Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [110]
“Handle!
Burke removed the gaff with gentle hands. The O'Neal Red had been hurt in the second pitting. The wound in Icky's chest no longer bled, but I held my thumb over the hole anyway, and made him stand quietly, facing him toward the wall where he couldn't see his opponent.
The third, fourth and fifth pittings were dance contests that could have been set to music. The two colorful gamecocks maneuvered, wheeled, sidestepped, feinted and leaped high into the air as they clashed. When one of them did manage to hang a heel, first one and then the other, the blow was punishing.
Prior to the sixth pitting, I held Icky's legs tight under his body to rest them, facing him toward the wall. I raised my eyes for a moment, and there sat Mary Elizabeth, not six feet away from me. I almost didn't recognize her at first. She was wearing a light blue coat with raglan sleeves, and she had a pastel-blue scarf over her blonde hair, tied beneath her chin. She sat in the second row—not in the seat I had reserved for her. Her skin was pale, and her expression was strained. As I smiled in recognition, Ed called for us to get ready, and I had to turn my back.
“Pit!”
For the first time in months I was second best in releasing my gamecock's tail. Little David outflew my Blue and fanned him down. On his back, Icky shuffled his feet like a cat. Both birds fell over, pronged together with all four gaffs, like knitting needles stuck into two balls of colored yarn.
“Handle!”
It took Burke and me almost a full minute to disengage the heels. Both cocks were severely injured and my hands were red with blood as I sponged my battered bird down gingerly with cold water. During the short rest period I didn't have time to exchange any love glances with my fiancée in the stands. Thirty seconds passed like magic.
“Get ready ... Pit!”
Both gamecocks remained on their scores as we released them.
“Count!” Burke ordered.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and one for Mr. Burke. Handle!” Ed said, looking up from his wrist-watch.
Both of us needed the additional thirty-second rest period. I sucked Icky's comb to warm his head, held his beak open wide and spat into his open throat to refresh him. I was massaging his tired legs gently when Ed told us to get ready.
“Pit!”
Stiff-winged, the two cocks advanced toward each other from their scores and clashed wearily in the center. Too sick and too tired for aerial fighting they buckled again and again with weakened fury. Little David fell over limply, breathing hard, and stayed there. Grateful for this respite, Icky also stopped fighting, standing quietly with his head down, bill touching the dirt.
“The count is going on,” Ed announced, watching his wrist-watch and the two cocks at the same time. At the silent count of twenty seconds, when neither bird had tried to fight, Ed ordered us to handle.
I wanted to work feverishly, but I was unable to do the nursing needed to help my fighter. Rough nursing could put Icky out of the fight for good. I sponged him gently and let him rest. Icky had recovered considerably by himself from the twenty-second count.
When the order to pit was given again, he crossed the dirt floor toward his enemy on shaky legs. Little David squatted on his score like a broody hen on eggs, with his beak wide open, and his neck jerking in and out.
Icky pecked savagely at the downed cock's weaving head. An instant later, the maddened Little David bounced into the air as though driven by a compressed spring and came down on Icky's back with blurring, hard-hitting heels. My