Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [51]
Situated in the center of the half circle and immediately in front of the grandstands was the shooting box, a small wooden platform made specifically for this week’s event. A fence of netting fifty yards out marked the boundary the bird had to reach without being shot. If it didn’t make it, the shooter was awarded a point.
Contestants, sponsors, referees, and scorers filed into the holding area and took their seats beneath a blue-and-white-striped canopy. Luke picked out Necker, Finkel, and Judge Yoakum, along with F.M. Faurote, Winchester’s circuit shooter. Faurote was the reigning state champion out of Dallas and had a contingent of followers in the stands. Sheriff Nussbaum spoke with the referee and shooters, then moved along the barricade, pushing back those who tried to encroach.
A wind from the west whipped the straps of Luke’s overalls and rattled the fasteners. Pulling his hat brim low, he looked toward the shooting box. A row of five traps, each several steps away from the next, sat thirty yards from the firing point. All contained a pigeon except the last.
Squatting beside the empty trap, Duane pushed a spring-loaded plunger down to ground level, placed the pigeon on top of it, then folded up four triangular sides, forming a pyramid around the bird.
A distant train whistle signaled the arrival of the 10:55 out of Austin. Luke checked his pocket watch. Right on time. Five more minutes and the competition would begin.
Duane attached a stout cord to the trap’s spring. The rope ran from the spring to the hands of Ludwig Blesinger, the gun shop owner, who stood at the other end of the platform and behind the firing point. Each of the five traps had a pull cord. Each cord’s end was held by Blesinger.
He’d dressed smartly in a navy one-button cutaway and derby. His responsibility in the tournament was enormous. Unlike the tournaments up north, there was no miniature roulette wheel to determine which trap was released. Instead, Blesinger could trigger whichever one he wished.
Standing, Duane jogged back to the pigeon crates.
“I got butterflies in my stomach,” he said, touching his belly.
Luke smiled, but before he could respond, the referee’s voice boomed across the noise. “Anson Albert Anthony, toe the mark.”
The crowd quieted as Anthony rose from his chair and removed his jacket. Picking up his Remington 12-gauge, he hooked the open shotgun across his forearm.
Luke glanced at the flag above the tent. Its lone star flapped toward the east making it likely the bird would travel to the right when hurled out of the trap.
Anthony stepped onto the platform and placed his left toe against the score line. The onlookers ceased all conversation, but the pigeons were not so courteous. Their cooing continued to fill the air.
Reaching into his pocket, Anthony removed a shotshell, loaded it into the chamber, snapped the gun shut, and mounted it against his shoulder. He aimed it straight ahead toward Trap Three.
“Puller ready?” His voice rang loud and strong.
Blesinger, behind the shooter’s shoulder and out of his peripheral vision, continued to hold all five cords in his left hand. Leaning forward, he grasped an individual one with his right. “Ready.”
Anthony looked down the barrel. “Pull!”
Blesinger immediately yanked on his cord. Trap Two sprung open and the plunger catapulted a pigeon into the air. The bird had barely taken wing when Anthony’s shot rent the air.
The pigeon plummeted to the ground, well within the fenced boundary.
Anthony quickly broke open his gun and ejected the empty shell, black smoke forming a filmy cloud around him. A boy sprinted onto the field and whipped up the bird. He wrung its neck with a flick of his wrist, for if the bird had been merely wounded and managed to hobble