Cockfighter (20 page)

The Black was too helpless to fight off the Gray, so I picked up the muff-armed bird and gave him to Omar to hold for a moment. I took the can of lighter fluid out of my hip pocket, and sprinkled the liquid liberally over the Mellhorn Black. Flipping my lighter into action, I applied the lighter to the cock, and his feathers blazed into oily flames.

When Omar returned the Gray I pitted him against the burning bird from the score on the opposite side of the pit. He walked stiff-winged toward the downed Black with his long neck outstretched, holding his head low above the ground. The fire worried and puzzled him, and he was afraid to hit with his padded spurs. The Gray pecked savagely at the Black's head, however, even though it was on fire, and managed to pluck out an eye on his first bill thrust.

The Black tried to stand again, fluttering his smoldering wings, but his impassioned struggles only succeeded in increasing the flames. The smell of scorching feathers filled the air with a pungent, acid stench. As I grabbed the Gray's tail with my right hand, I held my nose with my left. As the flames puffed out altogether, the Black lay quietly. The charred quills resembled matchheads or cloves dotting his undressed body, and for a moment I thought he was dead. But as I allowed the straining Gray to close the gap between them, the dying Mellhorn raised his head and pecked blindly in the general direction of the approaching Gray. With that last peck, a feeble peck that barely raised his head an inch above the ground, he died.

I put the Gray under my arm and turned around to see what Omar thought of this remarkable display of gameness. But Omar had gone inside the shack. I cut the sparring muffs away from the Gray's spurs and returned him to his coop.

Omar sat at the table, staring at his open hands, when I joined him inside the shack. I opened a pint of gin I had stashed away behind the dresser—because of Buford—and put the bottle on the table. Omar took a long pull, set the bottle down, and I took a long one myself. I needed that drink and felt a little sick at my stomach. And I knew that Omar felt as badly as I did. But what else could I do? I had lost a wonderful gamecock, but I could now assume that his five brothers would be as game as he had been. The unfortunate part of the testing was that I didn't really know if the brothers were equally game. But I could now
assume
that they were.

“I couldn't treat a gamecock like that, Frank,” Omar said, without looking at me, keeping his eyes on his open hands. “Sure, I know. A chicken is supposed to be an insensitive animal and all that crap. But
I
couldn't do it! I could no more set a cock on fire than I could—” His mind searched for something he could no more than do, and then he shrugged his heavy shoulders and took another shot of gin.

I took another short one myself.

“Was he game, Frank? It was too much for me. I couldn't stick around to see.”

I nodded glumly and lit a cigarette.

“Unbelievable, isn't it! Burning like damned torch and still trying to fight! A man couldn't take that kind of punishment and still fight. Not a man in this world could do it.”

I stubbed out the cigarette. It tasted like scorched feathers, despite the menthol and filter tip.

“Well, Frank,” Omar said pensively, “there're a lot of things I don't like about cockfighting, but a cocker's got to take the bad with the good.”

I nodded in agreement and pushed the bottle towards him.

Omar studied my face and, ignoring the bottle, leaned forward.

“You and I need each other, Frank,” he said suddenly. “Why don't we have a partnership for the season?”

For some reason his suggestion startled me, and I shook my head automatically.

“Don't decide so hastily,” he continued earnestly, leaning over the table. “I've picked up twenty cocks already, and I've still got better birds to pick up on walks in Alabama. Between the two of us, if you conditioned and handled, and I took charge of the business end, we could have one hell of a season. I know how tough it's been since you lost your voice. I still remember how you used to holler and argue and knock down the odds before the fights. What do you say, Frank?”

I was tempted. Two of my cocks were gone before I started. I only had thirteen birds left for the season, and my cash was low. If we combined our gamecocks we could enter every money main and derby on the circuit, and if Omar didn't interfere with my conditioning—

“Let it go for now,” Omar said carelessly, getting to his feet. “Just think about it for a while. I don't like to mention my money, but I'm lousy with capital. I've got a lot more than you have, and if you had a partner putting up the forfeits, entry fees, and doing all the betting, you could concentrate on conditioning and handling. And on a partnership we can split everything we take in right down the middle.”

He turned in the doorway and his shadow fell across my face. “No matter what you decide,” he said cheerfully, “come over to my place for dinner tonight. I'll take that high-stationed Mellhorn home with me. I've always wanted to eat a Mellhorn Black with dumplings.” He laughed. “Chicken and dumplings for two! That's about thirty-seven, fifty a plate, isn't it?” Omar waved from the door and disappeared from sight.

I remained seated at the table. A few minutes later I heard the engine of his new Pontiac station wagon turn over, and listened to the sounds as he drove out of the yard. The pot of coffee on the hot plate burbled petulantly. I poured another cup, and a cock crowed outside, reminding me of all the work still to be done that morning. I couldn't put off the dubbing of Icky any longer.

Ordinarily, the deaf ears, wattles and comb are trimmed away when the bird is a young stag of six or seven months. Ed Middleton, for reasons known only to himself, had failed to dub Icky. He probably meant to keep Icky as a pet and brood cock and had never intended to pit him. But I was going to pit him, and he had to be dubbed for safety in battle. With his lovely free-flowing comb and dangling wattles, an opposing cock could get a billhold and shuffle him to death in the first pitting. I had been putting off the dubbing, afraid that he might bleed to death. With a stag the danger is slight, but Icky was fully matured, more than a year-and-a-half old. And it had to be done.

I got my shears, both the straight and the curved pairs, and went outside to Icky's coop room.

He was a friendly chicken, used to kindness and handling, and ran toward me when I opened the gate. I picked him up, sat on the bench in front of the shack, and went to work on his comb. With my experience I don't need a man to hold a chicken for me. I've dubbed as many as fifty stags in a single morning, all by myself, and I've never had one die from loss of blood yet. But I was extra careful with Icky.

Gripping his body firmly between my knees, and holding his head with my left hand, I clipped his comb with the straight shears as close to the head as possible. Many cockers leave about an eighth of an inch, believing erroneously that the slight padding will give the head protection from an opponent's pecking. But I've never known a cock to be
pecked
to death. I trim right down to the bone because the veins are larger close to the head and there isn't as much bleeding. I cut sharply, and with solid, quick snips, so the large veins were closed by the force of the shears. Luckily, Icky's head bled very little. I then cut away the wattles and deaf ears with the curved shears, again taking my time, and did a clean job. As an afterthought I pulled a few short feathers out of the hackle and planted them in Icky's comb. The little blue feathers would grow there and ornament his head, until they were billed out by an irate adversary.

When I completed the dubbing I turned him loose in his coop. He had held still nicely, and because he had been so good about it, I caught the Middleton Gray game hen running loose in the yard, and put her into his coop. The dubbing hadn't bothered him. He mounted the hen before she had taken two steps. A moment later he flew to his roosting pole and crowed. Within a week his head would be healed completely, and he would be ready for conditioning.

Omar had taken the decapitated Ace Black with him, but the charred Mellhorn was still in the pit. I buried the dead chicken and the other cock's severed head in the sand before eating lunch.

If I had been completely broke, or without any gamecocks of my own, I wouldn't have considered a partnership with Omar. But I had enough Ace chickens to hold up my end. Omar had excellent, purebred gamecocks. All he needed was a man like me to work the hell out of them. The idea of forming a partnership with anybody had never occurred to me before, although partnerships were common enough in cockfighting circles. Besides, I had a good deal of affection for Omar, almost a paternal feeling toward him, despite the fact that he was more than twenty years older than me. He wanted success very much, and there were many things he had to learn. And there was a lot that I could teach him.

After feeding the chickens that evening, I drove to Omar's farm for supper. His farm was on the state road, and his house was a two bedroom-den structure with the asphalt-tile floors. It was a luxurious house compared to my one-and-a-half-room shack. There was an arch above the entrance gate, and a sign painted with red letters on a white background stated:

Omar had been in advertising too many years to pass up a good slogan. In addition to the arch sign, there was a smaller sign nailed to the post of the gate at the eye level of passing motorists.

EGGS. $15 PER DOZEN

At least once a week, some tourist driving down the highway toward Santos or Belleview would stop and attempt to buy eggs from Omar, thinking that the sign was in error and that the eggs were fifteen cents a dozen. Omar enjoyed the look of surprise on their faces when he told them that there was indeed no mistake. Of course the eggs were fifteen dollars a dozen and worth a hell of a lot more! And of course, Allen Roundhead and Claret setting eggs were a bargain indeed at fifteen dollars a dozen.

Smiling at the sign, I turned into Omar's farm. A man like Omar Baradinsky would be a good partner for me. Why not? I couldn't think of a single valid objection.

That evening after supper, when Omar brought out the bottle of John Jameson, a partnership was formed.

FOR THE NEXT
three days Omar and I lived out of his station wagon, driving through southern Alabama and picking up his country-walked roosters from various farmers. The back of the station wagon had been filled with young stags before we left, each of them in a separate coop. Every time we picked up a mature cock we left a stag to replace it.

Omar paid these Alabama farmers ten dollars a year for the privilege of leaving one of his gamecocks with the farmer's flock of hens. In addition to the board bill, he also had to buy up and kill all the farmer's stags each year. Selecting the right farm walk for a fighting cock is an art, and Omar had done a careful, thorough job. All his Alabama walks were more than adequate.

A gamecock is a bird that loves freedom of movement. With his harem at his heels, a cock will search for food all day long, getting as far as three or more miles away from his chicken house on the farm. The more difficult his search for food, the greater his stamina becomes. At night, of course, once the chickens are asleep, the farmer must sneak out and scatter enough corn in the yard to supplement the diet. But he must never put out enough feed to completely satisfy the chickens. Like members of a welfare state, chickens who don't have to get the hell out and scratch for their living will soon learn to stand around waiting for a free handout, getting fat and useless.

The hillier the farmland, the better it is for the cock's legs. Trees to roost in at night, green fields, and, whenever possible, a fast-flowing brook for free water are the requisites for a good walk. Florida is too flat for good walks, and Omar had been wise to put his roosters out in southern Alabama.

To assist us in picking up the half-wild, country-walked gamecocks, I had brought along my big Middleton Gray. He had a deep, strong voice and an exceptionally aggressive disposition. We had little difficulty in getting the half-wild cocks to come back to the farmyards.

First, we drove into a farmer's yard, and Omar told him we were there to pick up the rooster, and that we had another to replace him.

“Well, now, Mr. Baradinsky,” the farmer said, invariably scratching his head, “I ain't seen your rooster for two or three days now.”

“Don't worry,” Omar would laugh. “He'll be here in a minute.”

By that time, I would have the big Gray heeled with a pair of soft sparring muffs. As soon as I dropped the Gray in the yard, he would begin to look for hens, crowing deep from his throat. Within seconds, an answering crow would echo from the fields or the woods a mile away. As we watched, the cock we came for would be running toward us as fast as his strong legs could carry him, his harem scattered and trailing out behind him. He often crowed angrily as he ran—
Who is this threat to my kingdom? This interloper who would steal my hens
?—he seemed to say. When he reached the yard, he attacked immediately, and the Gray, seeing all those pretty hens, piled right into him with the sparring muffs. Omar would catch the wild country-walked cock, and I'd put the gray back into his coop.

After closely examining the wild gamecock, I'd saw off his natural spurs a half inch from the leg, and arm him with the other pair of sparring muffs. We pitted the two cocks then and there to see how the bird fought. It is very difficult to spot a runner on his own domain—often a useless dunghill rooster will fight to protect his own hens—but I could always get a fair idea of the bird's fighting ability. If the cock was satisfactory, we left a young stag to take over the harem and placed the cock in the stag's coop. Before leaving, Omar would pay the farmer ten dollars in advance for the next year's board and warn the man against clipping the new stag's wings. We never took the farmer's word either. Before leaving we always checked personally to see that there weren't any other full-grown roosters, turkeys, or guinea fowl around. If there was a mature rooster on the farm, dunghill or otherwise, the stag might have been intimidated and gone into hack, submitting to the dunghill's rule.