Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [53]
“Lost bird!” the referee called.
Finkel shot an angry look toward Duane, but Luke was already handing the young man a replacement pigeon.
Faurote followed, shooting a right driver, which started straight from the box, then veered to the east.
“Dead bird!”
Faurote’s followers cheered. Money switched hands. New bets were placed.
“Arnold Necker,” the referee called. “Toe the mark.”
The wind increased in velocity, threatening to blow Luke’s hat from his head. The crosscurrent would work in the pigeons’ favor no matter which trap was pulled. But anything from Trap Five would be nearly impossible to down before the wind assisted its bird over the boundary.
Necker stepped up onto the platform, rocked forward and back once on his feet, then mounted his gun.
Luke stiffened. Necker didn’t have a ritual. He just went up and shot.
“Pull.”
Blesinger released Trap Five. Necker emptied his gun before the bird had gone ten feet. The pigeon retriever raced into the ring and snapped the bird’s neck.
“Dead bird!”
The men in the stands whooped. The retriever gave a huge smile. Luke sucked in his breath. Bettina?
It couldn’t be. Gathering pigeons was a huge honor for a kid. No one would award it to a girl, much less during a state match. He couldn’t believe the other boys in town hadn’t kicked up a ruckus. Surely they’d have strung her up by her toes if they’d known.
He had to be mistaken. He studied the child. She looked nothing like a girl. Not in manner, attire, or the handling of the birds. Yet the longer he watched, the more convinced he became. Bettina von Schiller, posing as a boy, had been appointed official retriever.
“Bryan Heard, toe the mark.”
Not waiting for Luke, Duane grabbed a new bird and raced to the ring. It was several seconds before Luke shook himself from his reverie and several more before he realized Duane had grabbed a pigeon from the duffer crate.
A tall man in his fifties stepped up to the score line, shifting his weight as he waited for Duane to finish.
Kneeling beside Trap Five, Duane stuck the bird under his arm, fiddled with one of the sides, then loaded the trap.
Luke glanced between Duane and the puller. No eye contact had been made, but out of all twelve innings, not once had a shooter been made to wait on Duane. And not once had the young man fooled with the equipment. Finally, he stood and returned to the crates.
Heard loaded his Colt and crouched into a bent-knee stance. “Puller ready?”
“Ready,” Blesinger answered.
“Pull.”
Trap Five. Same one Duane had just loaded.
The plunger ejected the duffer up a few feet, but instead of taking wing, it arced back down to the ground. Too experienced to shoot too early and lose a point, Heard waited, aim steady. But the pigeon merely sat, blinking at its sudden release.
“No bird!” the referee shouted.
Sighing, Heard broke open his gun.
Luke started to reach for a bird from one of the “good” crates, then paused and looked at Duane, brows raised in question.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “That box’ll do.”
Luke handed him a bird.
Bryan Heard was a crack shot out of Houston and tied for the lead, but the pressure was tremendous and the stakes high. Having to wait on Duane to load the trap only to have the bird be a duffer was enough to disconcert any player. Now he had to wait again.
But Duane was quick and efficient.
Heard took his stance. “Pull.”
Blesinger waited a fraction of a second before triggering a trap. It proved to be the last straw. Heard missed the pigeon completely.
“Lost bird!”
Heard whirled toward the referee, pointing at Blesinger, his angry words obscured by his fans yelling for blood. But the referee sent him to the tent and announced the next shooter.
Duane smiled. “Well, of all the Heard luck.”
Forcing a chuckle, Luke handed him the next pigeon.
Things settled down for the rest of the inning, but by the end of the next, Luke’s suspicions were confirmed. Duane, Blesinger, and Necker had rigged the shoot.
Chapter Sixteen
Luke kept a sharp eye on the three