Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [55]
Necker and the other contestants remained within the tent. Blesinger visited with the referee. Bettina was nowhere in sight.
Twenty-eight minutes into the half hour, Abney returned with a bulging satchel. The stands quieted as the local fireman approached the finely dressed instigator.
“What’s yer name, mister?” Abney asked.
“Hurless Swanning of Cut ’N Shoot, Texas.”
Plopping the bag down in front of the other man, he squared off. “Well, the town of Brenham is taking you on, Swanning. Put up your money.”
He reached inside his pocket.
Luke tensed, but instead of a gun, the man withdrew a wallet, opened it for Abney and the sheriff to see, then laid it atop the satchel.
“Here, Sheriff.” Abney handed him the money. “You hold these ’til the race is over.”
The referee cleared his throat. “F.M. Faurote, toe the mark.”
Luke forced the tension from his shoulders. He needed to stay loose. He checked the area as if he were a camera taking pictures. The faces in the crowd were tense, but none were out of place. Swanning and Abney stood shoulder to shoulder, the money lying on the other side of the barricade, the sheriff’s boot on top of it. The shooters leaned forward in their chairs. The cheaters did nothing to give themselves away. Bettina crept back to her spot. The outlying area lay calm.
Faurote mounted his shotgun to his shoulder. “Puller ready?”
Blesinger grasped a cord. “Ready.”
“Pull.”
Trap Two sprung open, the wind lifting a pigeon high and right before it took wing.
The report of the gun had barely registered when the bird plummeted like a wet rag.
Faurote supporters roared. Swanning’s lips twitched, but stopped short of forming a smile.
Racing onto the field, Bettina whipped up the bird.
“Dead bird!”
The referee’s voice was lost in the crowd’s jubilation. Luke handed Duane a pigeon, then continued to scan the area. Nothing looked amiss.
Duane trapped the bird with efficiency and returned to the crates.
“Arnold Necker, toe the mark.”
Silence again descended. With only a few crates of pigeons left, their cooing took on a subdued quality.
Necker stepped up to the line. He didn’t make any extraneous motions, but simply mounted his gun against his shoulder.
“Puller ready?”
“Ready.”
“Pull.”
The bird inside Trap Four flew up and to the right. As Necker squeezed the trigger, the pigeon unexpectedly dove twenty feet in its flight. The charge of Necker’s shot clipped its wing.
Throwing open his gun, Necker ejected his empty shell. Bettina sprinted to the ring. But the wind assisted the wounded, fluttering bird across the fence before she could reach it.
“Lost bird!”
Faurote fans raised fisted hands, screaming with elation. Abney paled. Brenham’s townsmen shifted their weight, darting their eyes from each other to Abney to the shooting box.
Necker turned. Upon seeing his distress, they rallied to his aid, yelling encouragement and support.
Though the championship would be decided between Necker and Faurote, the others’ tallies still counted toward average scores and each took their final turn.
Luke doled out pigeons, constantly on alert. Comer made no appearance. Perhaps the bet was legitimate and neither Comer nor anyone else had staged it.
With Necker down by one, all Faurote had to do was kill his next bird and he’d not only retain the championship, he’d be the winner of what was sure to be the most talked about competition in the country.
Toeing the score line, Faurote wedged his gun into his shoulder. “Puller ready?”
“Ready.”
“Pull!”
The pigeon in Trap Four needed no plunger to help it rise into the air—it came out flying swift and strong. Between its strength, the trap’s boost, and the wind, Faurote didn’t have a chance.
“Lost bird!”
The men of Brenham whooped in ecstasy, throwing up hats, clapping each other on the back, shaking their fists in exhilaration.
Swanning showed no reaction but stood stoically and without expression.
“Arnold Necker, toe the mark.”
Abney slipped his hands in his pockets, rocking