Forty Lashes Less One (1972)
Leonard, Elmore
Unknown publisher (2011)
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Forty Lashes Less One
Elmore Leonard
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Chapter 1
The train was late and didn't get into Yuma until after dark. Then the ticket agent at the depot had to telephone the prison and tell them they had better get some transportation down here. He had three people waiting on a ride up the hill: a man he had never seen before who said he was the new prison superintendent, and another man he knew was a deputy sheriff from Pima County and he had a prisoner with him, handcuffed, a big colored boy.
Whoever it was on the phone up at the prison said they had sent a man two hours ago and if the train had been on time he would have met them. The ticket agent said well, they were here now and somebody better hurry with the transportation, because the Southern Pacific didn't care for convicts hanging around the depot, even if the boy was handcuffed.
The Pima deputy said hell, it wasn't anything new; every time he delivered a man he had to sit and wait on the prison people to get off their ass. He asked the big colored boy if he minded waiting, sitting in a nice warm train depot, or would he rather be up there in one of them carved-out cells with the wind whistling in across the river? The Pima deputy said something about sweating all day and freezing at night; but the colored boy, whose name was Harold Jackson, didn't seem to be listening.
The new prison superintendent the new, temporary superintendent Mr. Everett Manly, heard him. He nodded, and adjusted his gold-frame glasses. He said yes, he was certainly familiar with Arizona winters, having spent seven years at the Chiricahua Apache Mission School. Mr. Manly heard himself speak and it sounded all right. It sounded natural.
On the train Mr. Manly had exchanged a few words with the deputy, but had not spoken to the colored boy. He could have asked him his name and where he was from; he could have asked him about his sentence and told him that if he behaved himself he would be treated fairly. He could have asked him if he wanted to pray. But with the Pima deputy sitting next to the colored boy all afternoon and evening on the wicker seats, bumping and swaying, looking out at the sun haze on the desert and the distant, dark brown mountains Mr. Manly had not been able to get the first words out, to start a conversation. He was not afraid of the colored boy, who could have been a cold-blooded killer for all he knew. It was the idea of the deputy sitting there listening that bothered him.
He thought about starting a friendly conversation with the ticket agent: ask him if he ever got up to the prison, or if he knew the superintendent, Mr. Rynning, who was in Florence at the present time seeing to the construction of the new penitentiary. He could say, Well, it won't be long now, there won't be any more Yuma Territorial Prison, and kidding, add, I suppose you'll be sorry to see it closed. Except maybe he wasn't supposed to talk about it in idle conversation. It had been mentioned in newspapers Hell-Hole on the Bluff to Open Its Doors Forever by the Spring of 1909 pretty clever, saying opening its doors instead of closing them. And no doubt the station agent knew all about it. Living here he would have to. But a harmless conversation could start false rumors and speculation, and before you knew it somebody from the Bureau would write and ask how come he was going around telling everybody about official government business.
If the ticket agent brought up the subject that would be different. He could be noncommittal. You heard the old prison's closing, huh? Well, after thirty-three years I imagine you won't be too sorry to see it happen. But the ticket agent didn't bring up the subject.
A little while later they heard the noise outside. The ticket agent looked at them through his barred window and said, There's a motor conveyance pulling into the yard I reckon is for you people.
Mr. Manly had never ridden in an automobile before. He asked the driver what kind it was and the driver told him it was a twenty-horsepower Ford Touring Car, powerful and speedy, belonged to the superintendent, Mr. Rynning. It was comfortable, Mr. Manly said, but kind of noisy, wasn't it? He wanted to ask how much a motor rig like this cost, but there was the prison above him: the walls and the guard towers against the night sky, the towers, like little houses with pointed roofs; dark houses, nobody home. When the gravel road turned and climbed close along the south wall, Mr. Manly had to look almost straight up, and he said to the guard driving the car, I didn't picture the walls so high. And the guard answered, Eighteen feet up and eight feet thick. A man can't jump it and he can't bore through neither.
My last trip up this goddamn rock pile, the Pima deputy said, sitting in the back seat with his prisoner. I'm going to the railroad hotel and get me a bottle of whiskey and in the morning I'm taking the train home and ain't never coming back here again.
The rest of the way up the hill Mr. Manly said nothing. He would remember this night and the strange feeling of riding in a car up Prison Hill, up close to this great silent mound of adobe and granite. Yuma Territorial Prison, that he had heard stories about for years that he could almost reach out and touch. But was it like a prison? More like a tomb of an ancient king, Mr. Manly was thinking. A pyramid. A ghostly monument. Or, if it was a prison, then one that was already deserted. Inside the walls there were more than a hundred men. Maybe a hundred and fifty counting the guards. But there was no sound or sign of life, only this motor car putt-putting up the hill, taking forever to reach the top.
What if it did take forever, Mr. Manly thought. What if they kept going and going and never reached the prison gate, but kept moving up into stoney darkness for all eternity until the four of them realized this was God's judgment upon them. (He could hear the Pima deputy cursing and saying, Now, wait a minute, I'm just here to deliver a prisoner!) It could happen this way, Mr. Manly thought. Who said you had to die first? Or, how did a person know when he was dead? Maybe he had died on the train. He had dozed off and opened his eyes as they were pulling into the depot A man sixty years old could die in his sleep. But and here was the question if he was dead and this was happening, why would he be condemned to darkness? What had he done wrong in his life?
Not even thinking about it very hard, he answered at once, though quietly: What have you done right? Sixty years of life, Mr. Manly thought. Thirty years as a preacher of the Holy Word, seven years as a missionary among pagan Indians. Half his life spent in God's service, and he was not sure he had converted even one soul to the Light of Truth.
They reached the top of the bluff at the west end of the prison and, coming around the corner, Mr. Manly saw the buildings that were set back from the main gate, dim shapes and cold yellow lights that framed windows and reflected on the hard-packed yard. He was aware of the buildings and thought briefly of an army post, single-and two-story structures with peaked roofs and neatly painted verandas. He heard the driver point out the guard's mess and recreation hall, the arsenal, the stable, the storehouses; he heard him say, If you're staying in the sup'rintendent's cottage, it's over yonder by the trees.
Mr. Manly was familiar with government buildings in cleanswept areas. He had seen them at the San Carlos reservation and at Fort Huachuca and at the Indian School. He was staring at the prison wall where a single light showed the main gate as an oval cavern in the pale stone, a dark tunnel entrance crisscrossed with strips of iron.
The driver looked at Mr. Manly. After a moment he said, The sally port. It's the only way in and, I guarantee, the only way out.
Bob Fisher, the turnkey, stood waiting back of the inner gate with two of his guards. He seemed either patient or half asleep, a solemn-looking man with a heavy, drooping mustache. He didn't have them open the iron lattice door until Mr. Manly and the Pima deputy and his prisoner were within the dark enclosure of the sally
port and the outer gate was bolted and locked behind them. Then he gave a sign to open up and waited for them to step into the yard light.
The Pima deputy was pulling a folded sheaf of papers out of his coat pocket, dragging along his handcuffed prisoner. I got a boy name of Harold Jackson wants to live with you the next fifteen years. He handed the papers to the turnkey and fished in his pants pocket for the keys to the handcuffs.
Bob Fisher unfolded the papers close to his stomach and glanced at the first sheet. We'll take care of him, he said, and folded the papers again.
Mr. Manly stood by waiting, holding his suitcase. I'll tell you what, the Pima deputy said. I'll let you buy me a cup of coffee 'fore I head back.
We'll see if we got any, Fisher said.
The Pima deputy had removed the handcuffs from the prisoner and was slipping them into his coat pocket. I don't want to put you to any trouble, he said. Jesus, a nice friendly person like you.
You won't put us to any trouble, Fisher answered. His voice was low, and he seemed to put no effort or feeling into his words.
Mr. Manly kept waiting for the turnkey to notice him and greet him and have one of the guards take his suitcase; but the man stood at the edge of the yard light and didn't seem to look at any of them directly, though maybe he was looking at the prisoner, telling him with the sound of his voice that he didn't kid with anybody. What does he look like, Mr. Manly was thinking. He lowered his suitcase to the ground.
A streetcar motorman, that was it. With his gray guard uniform and gray uniform hat, the black shiny peak straight over his eyes. A tough old motorman with a sour stomach and a sour outlook from living within the confinement of a prison too many years. A man who never spoke if he didn't have to and only smiled about twice a year. The way the man's big mustache covered the sides of his mouth it would be hard to tell if he ever smiled at all.
Bob Fisher told one of the guards to take the Pima deputy over to the mess hall, then changed his mind and said no, take him outside to the guard's mess. The Pima deputy shrugged; he didn't care where he got his coffee. He took time to look at Mr. Manly and say, Good luck, mister. As Mr. Manly said, Good luck to you too, not looking at the turnkey now but feeling him there, the Pima deputy turned his back on them; he waited to get through the double gates and was gone.
My name is Everett Manly, Mr. Manly said. I expect But Fisher wasn't ready for him yet. He motioned to the guards and watched as they led the prisoner off toward a low, one-room adobe. Mr. Manly waited, also watching them. He could see the shapes of buildings in the darkness of the yard, here and there a light fixed above a doorway. Past the corner of a two-story building, out across the yard, was the massive outline of a long, windowless adobe with a light above its crisscrossed iron door. Probably the main cellblock. But in the darkness he couldn't tell about the other buildings, or make any sense of the prison's layout. He had the feeling again that the place was deserted except for the turnkey and the two guards.
I understand you've come here to take charge.
All the waiting and the man had surprised him. But all was forgiven, because the man was looking at him now, acknowledging his presence.
I'm Everett Manly. I expect Mr. Rynning wrote you I was coming. You're Bob Fisher, turnkey.
Mr. Manly smiled. I guess you would be the man in charge of the keys. Showing him he had a sense of humor.
I've been in charge of the whole place since Mr. Rynning's been gone.
Well, I'm anxious to see everything and get to work. Mr. Manly was being sincere now, and humble. I'm going to admit though, I haven't had much experience.
In his flat tone, Fisher said, I understand you haven't had any.
Mr. Manly wished they weren't standing here alone. No prison experience, that's true. But I've dealt with people all my life, Mr. Fisher, and nobody's told me yet convicts aren't people. He smiled again, still humble and willing to learn.
Nobody will have to tell you, Fisher said. You'll find out yourself.
He turned and walked off toward the one-room adobe. Mr. Manly had no choice but to pick up his suitcase and follow Lord, with the awful feeling again and wishing he hadn't put so many books in with his clothes; the suitcase weighed a ton and he probably looked like an idiot walking with quick little steps and the thing banging against his leg. And then he was grateful and felt good again, because Bob Fisher was holding the door open for him and let him go inside first, into the lighted room where the colored boy was jackknifed over a table without any clothes on and the two guards were standing on either side of him.
One of the guards pulled him up and turned him around by the arm as Fisher closed the door. He's clean, the guard said. Nothing hid away down him or up him.
He needs a hosing is all, the other guard said. Fisher came across the plank floor, his eyes on the prisoner. He ain't worked up a sweat yet.
Jesus, the first guard said, don't get close to him. He stinks to high heaven.
Mr. Manly put down his suitcase. That's a long dusty train ride, my friend. Then, smiling a little, he added, I wouldn't mind a bath myself.
The two guards looked over at him, then at Fisher, who was still facing the prisoner. That's your new boss, Fisher said, come to take Mr. Rynning's place while he's gone. See he gets all the bath water he wants. This boy here washes tomorrow with the others, after he's put in a day's work.
Mr. Manly said, I didn't intend that to sound like I'm interfering with your customs or regulations Fisher looked over at him now, waiting.
I only meant it was sooty and dirty aboard the train.
Fisher waited until he was sure Mr. Manly had nothing more to say. Then he turned his attention to the prisoner again. One of the guards was handing the man a folded uniform and a broad-brimmed sweat-stained hat. Fisher watched him as he put the clothes on the table, shook open the pants and stepped into them: faded, striped gray and white convict pants that were short and barely reached to the man's high-top shoes. While he was buttoning up, Fisher opened the sheaf of papers the Pima deputy had given him, his gaze holding on the first sheet. It says here you're Harold Jackson.
Yes-suh, captain.
The Negro came to attention as Fisher looked up, a hint of surprise in his solemn expression. He seemed to study the prisoner more closely now and took his time before saying, You ain't ever been here before, but you been somewhere. Where was it you served time, boy? Fort Leavenworth, captain.
You were in the army?
Yes-suh, captain.
I never knew a nigger that was in the army. How long were you in it?
Over in Cuba eight months, captain. At Leavenworth four years hard labor.
Well, they learned you some manners, Fisher said, but they didn't learn you how to stay out of prison, did they? These papers say you killed a man. Is that right?
Yes-suh, captain.
What'd you kill him with?
I hit him with a piece of pipe, captain.
You robbing him?
No-suh, captain, we jes' fighting.
Mr. Manly cleared his throat. The pause held, and he said quickly, Coming here he never gave the deputy any trouble, not once.
Fisher took his time as he looked around. He said, I generally talk to a new man and find out who he is or who he believes he is, and we get a few things straightened out at the start. He paused. If it's all right with you.
Please go ahead, Mr. Manly said. I just wanted to say he never acted smart on the trip, or was abusive. I doubt he said more than a couple words.
That's fine. Fisher nodded patiently before looking at Harold Jackson again. You're our last nigger, he said to him. You're the only one we got now, and we want you to be a good boy and work hard and do whatever you're told. Show you we mean it, we're going to help you out at first, give you something to keep you out of trouble.
There was a wooden box underneath the table. Mr. Manly didn't notice it until one of the guards stooped down and, with the rattling sound of chains, brought out a pair of leg-ir
ons and a ball-peen hammer.
Mr. Manly couldn't hold back. But he hasn't done anything yet!
No, sir, Bob Fisher said, and he ain't about to with chains on his legs. He came over to Mr. Manly and, surprising him, picked up his suitcase and moved him through the door, closing it firmly behind them.
Outside, Fisher paused. I'll get somebody to tote your bag over to Mr. Rynning's cottage. I expect you'll be most comfortable there.
I appreciate it.
Take your bath if you want one, have something to eat and a night's sleep there's no sense in showing you around now all right?
What are you going to do to the colored boy? We're going to put him in a cell, if that's all right. But the leg-irons.
He'll wear them a week. See what they feel like.
I guess I'm just not used to your ways, Mr. Manly said. I mean prison ways. He could feel the silence again among the darkened stone buildings and high walls. The turnkey walked off toward the empty, lighted area by the main gate. Mr. Manly had to step quickly to catch up with him. I mean I believe a man should have a chance to prove himself first, he said, before he's judged.
They're judged before they get here.
But putting leg-irons on them Not all of them. Just the ones I think need them, so they'll know what irons feel like.
Mr. Manly knew what he wanted to say, but he didn't have the right words. I mean, don't they hurt terrible? I sure hope so, Fisher answered.
As they came to the lighted area, a guard leaning against the iron grill of the gate straightened and adjusted his hat. Fisher let the guard know he had seen him, then stopped and put down the suitcase.
This Harold Jackson, Fisher said. Maybe you didn't hear him. He killed a man. He didn't miss Sunday school. He beat a man to death with an iron pipe.
I know I heard him.
That's the kind of people we get here. Lot of them. They come in, we don't know what's on their minds. We don't know if they're going to behave or cause trouble or try and run or try and kill somebody else.