Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [5]
“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's 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 cockfight 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.
I nodded my head in agreement.
“Forty-minute time limit, or kill?”
I closed my fist, jerked my thumb toward the ground.
“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 Red 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