Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [68]
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 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:
THE O.B. GAME FARM
“Our Chickens Lay Every Night!”
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