Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [69]
That evening after supper, when Omar brought out the bottle of John Jameson, a partnership was formed.
11
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 fresh 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 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,