Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [52]
“Dead bird!” the referee shouted.
The crowd roared its approval and the scorer marked a one beside Anthony’s name. Leaving his gun open, Anthony made eye contact with someone in the crowd, smiled, and returned to the tent.
“J.B. Wyrick, toe the mark.”
Throughout the next twenty minutes, shooter after shooter approached the box until all contestants had a turn and the referee declared the end of the first inning. With nineteen innings to go, the crowd began to settle in.
Luke pried open a new box with a crossbar, the pigeons uttering short grunts in reaction to the manhandling.
“Arnold Necker,” the referee called. “Toe the mark.”
A fierce cheering erupted from the crowd as the hometown favorite approached the firing point. Gone were the overalls he’d worn to Gun Club practice. In their place was a fine gray suit, though he’d removed his jacket. The bright red vest he wore underneath made him easy to spot.
Luke rested his elbow atop two stacked crates. He enjoyed the idiosyncrasies of each player. Anthony’s habit was to plant his left foot on the mark, lift his right heel behind him, then mount his gun. Judge Yoakum looked down at his feet, shifting back and forth between them. Finkel tended to dig his left toe into the ground as if he were smashing a cigarette.
But Necker did nothing. Just walked up, shouldered his gun, and said, “Ready?”
He was a man used to shooting on the fly.
Blesinger leaned forward and grabbed a cord. “Ready.”
Necker didn’t so much as hesitate. “Pull.”
Blesinger released Trap Three. The bird shot straight up. Necker grassed him immediately, leaving blue feathers behind to twirl on the wind. And though the spectators hollered with approval, Luke was disappointed.
Trap Three was the easiest of them all. With it being dead ahead of the firing point, the shooter was already aiming at it. Then for the pigeon to be a towerer—another easy shot—it plain took all the sport out of it for Luke.
But a dead bird was a dead bird and Necker was two for two.
As the afternoon progressed, five contestants broke away from the rest, including Necker, Finkel, and the reigning state champion, F.M. Faurote. Judge Yoakum had made some fine kills, but he was no match for those in the lead.
“Peter Finkel,” the referee called. “Toe the mark.”
Finkel, in loose-fitting pants and vest, stepped to the scoring line, rotated his lead toe in his smash-the-cigarette motion, then mounted his gun. “Puller ready?”
Blesinger leaned forward. “Ready.”
“Pull!”
Trap One sprang open, the plunger shooting up, but the pigeon merely bounced off the plunger and onto the wooden platform. Finkel kept his Greener trained on the target. The crowd quieted.
Tucking its head under its wing, the bird gave itself a scratch, then began walking toward Finkel.
“No bird!” the referee shouted.
Finkel broke open his gun and the boy retrieving birds took off for the field.
Duane spun toward Luke. “That’s the third duffer in a row. Which crate did it come from?”
Grabbing another pigeon, Luke indicated a box to his right. “That one.”
“Blast. You weren’t supposed to use that one.” Duane snatched the new bird and hurried to the ring.
Luke held himself in check until Duane was busy setting the trap; then he squatted down to inspect the crate to his right. The musky odor within intensified as he leaned close.
At first glance it looked the same as all the rest. Yet when he reread the pigeon catcher’s stamp on the side, he realized the F on WULFF & SON had been changed to E, so it read WULFE & SON.
His pulse began to drum. A good pigeon catcher knew the good birds from the bad. Those that were easy to catch and slow to react were your duffers. If he had placed all of those in a special bin, or if this particular set of birds had been overfed these last few days to make them lethargic . . .
Completing his task, Duane hurried from the ring. Luke stepped back to where he’d been.
Finkel snapped his gun shut, went through his ritual, then yelled, “Pull.” The bird flew this time, but straight