Cockfighter

by Cockfighter (retail) (epub)

  I took Sandspur out of his coop and pointed out the “cracked” beak. Bill whistled softly and his blue eyes widened.

  “If that bill breaks off, you’ve had it, Frank.” He shrugged. “But that mutilated boko should get me the four-to-one odds.”

  Sanders hit me lightly on the shoulder with his fist and returned to the pit.

  I held Sandspur with my left hand, filled my mouth with smoke, and blew the smoke at his head. He clucked angrily, shaking his head. Blowing tobacco smoke at a cock’s head irritates it to a fighting pitch, and I was smoking a mild, mentholated cigarette. I enveloped the cock’s head with one more cloud of smoke and returned him to his coop. Too much smoke could make a cock dizzy.

  I opened my gaff case and removed two sets of heels. I put a pair of short spurs in my left shirt pocket and a pair of long jaggers in my right shirt pocket. After shutting my gaff case, I picked up the coop and entered the pit.

  There were only about sixty spectators inside, but this was a fairly good crowd for September. The Florida cockfighting season didn’t start officially until Thanksgiving Day, when an opening derby was held in Lake Worth. And Belle Glade isn’t the most accessible town in Florida. The canvas walls successfully prevented any breeze from getting into the pit, and it was as hot inside as a barbecue grill.

  I recognized a couple of Dade County fanciers and nodded acknowledgments to them when they greeted me by name. There was a scattering of Belle Glade townspeople, two gamblers from Miami who probably owned the blonde and the convertible, Burke and his two handlers, and two pregnant women I had seen around the trailer camp. The remainder of the crowd was made up from the migrant agricultural workers’ camp on the other side of town.

  The cockpit was made of rough boards, sixteen inches high, and about eighteen feet in diameter. The pit was surrounded on three sides by bleachers, four tiers high. Under an open beach umbrella on the fourth side of the pit, Mr. Middleton sat at a card table with Captain Mack. Behind the table there was a blackboard. I noted that Jack Burke had won both of the short-entry derbies, the first, four-one, and the second, three-two. That accounted for the glum expressions on the faces of the two Dade County breeders. Not only had they made a poor showing, but their one-hundred-dollar entry fees, less Captain Mack’s ten percent, had wound up in Burke’s pocket as prize money.

  Two men in the bleachers I didn’t know called out my name and wished me good luck. I waved an acknowledgment to them, and joined Ed Middleton and Captain Mack. I removed Sandspur from the coop and handed the slip of paper to Mr. Middleton. Jack Burke and his handler, Ralph Hansen, came over. The handler was carrying Little David. Mr. Middleton produced a coin.

  “Name it, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Let Mr. Mansfield call it,” Burke said indifferently.

  I tapped my forehead to indicate “heads.” Mr. Middleton tossed the half dollar into the air and let it land with a thump on the card table. Heads. I reached into my left shirt pocket, pulled out the short gaffs, and held them out in my open palm. They were hand-forged steel gaffs, an inch and a quarter in length. Burke nodded grimly and turned to his handler.

  “All right, Ralph,” he said bitterly. “Short spurs, but set ’em low.”

  Burke was a long gaff man, but I preferred the short heels. Sandspur was a cutter and fought best with short gaffs. Little David was used to long three-inch heels. Winning the toss had given Sandspur a slight advantage over Little David.

  The cockfight between Sandspur and Little David was an extra hack, and I had not, of course, been required to post any entry fee. However, Mr. Middleton examined both cocks with minute attention. He was acting as judge and referee and had received at least a minimum fee of one hundred and fifty dollars, plus expenses, from Captain Mack. The judge of a cockfight has to be good, and Ed Middleton was one of the best referees in the entire South. His word in the pit was law. There is no appeal from a cockfighter judge’s decision. As sole judge-referee, Ed Middleton’s jurisdiction encompassed spectator betting as well. The referee’s job has always been the most important at a cockfight. As every cocker knows, for example, honest Abe Lincoln was once a cockpit referee during his lawyer days in Illinois. Hard and fair in his decisions, and as impersonal as doom, Ed Middleton was fully aware of the traditional responsibilities of the cockpit referee.

  After completing his examination of the cocks to see that they were not soaped, peppered or greased and that they were trimmed fairly, Mr. Middleton stepped back to the table.

  “Southern Conference rules, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “What else?” Burke said.

  Captain Mack held Sandspur while Jack Burke examined him, and I took a close look at Little David. Burke’s chicken was a purebred O’Neal Bed and as arrogant as a sergeant-major in the Foreign Legion. Although I had never seen Little David fight before, I had followed his previous pittings in the Southern Cockfighter, and I knew that he liked aerial fighting. But so did Sandspur fight high in the air, and my cock was used to short gaffs. The three additional wins Little David had over Sandspur didn’t worry me when I had such an advantage.

  Burke tapped me on the shoulder and grinned. “If I’d known your chicken had him a cracked bill, I’d have given you better odds.”

  I shrugged indifferently and sat down on the edge of the pit to arm my cock. I opened my gaff case, removed a bottle of typewriter cleaning solvent and cleaned Sandspur’s spur stumps. Most cockers use plain alcohol to clean spurs, but typewriter solvent is fast-drying and, in my opinion, removes the dirt easier. After fitting tight chamois-skin coverings over both spurs, I slipped the metal sockets of the short heels over the covered stumps and tied them with waxed string, setting them low and a trifle to the outside. The points of the tapered heels were as sharp as needles and a man has to be careful when he arms a cock. I had a puckered puncture scar on my right forearm caused by a moment of carelessness seven years before, and I didn’t want another one.

  The betting had already started, but the crowd quieted down when Mr. Middleton stepped into the pit. They listened attentively to his announcement.

  “This is an extra hack, gentlemen,” he said loudly. “Little David versus Sandspur. Southern Conference rules will prevail. No time limit, and short gaffs. Little David is owned by Mr. Jack Burke of Burke Farms, Kissimmee, Florida. He’s an Ace cock, with eight wins and will be two years old in November. Little David will be handled by Mr. Ralph Hansen of Burke Farms.”

  The crowd gave Little David a nice hand, and Mr. Middleton continued.

  “Sandspur is owned by Mr. Frank Mansfield of Mansfield Farms, Ocala, Florida, and he will handle his own chicken. Sandspur is a five-time winner and a year and a half old. Both cocks will fight at four pounds even.”

  Sandspur got a better hand than Little David, and the applause was sustained by the two Dade County breeders who wanted him to beat Burke’s cock. Mr. Middleton examined Sandspur’s heels and patted me on the shoulder. Many cockers resent the referee’s examination of a cock’s heels, but I never have. A conscientious referee can help you by making a final check. Once the fight has started and your cock loses a metal spur, it cannot be replaced.

  As Mr. Middleton crossed the pit to examine Little David, I watched the flying fingers of the bettors. The majority of the betting at cockfights is done by fingers—one finger for one dollar, five for five dollars, and then up into the multiples of five—and I was an expert in this type of betting. I had learned finger betting in the Philippines when I was in the Army and didn’t understand Tagalog, and I had also used the same system in Puerto Rico, where I didn’t understand Spanish very well. Little David was the favorite, getting two-to-one, and in some cases three-to-one odds.

  Bill Sanders, Jack Burke and the two Miami gamblers were in a huddle next to the canvas wall. Both gamblers were staring across the pit at Sandspur while Sanders and Burke talked at the same time. Sanders had a roll of money in his hand and was talking fast, although I couldn’t hear his voice from where
I was sitting beside the pit.

  A fistfight broke out on the top tier of seats between two fruit tramps, and one of them was knocked off backward into the stands. The state trooper put an armlock on him and made him sit down on the other side of the pit. When I looked back to Bill Sanders, he was smiling and holding up three fingers.

  So Bill had got three-to-one. That was good enough for me. When Sandspur won, I’d be $2,250 ahead from the Miami gamblers, plus $1,000 more from Jack Burke. $3,250. This would be more than enough money to see me through the Southern Conference season, and enough to purchase six badly needed fighting cocks besides.

  “Get ready!” Mr. Middleton yelled. I stood up, stepped over the edge of the pit, and put my toes on the back score. The back score lines placed us eight feet away from each other. Ralph Hansen, holding Little David under the chest with one hand, called impatiently to the referee.

  “How about letting us bill them first, Mr. Middleton?”

  Billing is an essential prelude to pitting. Ed Middleton didn’t need the reminder. “Bill your cocks,” he growled.

  We cradled our fighters over our left arms, holding their feet, and stood sideways on our center scores, two feet apart, so the cocks could peck at each other. These cocks had never seen each other before, but they were mortal enemies. Ed allowed us about thirty seconds for the teasing and then told us to get ready. Ralph backed to his score and I returned to mine. I squatted on my heels and set the straining Sandspur with his feet on the score. The cocks were exactly eight feet apart.

  I watched Mr. Middleton’s lips. This was a trick I had practiced for many hours on end and I was good at it. Before a man can say the letter “P” he must first compress his lips. There isn’t any other way he can say it. The signal to release the cocks is when the referee shouts “Pit” or “Pit your cocks!” The handler who releases the tail of his cock first on the utterance of the letter “P” has a split-second advantage over his rival. And in the South, where “Pit” is often a two-syllable word, “Pee-it,” my timing was perfect.

  “Pit!” Mr. Middleton announced, and before the word was out of his mouth Sandspur was in the air and halfway to Little David. The cocks met in midair, both of them shuffling with blurred yellow feet, and then they dropped to the ground. Neither cock had managed to get above the other.

  With new respect for each other, the two birds circled, heads held low, watching each other warily. Little David feinted cleverly with a short rush, but Sandspur wasn’t fooled. He held his ground, and Burke’s cock retreated with his wings fluttering at the tips.

  As he dropped back, Sandspur rose with a short flight and savagely hooked the gaff of his right leg into Little David’s wing. The point of the heel was banged solidly into the bone and Sandspur couldn’t get it dislodged. He pecked savagely at Little David’s head, and hit the top of the downed cock’s dubbed head hard with his bill open… too hard.

  The upper section of Sandspur’s bill broke off cleanly at the doctored crack I had made. A bubble of blood formed, and Sandspur stopped pecking. Both cocks struggled to break away from each other, but the right spur was still stuck, and all Sandspur could do was hop up and down in place on his free leg. I looked at Mr. Middleton.

  “Handle!” the judge shouted. “Thirty seconds!”

  A moment later I disentangled the gaff from Little David’s wing and retreated to my starting line. I put Sandspur’s head in my mouth and sucked the blood from his broken beak. I licked the feathers of his head back into place and spat as much saliva as I could into his open mouth. For the remaining seconds I had left I sucked life into his clipped comb. The comb was much too pale…

  “Get ready!” I held Sandspur by the tail on the line. “Pit your cocks!”

  Instead of flying into the air, Sandspur circled for the right wall. Little David turned in midair, landed running, and chased my cock into the far corner. Sandspur turned to fight, and the cocks met head on, but my injured bird was forced back by the fierceness of Little David’s rush.

  On his back, Sandspur hit his opponent twice in the chest, drawing blood both times, and then Little David was above him in the air and cutting at his head with both spurs. A sharp gaff entered Sandspur’s right eye, and he died as the needle point pierced his central nervous system. Little David strutted back and forth, pecked twice at my lifeless cock, and then crowed his victory.

  “The winner is Mr. Burke’s Ace,” Mr. Middleton announced, as a formality. “Twenty-eight seconds in the second pitting.”

  All I had left was a folded ten-dollar bill in my watch pocket and one dead chicken.

  2

  THERE WAS a burial hole in the marshy ground, about four feet square and three feet deep, on the far side of the parking area. Water was seeping visibly into the mucky pit, and the dead roosters in the bottom had begun to float.

  I removed the gaffs from my dead cock’s spurs and added his body to the floating pile of dead chickens. As I put the heels away in my gaff case, Bill Sanders joined me at the edge of the communal burying pit.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I got all your dough down, Frank,” he said. “Every dollar at three-to-one, and there’s nothing left.”

  I nodded.

  “Tough, Frank, but my money was riding on Sandspur with yours.”

  I shrugged and emptied the peat moss out of the aluminum coop into the hole on top of the dead chickens.

  “You’re going to be all right, aren’t you? I mean, you’ll be on the Southern Conference circuit this year, and all?”

  I nodded and shook hands with Sanders. As I looked down at Bill’s bald head, I noticed that the top was badly sunburned and starting to peel. The little gambler never wore a hat.

  “Okay, Frank. I’ll probably see you in Biloxi.”

  I clapped Bill on the shoulder to squeeze out a farewell. He went over to the blue Chrysler convertible and started talking to the blonde. She had evidently recovered from her upset stomach. She had remade her face, and she now listened with absorbed attention to whatever it was that Bill Sanders was telling her.

  I removed the bamboo handle from the aluminum coop, collapsed the sides, and made a fairly flat, compact square out of the six frames. After locking them together with the clamps, I attached the handle again so I could carry the coop folded. A machinist in Valdosta had made two of the traveling coops for me to my own specifications and design. At one time I had considered having several made, and putting them up for sale to chicken men traveling around the country, too, but the construction costs were prohibitive to make any profit out of them. My other traveling coop was at my farm in Ocala.

  Carrying my gaff case and coop, I walked back to the trailer camp. Dody met me at the door of the Love-Lee-Mobile Home with a bright, lopsided smile. Her lipstick was on crooked, and there was too much rouge on her cheeks. She wanted to look older, but the makeup made her look younger instead.

  “Did you win, Frank?”

  I leaned the folded coop against the side of the trailer and pointed to it with a gesture of exasperation.

  “Oh!” she said. Her red lips were fixed in a fat, crooked “O” for an instant. “I’m real sorry, Frank.”

  I placed my gaff case beside the coop and entered the trailer. There was a dusty leather suitcase under the bed, and I wiped the scuffed surfaces clean with a dirty T-shirt I found on top of the built-in dresser. I unstrapped the suitcase, opened it on the bed, and began to pack. There wasn’t too much to put into it. Most of my clothes were on the farm. I packed my clean underwear, two clean white shirts, and then searched the trailer for my dirty shirts. I found them in a bucket of cold water beneath the sink. Dody had been promising to wash and iron them for me for the past three days, but just like everything else, she hadn’t gotten around to doing it. I couldn’t very well pack wet shirts in the suitcase on top of clean dry clothing, so I left the dirty shirts in the bucket.

  In the tiny bathroom I gathered up my toilet articles and zipped them into a blue nylon Dropkit
. When I packed the Dropkit into the suitcase, Dody began to evidence an avid interest in my actions.

  “What are you packing for, Frank?” she asked.

  Despite the fact that I had never said so much as a single word to her in the three weeks we had been living together, she persisted in asking me questions that couldn’t be answered by an affirmative nod, a negative waggle of my head, or an explanatory gesture of some kind. If I had answered every foolish question she put to me in writing, I could have filled up two notebooks a day.

  I tossed two pairs of clean blue jeans into the open suitcase, and then undressed as far as my shorts. I pulled on a pair of gray-green corduroy trousers, and put on my best shirt, a black oxford cloth Western shirt with white pearl buttons. The jodhpur boots I was wearing were black and comfortable, and they were fastened with buckles and straps. I had ordered them by mail from a bootmaker in El Paso, Texas, and had paid forty-five dollars for them. They were the only shoes I had with me. I untied the red bandanna from around my neck and exchanged it for a square of red silk, tying a loose knot and tucking the ends inside my collar before I buttoned the top shirt button. It was much too hot to wear the matching corduroy coat to my trousers, so I added it to the suitcase. The coat would come in handy in northern Florida.

  “You aren’t leaving, are you, Frank?” Dody asked worriedly. “I mean, are we leaving the trailer?”

  I nodded impatiently, and searched through a dozen drawers and compartments before I found my clean socks. There were only three pairs, white cotton with elastic tops. I usually wear white socks. Colored socks make my feet sweat. I put the socks into the suitcase.

  “Where’re we going, Frank? I can get ready in a second,” the girl lied.