Forty Lashes Less One

“They fight other people?”

“Sure they did. Beat ’em, too. What I understand, your Zulus owned most of the southern part of Africa, took it from other tribes and ruled over them.”

“Never got beat, uh?”

“Not that I ever heard of. No, sir, they’re the greatest warriors in Africa.”

“Nobody ever beat the Apache,” Raymond said, “till the U. S. Army come with all their goddamn guns.”

“Raymond, don’t ever take the Lord’s name in vain like that.”

“Apaches beat the Pimas, the Papagos, Maricopas—took anything we wanted from them.”

“Well, I don’t hold with raiding and killing,” Mr. Manly said, “but I’ll tell you there is something noble about your uneducated savage that you don’t see in a lot of white men. I mean just the way your warrior stands, up straight with his shoulders back and never says too much, doesn’t talk just to hear himself, like a lot of white people I know. I’ll tell you something else, boys. Savage warriors have never been known to lie or go back on their word, and that’s a fact. Man up at the reservation told me that Indians don’t even have a word in their language for lie. Same thing with your Zulus. I reckon if a boy can run all day long and kill lions with a spear, he don’t ever have to lie.”

“I never heard of Apaches with spears,” Raymond said.

“Oh, yes, they had them. And bows and arrows.”

Harold was waiting. “I expect the Zulus got guns now, don’t they?”

“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Manly answered. “Maybe they don’t need guns. Figure spears are good enough.” A smile touched his mouth as he looked across the desk at Raymond and Harold. “The thing that tickles me,” he said, “I’m liable to have a couple of real honest-to-goodness Apache and Zulu warriors sitting right here in my office and I didn’t even know it.”

That evening, when Bob Fisher got back after supper, the guard at the sally port told him Mr. Manly wanted to see him right away. Fisher asked him what for, and the guard said how was he supposed to know. Fisher told the man to watch his mouth, and headed across the compound to see what the little squirt wanted.

Fisher paused by the stairs and looked over toward the cook shack. The women would be starting their bath about now.

Mr. Manly was writing something, but put it aside as Fisher came in. He said, “Pull up a chair,” and seemed anxious to talk.

“There’s a couple of things I got to do yet tonight.”

“I wanted to talk to you about our Apache and our Zulu.”

“How’s that?”

“Raymond and Harold. I’ve been thinking about Frank Shelby’s idea—he seems like a pretty sensible young man, doesn’t he?”

Jesus Christ, Bob Fisher thought. He said, “I guess he’s smart enough.”

Mr. Manly smiled. “Though not smart enough to stay out of jail. Well, I’ve been thinking about this boxing- match idea. I want you to know I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

Fisher waited.

“I want Frank Shelby to understand it too—you might mention it to him if you see him before I do.”

“I’ll tell him,” Fisher said. He started to go.

“Hey, I haven’t told you what I decided.”

Fisher turned to the desk again.

“I’ve been thinking—a boxing match wouldn’t be too good. We want them to stop fighting and we tell them to go ahead and fight. That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

“I’ll tell him that.”

“You’re sure in a hurry this evening, Bob.”

“It’s time I made the rounds is all.”

“Well, I could walk around with you if you want and we could talk.”

“That’s all right,” Fisher said, “go ahead.”

“Well, as I said, we won’t have the boxing match. You know what we’re going to have instead?”

“What?”

“We’re going to have a race. I mean Harold and Raymond are going to have a race.”

“A race,” Fisher said.

“A foot race. The faster man wins and gets some kind of a prize, but I haven’t figured that part of it out yet.”

“They’re going to run a race,” Fisher said.

“Out in the exercise yard. Down to the far end and back, maybe a couple of times.”

“When do you want this race held?”

“Tomorrow I guess, during free time.”

“You figure it’ll stop them fighting, uh?”

“We don’t have anything to lose,” Mr. Manly said. “A good race might just do the trick.”

Get out of here, Bob Fisher thought. He said, “Well, I’ll tell them.”

“I’ve already done that.”

“I’ll tell Frank Shelby then.” Fisher edged toward the door and got his hand on the knob.

“You know what it is?” Mr. Manly was leaning back in his chair with a peaceful, thoughtful expression. “It’s sort of a race of races,” he said. “You know what I mean? The Negro against the Indian, black man against red man. I don’t mean to prove that one’s better than the other. I mean as a way to stir up their pride and get them interested in doing something with theirselves. You know what I mean?”

Bob Fisher stared at him.

“See, the way I figure them—” Mr. Manly motioned to the chair again. “Sit down, Bob, I’ll tell you how I see these two boys, and why I believe we can help them.”

By the time Fisher got down to the yard, the women had taken their bath. They were back in their cellblock and he had to find R. E. Baylis for the keys.

“I already locked everybody in,” the guard said.

“I know you did. That’s why I need the keys.”

“Is there something wrong somewhere?”

Bob Fisher had never wanted to look at that woman as bad as he did this evening. God, he felt like he had to look at her, but everybody was getting in his way, wasting time. His wife at supper nagging at him again about moving to Florence. The little squirt preacher who believed he could save a couple of bad convicts. Now a slow-witted guard asking him questions.

“Just give me the keys,” Fisher said.

He didn’t go over there directly. He walked past the TB cellblock first and looked in at the empty yard, at the lantern light showing in most of the cells and the dark ovals of the cells that were not occupied. The nigger and the Indian were in separate cells. They were doing a fair job on the wall; but, Jesus, they’d get it done a lot sooner if the little squirt would let them work instead of wasting time preaching to them. Now foot races. God Almighty.

Once you were through the gate of the women’s cellblock, the area was more like a room than a yard—a little closed-in courtyard and two cells carved into the granite wall.

There was lantern light in both cells. Fisher looked in at Tacha first and asked her what she was doing. Tacha was sitting on a stool in the smoky dimness of the cell. She said, “I’m reading,” and looked down at the book again. Bob Fisher told himself to take it easy now and not to be impatient. He looked in Tacha’s cell almost a minute longer before moving on to Norma’s.

She was stretched out in her bunk, staring right at him when he looked through the iron strips of the door. A blanket covered her, but one bare arm and shoulder were out of the blanket and, Jesus, it didn’t look like she had any clothes on. His gaze moved around the cell to show he wasn’t too interested in her.

“Everything all right?”

“That’s a funny thing to ask,” Norma said. “Like this is a hotel.”

“I haven’t looked in here in a while.”

“I know you haven’t.”

“You need another blanket or anything?”