Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [81]
“Do you want to fight him, Frank? The kid's only about nineteen, and his Gray shades Icky two full ounces.”
I started toward the cockhouse to see whether I did or not. Junior was waiting in front of Icky's coop, cradling his Gray gamecock in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, wearing buckled shoes, charcoal-flannel Daks, and a gaily colored body shirt. His tangled chestnut hair was worn long, all the way to his shoulders, and his face was sunburned. He had a sparse straggly moustache, and the pointed chin whiskers of a young ram goat. Evidently his nose had peeled, because it was smeared with a thick covering of white salve.
“This is Mr. Mansfield, Junior,” Omar introduced us.
“I know. I saw the 4:02 weight on the blackboard, Mr. Mansfield,” Junior said, all business, “and thought I'd challenge you. My cock's won two fights this year and has a couple of ounces over yours, but I'm willing to cut away some feathers for the chance to fight you.”
I stared impassively at the kid, and he blushed through his sunburn.
“That is,” he added, “the man I bought him from said he won two fights in Tallahassee.”
I took the Gray out of Junior's arms and felt him. The bird went in and out like an accordion. I turned to Omar, winked, and moved my chin down a fraction of an inch.
“You've got a hack, Junior,” Omar said. “And you don't have to cut any feathers. The Southern Conference allows a two-ounce leeway either way on hacks. But you'll have to fight short heels. Got any?”
“No, sir. I don't have any heels at all. I thought I might borrow a set. And I want to bet twenty-five dollars, even money.”
“Fair enough. I'll lend you a pair. D'you want me to heel him for you?”
“I know how to heel him,” Junior said defensively. “I've heeled cocks plenty of times. Just lend me the heels and hold him for me.”
Omar laughed good-naturedly. “Sure. Wait'll I tell Bandy there's an extra hack, before his crowd gets away.”
There had been two hacks held before the four between Pete Chocolate and me. After our last hack, a few of the spectators had departed, including the nervous tourist, but there were still a dozen or more standing around discussing the fights. When Bandy announced that there was going to be another hack, they scrambled hurriedly into the bleachers and began making bets.
We heeled with inch-and-a-quarter gaffs. To my surprise, Junior did a good job of heeling his Gray. By the way he handled his chicken, I could see he knew his way around the pit, and I felt a little better about the fight coming up.
While Bandy examined both cocks prior to the fight, I listened to the bettors. Although the Gray was announced as a two-time winner, and the Blue—as Icky was called—was announced as a short-heel novice in his first fight, most of the bettors were taking Icky and offering five to one. The odds were caused, in part, by my reputation, but they really preferred my gamecock because of his color. This kind of thinking was like betting on the color of a jockey's eyes instead of on the record of the horse at a racetrack. At any rate, Omar had a hard time getting bets. Even with the high odds, only a few men were willing to back the Gray. But Omar finally managed to lay three ten-dollar wagers.
Junior was nervous during the billing, but he handled fairly well.
When Bandy told us to “get ready” in his reedy old man's voice, Junior squatted behind his score, and held the Gray's tail like a professional.
“Pit!”
Icky took two short steps forward and then flew six feet into the air. The Gray ran forward on the ground at the same time, and Icky landed behind him. They wheeled simultaneously and mushed, breast against breast, engaged in a shoving contest. The Gray backed off, and then tried a short rushing feint that didn't work. Icky got above him, shuffled, and the two went down with Icky's right gaff through the Gray's left wing.
“Handle!”
Junior disengaged the heel from