior and nodded. Junior gave him a deadpan look. The guard, R. E. Baylis, told them to get their blankets and any gear they wanted to bring along.
You putting us in another cell? Raymond asked him. How about make it different cells? Ten days, I'll smell him the rest of my life.
Come on, Baylis said. He marched them down the passageway and through the rear gate of the cellblock.
Wait a minute, Raymond said. Where we going?
The guard looked around at him. Didn't nobody tell you? You two boys are going to live in the TB yard.
Chapter 5
A work detail was making adobe bricks over by the south wall, inside the yard. They mixed mud and water and straw, stirred it into a heavy wet paste and poured it into wooden forms. There were bricks drying all along the base of the wall and scrap lumber from the forms and stacks of finished bricks, ready to be used here or sold in town.
Harold Jackson and Raymond San Carlos had to come across the yard with their wheelbarrows to pick up bricks and haul them back to the TB cellblock that was like a prison within a prison: a walled-off area with its own exercise yard. There were eight cells here, in a row facing the yard, half of them empty. The four tubercular convicts stayed in their cells most of the time or sat in the shade and watched Harold and Raymond work, giving them advice and telling them when a line of bricks wasn't straight. They were working on the face wall of the empty cells, tearing out the weathered, crumbling adobe and putting in new bricks; repairing cells that would probably never again be occupied. This was their main job. They worked at it side by side without saying a word to each other. They also had to bring the tubercular convicts their meals, and sometimes get cough medicine from the sick ward. A guard gave them white cotton doctor masks they could put on over their nose and mouth for whenever they went into the TB cells; but the masks were hot and hard to breathe through, so they didn't wear them after the first day. They used the m
asks, and a few rags they found, to pad the leg-irons where the metal dug into their ankles.
The third day out of the snake den Raymond began talking to the convicts on the brick detail. He recognized Joe Dean in the group, but didn't speak to him directly. He said, man alive, it was good to breathe fresh air again and feel the sun. He took off his hat and looked up at the sky. All the convicts except Joe Dean went on working. Raymond said, even being over with the lungers was better than the snake den. He said somebody must have made a mistake, he was supposed to be in thirty days for trying to escape, but they let him out after ten. Raymond smiled; he said he wasn't going to mention it to them, though.
Joe Dean was watching him, leaning on his shovel. You take care of him yet?
Take care of who? Raymond asked him.
The nigger boy. I hear he stomped you.
Nobody stomped me. Where'd you hear that? Had to chain him up.
They chained us both.
Looks like you're partners now, Joe Dean said. I'm not partners with him. They make us work together, that's all.
You going to fight him?
Sure, when I get a chance.
He don't look too anxious, another convict said. That nigger's a big old boy.
I got to wait for the right time, Raymond said. That's all.
He came back later for another wheelbarrow load of bricks and stood watching them as they worked the mud and mixed in straw. Finally he asked if anybody had seen Frank around.
Frank who you talking about? Joe Dean asked. Frank Shelby.
Listen to him, Joe Dean said. He wants to know has anybody seen Frank.
I got to talk to him, Raymond said. See if he can get me out of there.
Scared of TB, huh?
I mean being with the black boy. I got enough of him.
I thought you wanted to fight him.
I don't know, Joe Dean said. It sounds to me like you're scared to start it.
I don't want no more of the snake den. That's the only thing stopping me.
You want to see Frank Shelby, one of the other convicts said, there he is. The man nodded and Raymond looked around.
Shelby must have just come out of the mess hall. He stood by the end-gate of a freight wagon that Junior and Soonzy and a couple of other convicts were unloading. There was no guard with them, unless he was inside. Raymond looked up at the guard on the south wall.
I'll tell you something, Joe Dean said. You can forget about Frank helping you.
Raymond was watching the guard. You know, uh? You know him so good he's got you working in this adobe slop.
Sometimes we take bricks to town, Joe Dean said. You think on it if you don't understand what I mean. I got other things to think on.
As the guard on the south wall turned and started for the tower at the far end of the yard, Raymond picked up his wheelbarrow and headed for the mess hall.
Shelby didn't look up right away. He was studying a bill of lading attached to a clipboard, checking things off. He said to Junior, The case right by your foot, that should be one of ours.
Says twenty-four jars of Louisiana cane syrup.
It's corn whiskey. Shelby still didn't look up, but he said then, What do you want?
They let me out of the snake den, Raymond said. I was suppose to be in thirty days, they let me out. Shelby looked at him now. Yeah?
I wondered if you fixed it.
Not me.
I thought sure. He waited as Shelby looked in the wagon and at the clipboard again. Say, what happened at the river? I thought you were going to come right behind me.
It didn't work out that way.
Man, I thought I had made it. But I couldn't find no boat over there.
I guess you didn't look in the right place, Shelby said.
I looked where you told me. Man, it was work. I don't like swimming so much. He watched Shelby studying the clipboard. I was wondering you know I'm over in a TB cell now.
Shelby didn't say anything.
I was wondering if you could fix it, get me out of there.
Why?
I got to be with that nigger all the time.
He's got to be with you, Shelby said, so you're even.
Raymond grinned. I never thought of it that way. He waited again. What do you think?
About what?
About getting me back with everybody.
Shelby started fooling with his mustache, smoothing it with his fingers. Why do you think anybody wants you back?
Raymond didn't grin this time. I did what you told me, he said seriously. Listen, I'll work for you any time you want.
I'm not hiring today.
Well, what about getting me out of the TB yard?
Shelby looked at him. He said, Boy, why would I do that? I'm the one had you put there. Now you say one more word Soonzy is going to come down off the wagon and break both your arms.
Shelby watched Raymond pick up his wheelbarrow and walk away. Goddamn Indin is no better than a nigger, he said to Junior. You treat them nice one time and you got them hanging around the rest of your life.
When Raymond got back to the brick detail Joe Dean said, Well, what did he say?
He's going to see what he can do, Raymond answered. He didn't feel like talking any more, and was busy loading bricks when Harold Jackson came across the yard with his wheelbarrow. Harold wore his hat pointed low over his eyes. He didn't have a shirt on and, holding the wheelbarrow handles, his shoulders and arm muscles were bunched and hard-looking. One of the convicts saw him first and said to Raymond, Here comes your buddy. The other convicts working the adobe mud looked up and stood leaning on their shovels and hoes as Harold Jackson approached.
Raymond didn't look at him. He stacked another brick in the wheelbarrow and got set to pick up the handles. He heard one of the convicts say, This here Indian says you won't fight him. Says you're scared. Is that right?
I fight him any time he wants.
Raymond had to look up then. Harold was staring at him.
Well, I don't know, the convict said. You and him talk about fighting, but nobody's raised a hand yet.
It must be they're both scared, Joe Dean said. Or it's because they're buddies. All alone in that snake den they got to liking each other. Guard comes in thinks they're rassling on the floor man, they're not fighting, they're buggering each other.
The other convicts grinned and laughed, and one of them said, Jesus Christ, what they are, they're sweethearts.
Raymond saw Harold Jackson take one step and hit the man in the face as hard as he could. Raymond wanted to say no, don't do it. It was a strange thing and happened quickly as the man spun toward him and Raymond put up his hands. One moment he was going to catch the man, keep him from falling against him. The next moment he balled up a fist and drove it into the man's face, right out in the open yard, the dumbest thing he had ever done, but doing it now and not stopping or thinking, going for Joe Dean now and busting him hard in the mouth as he tried to bring up his shovel. God, it felt good, a wild hot feeling, letting go and stepping into them and swinging hard at all the faces he had been wanting to smash and pound against a wall.
Harold Jackson held back a moment, staring at the crazy Indian, until somebody was coming at him with a shovel and he had to grab the handle and twist and chop it across the man's head. If he could get room and swing the shovel but there were too many of them too close, seven men in the brick detail and a couple more, Junior and Soonzy, who came running over from the supply detail and grabbed hunks of lumber and started clubbing at the two wild men.
By the time the guard on the south wall fired his Winchester in the air and a guard came running over from the mess hall, Harold lay stunned in the adobe muck; Raymond was sprawled next to him and neither of them moved.
Lord, Junior said, we had to take sticks this time to get them apart.
Soonzy shook his head. I busted mine on that nigger, he went right on fighting.
They're a scrappy pair, Junior said, but t
hey sure are dumb, ain't they?
Bob Fisher told the guard to hose them off and throw them in the snake den. He told Soonzy and Junior and the men on the brick detail to get back to work. Chained? the guard wanted to know. Chained, Fisher said, and walked off toward the stairs at the end of the mess hall, noticing the convicts who had come out of the adobe huts and equipment sheds, brought out by the guard's rifle fire, all of them looking toward the two men lying in the mud. He noticed Frank Shelby and some convicts by the freight wagon. He noticed the cooks in their white aprons, and the two women, Norma and Tacha, over by the tailor shop.
Fisher went up the stairs and down the hall to the superintendent's office. As he walked in, Mr. Manly turned from the window.
The same two, Fisher said.
It looked like they were all fighting. Mr. Manly glanced at the window again.
You want a written report?
I'd like to know what happened.
Those two start fighting. The other boys try to pull them apart and the two start swinging at everybody. Got to hit 'em with shovels to put 'em down.
I didn't see them fighting each other.
Then you must have missed that part. Past Mr. Manly's thoughtful expression through the window and down in the yard he saw a convict walking toward the tailor shop with a bundle under his arm. Frank Shelby. This far away he knew it was Shelby. Norma Davis stood in the door waiting for him.
Soon as I heard the shots, Mr. Manly said, I looked out. They were separated, like two groups fighting. They didn't look close enough to have been fighting each other.
Bob Fisher waited. You want a written report? What're you going to do to them?
I told them before, they start fighting they go back in the snake den. Twenty days. They know it, so it won't be any surprise.
Twenty days in there seems like a long time. I hope to tell you it is, Fisher said.
I was going to talk to them when they got out the other day. I meant to I don't know, I put it off and then I guess some other things came up.
Fisher could see Shelby at the tailor shop now, close to the woman, talking to her. She turned and they both went inside.