Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [91]
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Mansfield,” Tom Peeples said.
“I saw on the blackboard out there”—his father made a sweeping gesture with his malodorous briar pipe— “that you got a 4:02 lookin' for a fight. If you don't mind givin' me an ounce, I got a 4:03 out to my place that can take him.”
“He's my cock, Mr. Mansfield,” Tom broke in. “Little Joe. You ever hear of him?”
“Mr. Mansfield hasn't fought in this neck of the woods for some years, Tom,” Vern answered for me. “I doubt if he has.”
“Little Joe's a six-time winner, Mr. Mansfield,” the old man continued, “but I've never fought him here in Vern's pit. He's crowd shy and can't be conditioned to people or noise. But if you want to drive on out to my farm, maybe we could have us a little private hack.”
I nodded sympathetically. Often a gamecock is crowd shy. But I wasn't too anxious to pit Icky against a six-time winner.
“I'll tell you what,” Milam Peeples said generously, “I'll give you two-to-one odds, and you can name the amount. After all, you got to fight at my place instead of here, and I want to be fair.”
I agreed, holding up five fingers.
“Nope,” Milam Peeples shook his head. “I ain't fightin' Little Joe for no fifty dollars. Ain't worth the risk.”
I had meant five hundred dollars. I grinned and opened and closed my fist five times, as rapidly as I could.
“Five hundred dollars?” Mr. Peeples took the pipe out of his mouth.
When I nodded, he hesitated.
“Now that's getting mighty steep. If I lose, you win yourself a thousand dollars.”
“You offered Frank two to one,” Vern Packard reminded the old man.
“Little Joe can take him, Daddy!” Tom said eagerly.
“All right.” Peeples agreed to the bet and we shook hands. “When you're ready to go you can follow us on out in your car.”
“Why don't you load Mr. Mansfield's coops in his station wagon, Tom,” Vern suggested. “And I'll take him up to the house to get his suitcase.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said.
As soon as Vern and I entered the back door of his house into the kitchen, he dropped into a chair beside the table where we had eaten breakfast. There was an amused smile on his friendly, open face. Vern was a short wiry little man with a sparse gray moustache, and he had been a good host.
“Just a second, Frank,” Vern's voice stopped me as I started for the bedroom. “It's a trick. Old Man Peeples has never heard of you, Frank, and he's taken you for a sucker. I've seen him take itinerant cockers before, and I've never said anything. Why not? Peeples is a local cocker, and most of the drifters who fight here don't come back anyway. But I don't feel that way about you. Because the local gamblers didn't know your reputation I won six hundred bucks today on your hacks.” Vern laughed with genuine amusement.
“You wouldn't fight the old man anyway, once you saw his setup. He's got a square chunk of waxed linoleum in his barn for the floor of his cockpit. And that cock of his hasn't won six fights, he's won at least eighteen fights! He rubs rosin on Little Joe's feet, and on that slick waxed floor the opposing cock doesn't have a chance. But if you really think your cock can take him, now that you know their game, I'll give you a chunk of rosin. That way, you'll both start even.”
I got my suitcase out of the bedroom. Vern rummaged through the drawers of the sideboard.
“Here,” he handed me an amber chunk of rosin the size of a dime-store eraser. “You don't need very much, Frank. But don't fight him on that waxed linoleum unless you use it. If you want my advice, you're a damned fool to fight him at all!”
I winked, shook hands with Vern and crossed the yard toward the station wagon. These two peckerwoods had a lesson coming, and I had made up my mind to teach it to them. Icky was in peak condition, as sharp as a needle. They would be counting on their trick to win. With the rosin