The Number 1 hoe squad got a late Christmas present. The week after Christmas our guard and nemesis, Boss Deadeye, had a stroke and died. “Hooray!” It was mid-January, and Number 1 had been laying-in since New Year’s. We heard through the grapevine the warden was waiting on somebody “special” to replace Deadeye. It really didn’t matter who they imported. He couldn’t possibly be any worse to work under than Boss Deadeye. That one-eyed bastard drove us like sugar-mill jackasses, agitated us from dawn til dusk, and had us punished to no end. As far as most of us were concerned, it was a silent victory—we had outlasted him.
Korea, a trusty who worked as the warden’s office porter, had come in for lunch and was at the 3 tank door talking with B.C. while waiting on the call for “short line.” The trusties ate thirty minutes ahead of the field force. “That One Hoe won’t be layin up on dey asses much longer.”
B.C. commented, “I’m sho glad, I’m tired uv lookin at ‘em.”
“Whoever Big Devil been waitin on jes showed up, an he called him Boss Band.” The trusty chow bell sounded and Korea left.
I asked Black Rider, “Didja hear whut Korea jes said?”
“Yeah,” he said dryly, “I heard. I sho hope it ain’ who he say it is. I worked under him on that Number 3 Ramsey camp back in ‘45. They transferred him dere cuz he kilt a whole squad over on anutha camp. I sho hope it ain’ him! Boss Deadeye wudn’ shit ‘pared ta him.”
All ten of us began talking about the new boss. Finally, Tennessee spoke with authority. “It happen, it sho happen! Kilt evuh last one uv ‘em.” Clarifying, “Now I wuzn’ in his squad when he dun it. Guess y’all kin see dat. But I wuz on th’ camp at th’ time.”
Chinaman said, “Say man, quit hem-hawin roun an tell us whut happen or shut the fuck up.”
Tennessee was taking his time with the story. Always out of smokes, he was enjoying the free cigarettes being passed around. He had been on every camp in the system and worked under some of the toughest bosses, had the bullet holes in his legs to prove it, and was lashed so many times in his prison career that his back was striped like a zebra.
After bumming a light to fire up the cigarette he had just bummed, “Th’ way I heard it frum suma th’ trusties who wek’d roun dem bosses’ houses when dat happen wuz dis.” He left us hanging as he again stopped to expound. “Now y’all know how th’ grapevine is. Sum you kin bleeve an sum you has ta wonder about.”
Anxiety got the best of Whitefolks and he could take no more, “Say, lissen alla y’all, lissen a minute.” He took the floor. “Tell y’all whut, les don’t give dis nigguh no mo lights, no mo cigaritts, no mo nuthin til he tells us whut he knows!”
Several gave a nod of the head to his suggestion.
“Awright, awright, I’m gon tell y’all. Don’t y’all be in such a Gotdam hurry. Hell, we ain’ got nowhere ta go.” With a thick blanket of cigarette smoke filling the air, Tennessee began again. “See, Boss Band had a houseboy, least his wife did,” he chuckled, “whut cleant an cooked fo ‘em. Th’ way th’ trusties tole it wuz th’ houseboy wuz bout ta root Boss Band outta house an home. Dat houseboy wuz really layin it to her.
“Anyhow, him an Boss Band’s wife got in a squabble bout cleanin up th’ house. He spose to talk back to th’ woman, sassed her out real good when she tole ‘em to do sump’n. Nigguh musta been crazy to thank he could git ‘way wit dat. Well, when Boss Band cum home dat evenin, she tole ‘em th’ houseboy sassed her out. She tole Boss Band jes enuff ta git ‘em punished a lil’ bit. Jes to show ‘em she wuz still his boss, eben if dey wuz gittin it on.
“Afta she tole Boss Band, he lef runnin fo th’ buildin. He fount dat houseboy in th’ tank, an tole ‘em if he cum back to wek he’d kill ‘em. Den he went to th’ warden’s house to demand sump’n be dun to his ass. It didn’t matta ta Boss Band th’ warden had jes sot down to eat his suppa. Th’ warden say it could wait til moanin, an he’d look into it.
“But th’ warden knowed how mean Boss Band wuz an had dat house nigguh hauled off in his car to anutha camp dat same nite. Next moanin, Boss Band cum to th’ buildin an fount out th’ nigguh wuz gone. Th’ warden wouldn’ tell ‘em where he sunt ‘em.
“When th’ turnout bell rung, Boss Band took his squad out an tole ‘em to wek on ‘way frum th’ others cuz he wanted dem in a cut by dey sef. Whilst dey had dey backs turnt to ‘em choppin, he opened up wit dat pump scatter-barrel. He mowed ‘em down, two an three atta time. Dem whut he didn’ git wit dat scatter gun, he finished off wid his .45. Dey say he blowed suma dem nigguhs half in two. Holes in ‘em big nuff to put yo two fists in, all fo’teen uv ‘em!
“Das why dey calls ‘em Kill-A-Band. Cuz when we useta set roun talkin bout it afta it dun happen, we useta say, ‘Man, dat boss kilt a whole band uv nigguhs!’ His reason wuz dem nigguhs tried to ‘git in th’ saddle’ wit ‘em. Eben afta he dun kilt dat many mens, he nevah missed a day’s wek er nuthin. All dey dun wuz transfer ‘em over to th’ Ramsey camp.
“We heard thru th’ grapevine dat he sho straightened out dat One Hoe over dere in a hurry. Hell, he wudn’ at Ramsey a month an kilt two mo.” Laughing a little, “Dat’s when his wife lef ‘em. Dat muthafucka’s got a graveyard alla his own. I sho hope it ain’ him. Ef it is, yo’s truly sho gon put on his travelin shoes!”
Our afternoon leisure was interrupted by a command from the inside picket boss, “Alla you Number 1 nigguhs, cum on outta them tanks an git out on that yard!”
We filed out of our tanks and down the hallway, walking for a change. January’s wintry breath strip-searched us at the back door. The sun, just by appearing, showed its bravery. Walking through his shadow to line up against the wall, I glanced at the face half-hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat. With the sun at his back, he stood motionless. It took a minute or so for the twenty-six of us to stagger ourselves against the wall so each of our faces could be seen by him.
After we were in formation, in a gravelly voice he asked maliciously, “DO Y’ALL KNOW WHO I AM?” His words sounded like the heavy hiss from a deadly serpent. Nobody said a word. He broke the momentary silence, “Well, I know who y’all is, an y’all gonna find out who I am damn quick!”
Standing about six feet tall and maybe weighing one sixty, he looked to be on the older side of sixty. Thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans with his weight shifted to one side, he looked intently at each of us. We didn’t dare make eye contact with him. Kidskin gloves were neatly stuffed into the empty holster hanging from the extra belt he was wearing. Each bullet compartment contained a round of .45 ammunition. With that many bullets around his waist, he certainly didn’t plan on running out. He wore a gabardine khaki shirt, black keen-toed boots, and spurs minus the rowels. There was no crimp in the crown of his black hat, the brim was flat all the way around, exposing the silvery, long sideburns.
When he raised his head enough so the brim no longer hid his sinister-looking face, I stole a peek at his eyes. Their icy-blue color contrasted sharply with his heavily tanned, weather-beaten skin that resembled tarnished leather. He seldom blinked, roving his eyes over us.
“I’m gonna tell y’all one time, an one time alone how I’m gonna deal. First off, if ary one uv you tries to run off, I’m gon kill ya. If ary one uv you ‘sputes my word, I’m gon kill ya. If ary one uv you don’t do lak I tell ya, I’m gon kill ya. If you lay th’ hammer down under me, I’m gon kill ya. And if I jes take a notion to, I’m gon kill ya.”
Never blinking an eye, he continued his commandments in the same monotone. I was holding my breath between each blunt death decree. Was there nothing he wouldn’t kill us for?
“I don’t wont no conversation wit none a y’all. Jes y’all do lak I tell ya. I don’t know whut y’all dun heard bout me, an I don’t give a damn. But I heard you nigguhs jes been drag-assin.” Louder, “I’ma tellin you now, if y’all drag ‘em ol’ asses roun under me, I’m gon kill ya. That last boss y’all had didn’ git a Gotdam thang outta y’all ‘pared to whut I’m gon git. I bet not see ary nigguh comin thru ‘at backgate wit his shirt not a-stickin to his ass. Ain’ gon be no dry nigguhs in my squad.” Shouting, “DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!?”
A few said, “Yassuh,” or “We hears you, Boss.”
“When I’ma talkin to alla y’all at the same time an I axe y’all do you hear me, ever nigguh betta stop whut he’s a-doin an answer me back ‘O Lord!’ If I’ma talkin to one a y’all, ‘fore you say ANYTHANG to me, you betta say aforehand ‘O Lord.’ Is that clear? I’m gonna say it again, an you nigguhs betta answer me right! DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!?”
In unison, “OH LAWD!”
“If you nigguhs don’t answer me back lak that when I’ma talkin to ya, then I’m gon b’leeve y’all tryin to big-ass me. An if I EVUH ketch any uv that ol’ punkin goin on in this squad, I’m gon kill ya!”
We had been out on the yard about twenty minutes listening to his death sermon. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a spiral notepad and pencil, slowly sizing us up with his cold eyes. Back and forth, looking up and down the line, then settled them on me. “Ol’ Red!”
Brain-locked, I fumbled out a partial “Yes …” then remembered the magic words, “Oh Lawd!”
“Cum heah!” I walked over to him. “Kin you read an write?”
“Oh Lawd! Yessuh.”
Handing me the pencil and pad, “Go to the fer end an commence writin ‘em nigguhs’ names down, jes lak they’s lined up ‘ginst ‘at wall.” I turned to leave, “And put yore name down first!”
“Oh Lawd! Speakin ta you, Boss. Do you want me to write these nigguhs’ real names down or they penitentiary names?”
“Jes the real uns. I’ll learn the others as we go.”
It was a near impossible task. Several of the cons couldn’t spell their names and neither could I. So we just guessed at it and I hoped he wouldn’t notice. After writing all the names I handed his pencil and pad back, and returned to my place at the end of the front line.
He looked over the names for a moment, and closed the pad. “Awright, thas the way I wont y’all to ketch ‘em rows, jes lak yore name is writ in this book. You nigguhs gon wek zackly lak y’all lined up ‘ginst ‘at wall. If I ketch ary nigguh wekin on a row outta his place in ‘is book, I’m gon kill ‘em. Now, carry y’all’s asses on back in the buildin an be ready to meet that bell cum mornin. DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!?”
“OH LAWD!”
Walking away, he said over his shoulder, “Boss Band! Thas who I am.”
Back inside the tank, I went straight to my bunk and flopped on it like a dead log, still in shock. I couldn’t believe he picked me to carry the first row. Me?! The littlest man in the squad? Whew, shit!! Gazing at the bottom of the bunk overhead, I thought of running away and even suicide. Fuck! I don’t want to be no lead row man, but his haunting words “if ary one uv you don’t do lak I tell ya, I’m gon kill ya” burned in my ears.
My gloom was interrupted when I noticed Black Rider standing next to my bunk giving me the “last look” like I was already dead. He took a seat on the vacant bunk across from mine. “Man, he ain’ gon have but one gear for you ta put it in, an thas fass forwards. You sho gon hafta bear down on it an step on out, cuz us an him’s gon be right ‘hind yo lil’ ass all day long. An you bet not take no long chances, that muthafucka’s a crack shot. But many nigguhs he dun kilt, you already know that. Only nigguh he useta shoot at all the time wuz the lead row.”
That evening I caught the chow line. After I sat down at the table, I couldn’t eat; my appetite was gone. My belly had more knots in it than a Navy rope and was growling like an old Philco radio dialed between stations. I tossed and turned all night and bolted upright awakening myself near daybreak, wringing wet with sweat. I knew it was useless to try to go back to sleep, “Alley, Boss!”
“Lemme have ‘em, Boss!”
My knees were shaking as I waited for the next call.
“Number 1!”
Like a lightning bolt, I charged down the hall with the Number 1 hoe squad right behind me. When the last man cleared the back steps, “You got twenty-six uv ‘em, Boss,” Cap’n Smooth hollered.
“Thas right.”
Clearing the backgate, we got our first work command from him, “Evuh nigguh gitta hoe!”
Leading the pack, I veered for the hoe rack. In nothing flat, we had our aggies and took off like rats fleeing from a burning barn. My walking gait was good. Leaning into the wind, I balanced the hoe handle against the crook of my arm with the blade hoisted high in the air.
“Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
“Head ‘em on ovah to that highline turnrow an ketch in.”
“Oh Lawd!”
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the other squads coming behind in the distance. We were a good forty yards ahead of the closest one, Number 2. He galloped his horse to stay up with us as we burned rubber going down the turnrow. Three or four miles later we were there.
“Tail row nigguh! Count off twenty-six rows. Y’all ketch ‘em, an git on ‘way frum heah!”
After Bad Eye stepped off the first row, I caught it—just like it was “writ in the book.” I couldn’t remember the exact order I listed all the names, but I knew Cap Rock’s was the first after me. He got his push row position back. Because Bad Eye’s name was the last one on the list, he fell heir to Chinaman’s job.
Thousands and thousands of empty rows stared us in the face. The workforce had to “air” the rows out by hacking and pulverizing the soil. It was close to planting time again and this helped dry the land out faster. We hacked down one side of a row to the end and came back hacking down the other side. The weather had been clear the last several days and the winter sun dried the top layer of soil.
I was middle ways into the field on my row before I looked back and saw the last squad, Number 8, catching their rows. I sank my hoe blade deep as I could each time I dug it into the soft, black gumbo. We had to do more than just break the crust; the rows had to be flattened. On the way back down our rows, we passed Number 2 hoe. They were still about twenty yards from reaching the end for the first time.
Even though a cool, crisp breeze blew across the fields, my shirt was sticking to my back. Just like the lawgiver said, “Ain’ gon be no dry nigguhs in my squad.” I gutted the inside of my row each time I sank my aggie blade into the earth. It was still hard to believe I was the lead row man, the pacesetter.
Lunch was short on the johnny ground. We were rushed through our meal by Cap’n Smooth, “Y’all betta hurry up an eat that ol’ hog an bread, an git on back out yonder an finish up them rows.”
We made a pit stop at the water wagon and headed back to work. It ain’ as bad as I thought, I said to myself with each savage hack. Number 1 hoe had been sailing all day. None of the other squads even got near us. I was holding my own and keeping my row out front. We hacked up and down row after row after row. The sun was going down. Cap’n Smooth had left; Sundown was in charge. He would keep us out until the sun’s last glimmer. He didn’t hassle the cons but he sure hated to knock off.
The other squads had slowed down just a hair as quitting time neared, but Number 1 hoe was still driving hard when somebody hollered, “Dere it is, it’s in th’ air!”
We made a dash for the turnrow. After he counted, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
“Take ‘em on to that house. Go ‘Head! Hey Boss! Pull them Gotdam heifers ovah out the way, an let these Number 1 bulls cum on by,” Boss Band shouted up ahead. With the right-of-way cleared, “Ol’ Red! Bear down!”
“Oh Lawd!” speeding up the walking cadence four more notches, causing the rest of the squad to strike up a trot.
At the backgate we waited for Boss Band to check in his weapons and give the “go ‘head” signal, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
“Git over yonder! Resta y’all nigguhs, go ‘head!”
For what? I dared not ask.
I stood at the backgate until the last man in Number 8 hoe went through the gate. Out of all the 200-plus field workers, I was the only man cut out.
After shakedown, Cap’n Smooth marched me through the gate. As we walked toward the building, “Speakin ta you, Cap’n.”
“Whut?”
“Cap’n, whut’d I git cut out for?”
He spat tobacco juice, “Dry up that ol’ mouth. I don’t want no talk, nigguh.”
Once inside, “Boss, hand me down a pair fer this nigguh.” After cuffing me tightly to the bars, “These cuffs’ll git a nigguh’s heart right.”
Hanging about four hours, the pain made me forget my anger. The cuffs were one thing all the cons agreed on, “They can make the blind see, the lame walk, and the deaf hear.”
I twisted into a hundred different positions seeking relief, hoping to find one that even resembled comfort, but it was no use. The hours snailed by until finally the bright lights were on and the turnkey unlocked me. I made it to the latrine quick as I could, splashed water on my face, and got ready for breakfast. Even though the last time I ate was at the johnny ground, I wasn’t all that hungry. Just tired as hell and aching. My rib cage felt like somebody had taken a crowbar and pried them six inches apart.
“Number 1!”
At the end of the day when we got out on the turnrow and headed for the building, I didn’t let up. The squad was strung out behind me like a string of beads, running to keep up. Occasionally, I heard complaints behind me to “slow dis muthafucka down, man.”
We were panting when we arrived at the backgate. I was so exhausted I was about to drop, but wasn’t about to show it. I had run them raggedy all day.
“Go ‘Head!”
I could hardly wait to get on my bunk after supper. I was half-asleep when several Number 1 hoe workers came over to my bunk. “Say man,” Cap Rock said. I opened my eyes. “Whut th’ fuck wuz dat shit all bout? Rippin an runnin up an down dem fuckin rows lak you wuz crazy or sump’n, an dat man wuz on our asses lak stank on shit. We wuz lucky he didn’ cut us all out at th’ backgate.”
Jack Hammer added, “Yeah, man. You wuz messin wit our hog an bread doin dat!”
“Well,” I said, “seems thas the way y’all wanna do it. None uv y’all don’t think I kin carry the lead row no how. Hell, I didn’ ask for it! Whut wuz I spose ta do? Not take it?”
Their blank stares told me that no matter what I said, I was still unwanted.
Cap Rock spoke up again, “If dat’s th’ way you feel bout it, you know you gon hafta burn ever one a us out. Cuz afta dis shit you pulled, we gon CARRY yo lil’ ass awhile! An I don’t thank you kin hold ‘em.”
“We’ll see,” I said as they walked away. It was as if a bounty had been placed on me, and they were acting like a pack of hungry dogs. If “the man” was on my ass, so were they; and I hated them for that.
I closed my eyes again, trying to drift off to sleep. My body was bone-tired and wanted to sleep, but my mind was afraid to let go completely. There was a constant battle going on inside me between those two forces. I couldn’t afford to miss anything; my survival depended on it. Somebody was always waiting for somebody else to fall asleep. In the wee hours the lecherous building tenders went on the prowl. And the creatures of the night, Ol’ Toe Sucker & Company, came out.
Like Toe Sucker, these vampires lived in the tank’s ghetto, the back bunks closest to the commodes. When the tank lights are dimmed, that end is the darkest. Along with Toe Sucker, these phantoms waited until the others went to sleep to attack. A couple of them were just bold pests and fairly harmless. If they saw a con’s leg hanging off his bunk, they’d tiptoe up to him, feel and rub on it, and jack off. The sneakier ones really didn’t go for blood and were content just to pass by an exposed leg or thigh, touch it quickly, go to the back and jack off while sitting on the commode gazing back up the alley at it. The few who actually climbed in the bunks with sleeping cons and started hunching them got their asses beat so much they finally kicked the habit.
The endless cycle of seasons brought us back to corn harvesting. When we first started pulling it, four huge John Deere combines were sent to the camp to help us out. The cons operating the equipment, along with their supervisor, were transferred from unit to unit to help with the corn and maize harvests. Every row the combines harvested was a row we wouldn’t have to pull by hand. Those fourteen-foot sacks full of corn got mighty heavy to drag down them long, city-block rows.
Number 1 hoe was moving through the wind-tangled stalks like a swarm of hungry locust. When we got to the end of our rows we emptied the heavy, gut-busting sackfuls into the trailers parked on the turnrow.
We were “high rollin” and close enough to take a better look at those rumbling green giants. The machines were doing the whole operation at one time: pulling, shucking, and spitting the kernels into a tractor-drawn cart running alongside.
I looked up from my row to see Big Devil’s Chevrolet speeding down the turnrow, leaving a swirl of dust behind. His presence in the field automatically caused everybody to speed up. He stopped directly in front of our squad and got out.
While sitting on the hood talking with Cap’n Smooth and Sundown, Big Devil pointed toward the combines. I was dumping my sackful into the trailer ten or fifteen feet from them when Big Devil beckoned for Boss Band. He walked his horse over to the car. “When yore nigguhs finish emptyin up, take ‘em over yonder an y’all ketch in next to them combines. Brang them rows back thisa way,” motioning across the field.
“Whut if we ketch up wit ‘em?”
“Go roun ‘em,” Big Devil quipped devilishly.
“Awright, you Number 1 nigguhs, git them Gotdam sacks emptied up an git on ‘way frum ‘at trailer. Sums you nigguhs gon git a load a buckshot in yore ass if you don’t tighten up! Ol’ Red!” Whenever he called out my “name,” it sounded like he was calling a horse.
“Oh Lawd!”
“Head ‘em ovah yonder an ketch in next ta them combines. Take ‘em on!”
As we flew to the rows to catch in, Big Devil sent the other squads in the opposite direction. This left only the Number 1 hoe squad pulling corn on the same side of the turnrow as the combines. We covered the couple hundred yards, fanned out, and caught in headed the same way as the four combines. Cap Rock and I were out front, speeding down our rows. The rest of the Number 1 workers were angled off, in handshaking distance of one another. We pulled within twenty yards and were catching up.
Big Devil borrowed Cap’n Smooth’s horse. He looked like he was riding a pogo stick bouncing up and down in the saddle as the strawberry roan galloped toward the combine supervisor’s pickup. When he reached it, the supervisor jumped out and pulled off his hat. After their brief conversation, the supervisor walked across the field and waved his hands until he got the operators’ attention. He gave them a hand signal to rev up their engines, pull out the throttle, and run the machines wide open. They began pulling away from us until …
Boss Band shouted, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
He fired a shot into the ground behind me. It was close enough to kick the dirt up on my back. “You bet not let them fuckin combines gitta way frum you! The resta you thangs betta lay wit ‘em!” He rode his horse back and forth behind the squad, using his reins as a whip to drive and prod. “Git them Gotdam rows on up yonder wit that lead row nigguh!”
He shot again—somewhere. I pulled corn so fast it was as if I had put it on automatic. All the squad could see was the tail end of my sack. The scent of that gunpowder was all the additional motivation I needed. My sack was getting heavier and heavier to drag, slowing me down.
Boss Band spotted my cumbersome handicap, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!” thinking he was going to shoot again.
“Whenevuh you git a sackful, jes git out uv it an leave it lay. Resta you nigguhs pull up even wit that lead row nigguh’s sack an git out uv ‘em.”
He hollered across the turnrow for Water Boy Brown to bring some empties. As soon as he dropped the large bundle in the middle of the squad, we grabbed two apiece and tore out again. The combines finished their rows and were heading back on others with a fifty yard lead on us. Boss Band galloped to catch up, yelling final instructions to the water boy, “Have sum more sacks waitin at the other end when we git thar.”
We spread out across our twenty-six rows and caught in behind the combines. Big Devil watched through his binoculars. I glanced over at Cap Rock, “I’m goin after ‘em. Pass the word an tell ‘em to cum on. Let’s show them muthafuckas we kin do it!”
When the word reached Bad Eye, we double clutched it after those combines like a pack of whippets after a jackrabbit. My sack was full middle ways down the row. I dropped it, unfolded the empty hanging from my free shoulder, and lit out again. When they evened with my full sack, they did the same. The machines had the edge, they never stopped.
I was gaining. I filled up another sack and got an empty. All my concentration was on those ears of corn. Just like a magician, I made them disappear into my sack. This time when I bent down and straightened up again, I reached the end of my row the same time the combines did. They were catching more rows, and going the other way.
The squad finished their rows and got fresh sacks. We took off down the turnrow to catch in, this time right beside them. Boss Band fired again. That last shot evened EVERYBODY with the machines. The combines were running wide open—but so were we. The noisy engines drowned out Boss Band. He must have said something, but we didn’t hear. He rode his horse to the front of the squad and I saw his mouth shout out, “Go ‘Head!” as he leveled his scatter-barrel at us.
We passed the combines and beat them to the end by at least thirty feet. The operators shook their heads in disbelief when we went by. There would be no catching us now. We were reaching the ends of our rows a good twenty yards ahead of them every time. We kept it up all day. Big Devil was so pleased with our performance he radioed the agricultural director at the Central Unit to send the heavy equipment trucks to come pick up the combines and “take ‘em sumwhere they need ‘em.”
After supper, Cap Rock walked up beside me at the face basin, “Lil’ ol’ nigguh, we gon run yo ass so damn fass you ain’ gon know if you comin or goin!”
“Say man, fuck alla y’all right dead in the ass! Whut the hell am I spose to do when he shoots an tells me to tighten it up? I don’t plan on gittin shot for goin too slow! If you can’t keep up, tough shit! Didn’ none uv y’all wait for me when I useta be way behind. We been over this shit befo, Cap Rock. If you don’t lak the way I’m carryin the lead row, why don’tcha tell it to the man!”
“If dat’s th’ way you feel bout it, you know you gon havta burn ever one uv us out. We gon drive yo lil’ ass awhile, an I don’t thank you kin hold it.”
“We’ll see.”
“Look, man, you know you can’t hold me if I really want to pass yo ass. An you sho can’t beat me pickin cotton! Only reason I been lettin you stay ahead a me is I don’t wanna job you to th’ man.”
“Bullshit! You ain’ been lettin me do shit! Cap Rock, I kin out work you any day uv the week!”
“Lak hell you kin! I’m damn sho gon see when cotton pickin time cums roun again! I’m gon have dat man on yo lil’ ass so much you gon wish you wuz dead. Lil’ nigguh, you don’t know who you talkin to! Thas how I got my name,” referring to an area in West Texas known as “the Cap Rock,” noted for growing cotton. “I wuz born an raised in a cotton patch,” he boasted.
“An thas where they gon bury yo ass if you keep on fuckin with me! Cap Rock, we don’t havta wait til cotton pickin time. Me an you kin git it on anytime!”
Later that evening Slocum, who had just returned from the Walls hospital after a hernia operation, told us Road Runner had died about three months ago. Black Rider commented, “Greyhound, Cheetah, now Road Runner. Them wuz th’ three baddest lead row nigguhs I ever run behind, but that ass-kickin turnrow don’t take no shit.”
I decided I wasn’t going to let “that ass-kickin turnrow” kill me the way it had them, but it sure was breathing down my neck. It was so bad now that the months ahead would outweigh a motherfucker by ninety pounds. The workers in the squad tried to run me down one by one. On a daily basis, somebody challenged me to a “burnout” by working ahead or walking in front of me on the turnrow. And nobody is supposed to be in front of the lead row man.
Most of the cons were just mouth and if they could hog you, they would. From experience I knew the first blow generally won the fight, so the very moment anyone threatened, I struck. Boss Band never cut me out for fighting. So rather than race with them one by one, I began hitting them with my hoe, fist, or whatever to make them stay in line behind me. I chopped Kool Aid in the head with my hoe and damn near took off one of his ears for walking ahead of me on the turnrow. When he fell, Boss Band made me and some of the squad drag him off to one side for the water wagon to pick up when it came by.
It was cotton chopping time again, and we must have been working fast enough to please Boss Band. At least he hadn’t shot yet. I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw that Railhead Shorty had pulled up beside me, bucking for my job. “Say man, gitcha ass back in line where you b’long!” I growled. He kept chopping his row even with mine, grinning and gunning his motor by chopping a little ahead of me, which was telling the boss I wasn’t going fast enough for him. I hollered, “Oh Lawd! Gittin ‘em over here, Boss!”
“Go ‘Head!”
We took off. Nearing the end of our rows for the first time, we chopped side by side. Hurrying to beat him out on the turnrow to the next set of rows, I tripped over the raggedy legs of my pants, got up quickly and tore after him. I saw no signs of his letting up as he swooshed his aggie blade between the young cotton stalks plucking out the weeds, leaving the standard four stalks to the hill.
I shifted into “double nuther” gear and went by him so fast it threw his timing off. In an effort to catch up, he stopped chopping and walked up even with me, leaving a long skip of grass behind him.
Boss Band rode over to check our rows, saw the grass Railhead Shorty left, and made him go back to re-chop it. He stayed right at his heels, cursing him with every breath, driving him to catch up. Railhead Shorty made it to the turnrow and dropped down on all fours. Boss Band tried to trample him with his big black horse, Ol’ Satan, who had a cold-blooded disposition and would attack when we got too close.
Railhead Shorty barely rolled out of Satan’s path. Boss Band tried again. He got to his feet, staggered and stumbled toward the squad, but fell again. Boss Band hit him with the barrel of his shotgun as he tried to get up. Blood splattered, Railhead Shorty was sprawled out in the middles.
“Ol’ Chinaman, Ol’ Mae Widder! Cum back heah an drag this rotten bastard out yonder on ‘at turnrow. Tell ‘at water nigguh to pour sum water on ‘em when y’all git up thar.”
They grabbed an arm apiece and began dragging him. “One a you nigguhs cum back heah an git that sorry sonuvabitch’s hoe an take it wit ‘em.”
Both dropped Railhead Shorty’s arms at the same time, and started back for the hoe. “I jes need one a you nigguhs!” They put on the brakes. Boss Band shouted angrily, “Ol’ Chinaman! Git this Gotdam aggie ‘fore I shoot both uv you ignant bastards! Tell that water nigguh when he gits this nigguh revived tell ‘em he betta ketch up wit us, cuz if I havta go to that house ‘thout ‘em I’m gon kill ‘em. Resta you nigguhs git on ‘way frum heah! Go ‘Head!”
We finished chopping a couple more sets of rows. Railhead Shorty was on his way back and soon as he got to us he caught in and started chopping.
Boss Band slowly walked Satan over and stopped him about ten feet from me. I felt his eyes burning in my back, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
“Whar you frum, nigguh?”
Here we go with that “whut color wuz yore mama” shit again. “Longview, Boss.” I don’t want no conversation with this muthafucka. Why is he over here fuckin with me?
“Well, they ain’ got no cotton to ‘mount ta nuthin in Longview,” he commented.
“Nawsuh, they sho don’t.”
“Whar you learn how to chop cotton lak ‘at?”
“Right here, Boss.”
“How long you been heah?”
“Goin on five years, Boss.”
“I wuz watchin yore row when y’all wuz goin up thru thar to see if you wuz gon be leavin a buncha them weeds. Gotdam me, I never seed a nigguh racehossin up an down a row lak ‘at, an clean it thatta way. Why hell, I knowed that nigguh wudn’ gon keep up wit you. I’da bet money on it.”
He paused a moment. “Thank thas whut I’m gon name you. OL’ RACEHOSS!! Thas whut I’ma namin you. You hear me nigguh!?”
“OH LAWD!”
“When I calls you that, you betta answer!” Then shouting to the squad, “Did the resta y’all nigguhs hear that?!”
“OH LAWD!”
“Ol’ Racehoss, y’all take ‘em rows on away frum heah! Go ‘Head!”
From then on, “Ol’ Racehoss” was my name. After all, I’d been named by the mighty Kill-A-Band. The bosses called me that, and the cons called me just plain Race, for short.
That night in the tank I got the ten Number 1 hoe workers together and told them, “I ain’ no Road Runner, an you chumps ain’ gon drive me down on that fuckin turnrow. Some uv y’all think you kin out work me. Maybe you kin. I ain’ gon keep racin y’all no one atta time no mo. I’m gon race one mo uv y’all, an thas it. I don’t give a damn which one uv you it is, but I tell you one muthafuckin thing. If I burn out whoever y’all pick, the next time one uv you bastards git in front a me, I’m gon try to kill him. Who’s it gonna be?” Even before I said it, I knew who they were going to choose.
Thirty-Five spoke up, “We pick Cap Rock.”
Cap Rock said, “It’s OK by me.”
“Do we agree that if I win, y’all will quit fuckin with me?” I asked.
They spoke among themselves. Black Rider answered, “Okay man, if you burn Cap Rock out, we’ll letcha up.”
“Y’all got a deal, an watch me wear his ass to a frazzle.”
They went their way in the tank; I went mine. Tomorrow’s race was set; this burnathon was for all the glory marbles.
When we got to the field the next morning and caught our rows, Cap Rock took off down his and got ahead of everybody in the squad. I kept a steady cotton chopping beat, allowing him to get no more than three or four feet ahead of me. He had a good drag, and held the lead all the way to the end. Even out on the turnrow when we headed to catch some more rows, he walked slightly out in front of me, jobbing me. The squad knew what was going on, and by now, so did Boss Band. Cap Rock was “askin” for my job.
Back on the turnrow after lunch he walked out ahead again. Boss Band had seen enough, “Ol’ Racehoss!”
“Oh Lawd!”
“You betta quit yore drag-assin an git ta carryin ‘at lead row!”
I stepped on out and regained the lead position, “Gitcha jive ass back in line, Cap Rock!”
He slacked back just a hair. Looking over my shoulder as we sped down the turnrow, I hollered, “Oh Lawd! Speakin ta you, Boss!”
“Whut?”
“Takin Ol’ Cap Rock a round or two when we ketch in!”
“Go ‘Head!” We’d been cleared to duel.
He pitched the 14-inch file he kept hanging from the horn of his saddle to Bad Eye, “Put a good edge on both uv them nigguhs’ hoes.”
This took a few minutes. When Bad Eye finished he returned the file and retook his place on the tail row. Cap Rock and I waited for Boss Band to give the signal.
“Go ‘Head!”
Neck and neck we left the blocks. We quickly pulled away from the squad. Boss Band hollered to us, “Y’all carry them rows on away frum heah!” which was cutting us loose from the herd.
It was go for what you know. The pace was brutal—a leg cramper, a shoulder acher, a back breaker until somebody dropped or quit. My race with Railhead Shorty the day before had made my body sore. We covered at least four feet each time we dragged our hoes down either side of our rows. One of the first things I learned, “When you choppin cotton, jes git the grass an don’t move no mo dirt than you hafta.”
This was a duel in the sun, requiring stamina and skill. I fell back a lick so I could take a better look at his drag and spotted the flaw. He was sinking his hoe too deep. I barely skimmed the ground’s crust with mine. Smelling blood in the water, I tightened my gait a notch. On the next set of rows, I took a slight lead and started fucking with him, “C’mon man, don’tcha lay that hammer down. Whut’s the matter? Can’t you hold ‘em? I thoughtcha said you wuz a bull.”
Cap Rock’s deep chopping and dragging were taking their toll. I knew what that did to the shoulders and arms because I used to chop like that all the time. He began to falter and was slowing down just a hair. Seeing this, my adrenalin went to pumping and I chopped faster. I pulled away and kept lengthening the distance. After about two hours into the race I lost count of the rows we’d chopped, but I was so far ahead it was as if I’d sprouted wings like Pegasus and flown away from him. He’d never catch me, not unless I fell dead.
Boss Band called me back, “Ol’ Racehoss! Cum on back ovah heah in the squad. This goat-smellin sonuvabitch dun laid the hammer down!” He herded Cap Rock back into the squad, trying his best to ride him down with Satan. “If I ketch anutha one uv you bastards in front a Ol’ Racehoss on ‘em rows, I’m gon kill you!” Adding, “An you nigguhs stop a-crowdin him when y’all out on ‘at turnrow. Next nigguh I see a-crowdin him, I’m gon blow th’ top uv his Gotdam head off! DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!!?” he bellowed.
“OH LAWD!!”
Cap Rock and the others wouldn’t dare push me anymore. They would work and walk where they were supposed to and let me set the pace. Boss Band would see to that.