Last One Standing

by Derek Rutherford

  ‘And that’s amazing, too,’ I said, and we looked at one another and we both smiled.

  Later we talked about what we knew of Moose Schmidt and we agreed we would head towards Green Springs, and One Leg Hawk.

  Everything considered, it was as good a place as any to start.

  Chapter 7

  I had travelled to see One Leg Hawk a few times over the years, although not for a while, so I knew his house. It was a two-room pinewood cabin standing alone on the outskirts of Green Springs. Although these days, we discovered, the cabin was no longer on the outskirts. But it still stood alone, plenty of empty ground all around and a clear view of the sky and the distant hills, which is how One Leg liked it.

  We pulled the horses to a halt outside the house.

  A girl I hadn’t seen before appeared from around the side of the cabin, a broom in her hand. ‘He’s not here,’ she said. She was an Indian girl with a hard, weather-lined face, but she was young – maybe twenty years old. She had black hair with two long braids and she wore a green dress. She was barefoot and had a leather belt tied around the green dress. There was a knife in a scabbard on the belt.

  ‘He still live here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One Leg Hawk?’ I said, just to make sure we were talking about the same man.

  ‘Yes. Tawodi.’ I’d never heard it before but I guessed that was One Leg’s Cherokee name.

  ‘Where is he?’ Jia asked. The girl didn’t appear to be about to proffer any information of her own accord.

  ‘Out back of the Silver Spur. You’ll find him there. They’re fighting roosters.’

  We rode deeper into Green Springs, watered the horses at the troughs in the centre, and then found the Silver Spur. It was a one-storey saloon with a high false front, painted in bright colours that had faded in the sun. Several horses were roped to the hitching rail out front. From the back we could hear the sound of people shouting and swearing, laughing, and then swearing some more.

  For a moment I thought about asking – suggesting – that Jia wait for me with the horses whilst I went to find One Leg. But she was already dismounting, and if I’d learned one thing in the few hours that I’d known her it was that she wasn’t one for avoiding anything or adhering to anyone else’s expectations of a young Chinese woman.

  Together we walked along the side of the Silver Spur and into the yard at the rear.

  There must have been thirty or forty men there, and a handful of women. No one noticed Jia and I. They were all crowded around a make-shift pit – a rough square about twelve feet on each side made with planks of timber roped and wired together and resting against barrels at each corner. There were two fighting birds within the pit, and at opposite corners, two men, both crouched down, both yelling instructions, clapping their hands, and whistling in a strange staccato style. The men looked like farmers, as did many in the crowd, but I noticed a few of the onlookers wore guns. Others, I assumed, were range-hands, some even appeared to be businessmen. There were several Indians. A couple of the women looked like saloon girls. All of them let out ohhs and ahhs in unison as the birds struck out at each other. People shrieked and gasped. Some laughed, but it was that uncomfortable laugh that hides fear. One man, in a bowler hat much like my mother’s boarder Amos, clutched a sheaf of paper money and was shouting about there still being time to bet, that ladies and gentlemen, it wasn’t too late.

  The air reeked of sweat and smoke and of the Silver Spur outhouse that was over on the far side of the yard. I could hear the high-pitched nervous sound of gamecocks, not the two that were fighting, but of others that were caged around the edge of the clearing. Alongside the cages, lying in the dirt, I could see the blood-stained carcass of a dead cock.

  I don’t know if I did it for her or for me, and even why, but I reached out and held Jia’s hand. She didn’t resist.

  I could see One Leg Hawk on the far side of the pit. He was wearing a blue felt hat and his black hair was long and braided like the girl’s hair back at his cabin. He was wearing a dirty tan jacket and he looked older than I remembered, his skin lined and weathered and tight against his prominent cheek bones.

  He must have sensed something, for he tore his gaze away from the pit and he looked directly at me. It took a moment for recognition to occur then his dark sunken eyes widened, his mouth opened, and turned into a smile. He nodded and then, pulled by events in the cock-pit, he looked away from me and back at the fight. Happy he wasn’t missing anything, he again looked at us. I pointed to myself and then at him to indicate we’d come round to where he was, and then, still holding Jia’s hand we edged along behind the crowd.

  It was impossible not to look at the fight.

  The cocks were white, or had been before the contest. They were now blood-stained. They both had red feathers standing proud around their heads and fans of black feathers at the tail. There were white, red, and black feathers strewn on the dirt, and as we watched the birds suddenly leapt upwards, thrashing and kicking and swiping at one another. There was a spray of blood in the air. The birds were making strange cries, as if they didn’t have enough energy or oxygen for a full-blown scream or shriek. Though they looked similar in colour, one bird, the one closest to One Leg, was smaller than the other. The thought crossed my mind that it wasn’t a fair fight, that with all those other gamecocks in the cages then surely a fairer match-up could have been made. As if it was reading my mind, the bigger bird suddenly rushed forward on the ground, kicking out, and I saw the long silver spike that had been bound to its leg with red twine. The smaller bird thrashed its wings and rose a few inches, just enough to avoid the flashing blade. This time it did find enough energy to scream and I felt myself wince at the fear in the creature’s cry.

  The bigger bird moved in as the smaller one landed. The smaller one had a silver spike attached to its leg, too. As the big bird came towards it, now jabbing with its beak towards the other’s eyes, the small bird rose up again and kicked out. But the larger bird parried the attack by rushing in close, and effectively stopping the leg movement of the small bird. Big bird thrust its beak towards small one’s eyes again. There was more shrieking, more blood mist, a flurry of feathers were torn loose.

  Then the little bird rolled over, twisted back and forth like a dog or an eel trying to get loose from an unwanted grip, flapped its wings and suddenly put a few feet between it and the big bird. There was a growing bloodstain on the little bird’s breast and it was shaking its head as if it was struggling to breathe.

  A bell rang, and with it came instant groans and complaints.

  ‘General was about to win!’ someone yelled.

  ‘You can’t stop it now.’

  ‘Cheat!!’

  A man on the outside far corner of the pit, just along from One Leg, said, ‘Rules is rules. That was eight minutes. Two minutes rest.’

  There were more mutterings, but it seemed to me there was a general acceptance of the situation. Rules is rules. And, anyway, I couldn’t see that two minutes rest was going to make any difference to the eventual outcome.

  Jia and I walked along the far side of the pit towards One Leg. I noticed the owner of the small bird was blowing down its beak.

  ‘Clearing the blood from its throat,’ Jia said.

  I looked at her in amazement. She smiled at me.

  We reached One Leg.

  He smiled and nodded as if accepting that something he had long anticipated was finally happening. I held out my hand and he took it in both his and grasped it without actually shaking it.

  ‘Young Cal,’ he said.

  ‘One Leg Hawk. It’s good to see you.’

  He stared at me, not blinking, still smiling. His eyes had a yellow tinge to them, his teeth too. This close his skin looked as tough – and the same colour – as my horse saddle. He smelled of tobacco and whiskey.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ he said.

  ‘This is Jia,’ I said, realizing I was still holding her hand.<
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  One Leg Hawk tore his eyes from mine and he looked at her and his smile widened.

  ‘Please to meet you, Jia,’ he said. ‘A pretty name for a pretty girl.’

  She smiled and did her little bow and told him that she was pleased to meet him, too.

  ‘One minute!’ the man with the bell yelled.

  ‘Still time for a wager,’ the bowler-hatted man called out. ‘Good odds on Rattle. I’ll tell you what – excellent odds on Rattle! Five to one!!’ A few people laughed. Rattle’s owner had a cloth out now and was wiping the blood from his bird’s eyes.

  ‘Rattle is the little bird?’ Jia said, looking at One Leg.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Like a rattlesnake,’ she said.

  ‘Not today. General’s too strong.’

  ‘No,’ Jia said. ‘Rattle is thinking. General is not.’

  One Leg looked at her, furrows of puzzlement appearing on his forehead.

  ‘General is just plunging forward. He’s getting tired. Rattle is quick – like the snake he’s named after.’

  ‘Rattle will win?’ One Leg asked.

  ‘After two minutes rest? Yes,’ Jia said. There was no doubt in her voice. ‘Rattle will win. It won’t take long.’

  One Leg stared at her for a few seconds. There appeared to be an exchange between them, not words, or even knowledge, just faith, I guess.

  ‘Hold on,’ One Leg said, and he turned away from us and he shouted across to the man in the bowler hat. ‘Reuben! Hey Rube. I will have ten dollar on Rattle! Rube! Five to one!’

  Rube looked at One Leg and nodded. A few people laughed. A few more looked over and grinned and shook their heads at the stupidity of some people.

  The bell went.

  One Leg said to Jia, ‘You’re sure?’

  Jia smiled.

  This time, when the two handlers released their birds, the gamecocks stood for a few seconds, very still, eyes locked on one another. Their heads and bodies and tails were parallel to the floor, not the upright stand of a rooster in the yard, but a flat, fighting stance. Both blood-stained chests were heaving as if two minutes rest hadn’t been long enough. One of them cried out, a sound as if dawn was approaching, and the other’s head twitched, but still they didn’t move. I wondered if they understood any of what they were being made to do, or if it was all instinct. For a few seconds neither looked keen to recommence combat. The onlookers were quiet, too. It wasn’t total silence, I could hear harsh breathing and some whispered words, the rustle of clothing, the scratch of a Lucifer. I could smell pipe tobacco and whiskey, cheap perfume and unwashed clothes. I felt the temperature of the whole yard seemingly rising. For those few seconds, anticipation was everything.

  Then General lunged forwards and suddenly both roosters flew upwards in a blurred tangle of slashing feet. The sunlight flashed off a silver spike and one of the cocks squealed. Around the makeshift pit the onlookers burst into life, shouting encouragement, yelling out tactics as if the birds could understand them.

  The birds landed and paused again, once more staring at each other, struggling for breath. They no longer had the fierce energy they had been displaying when Jia and I had first arrived a few minutes earlier. I heard One Leg whispering something to himself. He cast a quick look at me, and then at Jia. She smiled and nodded, and One Leg nodded back.

  General lunged again, wings thrashing at the hot dusty air. He rose two feet and Rattle appeared to struggle to get to the same height, but again their legs and claws and the attached sharpened spikes were just a blur. Three, four times, the pattern was repeated, a pause for breath, the eye-balling, then one of the birds lunging forwards and upwards, a few seconds shrieking and effort, blood and feathers in the air, the crowd getting louder. Over and over. Smoke hung all around the cockpit now from the cigarettes. Dust motes shone like tiny particles of suspended silver in the sunlight.

  Then, after a particular vicious coupling in mid-air, General came down not on his feet, but on his side. Where he landed the dirt was immediately soaked in blood. In a flash Rattle was upon his opponent, thrashing and stabbing in a series of lightning fast movements that looked random, but must have had very specific intent. I heard someone say ‘heart-shot’ and General somehow scrabbled backwards, away from his assailant. General’s breast was bright crimson, no white left in the feathers at all, and his eyes were wide and full of fear. He sat flat to the dirt, no longer moving his body, just his eyes darting around, looking at Rattle, unable now to defend itself.

  Rattle’s handler stepped forward quickly and grabbed his bird before it could do any more damage. He kissed it and held aloft, grinning, and I saw the owner had very few teeth. A few people cheered, but more groaned. The other handler picked General up. He was gentle and he held the bird close to his own chest, the bird’s blood making his dark blue shirt even darker. I watched him looking at General and I saw him shaking his head. Then I heard One Leg Hawk calling out to Reuben. ‘Rube! It’s payday, Rube!’

  I discovered I had been holding my breath.

  A minute or two later, as he was stuffing his winnings into an inside pocket, One Leg Hawk turned to me, his expression serious, and said, ‘So it’s time, is it?’

  I nodded.

  One Leg said, ‘Come inside. Let me buy you a drink. We will talk.’

  We went into the Silver Spur. I noticed how badly One Leg limped as he walked. The saloon was very quiet on account of most of the patrons were out the back preparing for the next fight. We could still hear them shouting and talking, laughing and cursing, still hear Reuben yelling odds. We sat at a small round table by the window. One Leg drank whiskey, I drank whiskey and water, and Jia drank water on its own.

  ‘You know birds?’ One Leg asked Jia.

  She took a long draught of water. ‘There was a lot of fighting where I come from. Birds and otherwise.’

  ‘And you saw something in Rattle?’

  ‘People most usually see what they want to see,’ she said. ‘And most don’t look beyond the big fighter. The longer the fight went on, the better the little bird’s chances. The big one was already tired when we arrived.’

  One Leg nodded, then he lifted his whiskey glass and saluted her.

  He turned to me. ‘I feared, but I also hoped, this day would come.’

  ‘The time is right,’ I said.

  He looked again at Jia. He drank some more whiskey and he said, ‘Moose Schmidt shot a Chinese lady in the back in Three Oaks.’

  ‘My mother,’ Jia said.

  He looked at me. ‘Your father, her mother.’

  I said, ‘Her father, too. Many years ago. On the railroad.’

  One Leg started to roll himself a cigarette.

  ‘He’s a very bad man. A monster, it is said.’

  ‘He murdered Jia’s cousin, too.’

  ‘And many more,’ One Leg said. ‘He gave me this limp. I don’t understand it but the doctor says the bullet wound in my chest gives me a limp in the leg. Some days I can hardly walk. Can’t ride a horse no more. Haven’t been able to in a long time. But I guess I was lucky.’

  ‘Who’s the girl at your house?’ I asked. ‘You have a daughter?’

  He grinned. ‘I have a wife. It’s only my leg that is limp.’

  I thought I saw Jia blush. She lifted her glass of water and sipped gently.

  ‘I will take you to meet her,’ One Leg said. ‘First, let’s have another drink.’

  ‘And you know where Moose Schmidt is?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know where Moose Schmidt is.’

  Chapter 8

  One Leg Hawk lay naked on his kitchen table. He was face-down on a blanket. A square of folded cloth covered his rump. Evening sunlight, coming through his west-facing window, made his thin body appear as if it was cast from bronze, but it also accentuated the wounds from a life-time of being a warrior and a scout. Bullet and stab wounds, cuts and welts, burns and stitching marks criss-crossed his body like a map of all his years.r />
  When we’d been walking our horses from the Silver Spur to the livery, One Leg’s limp was so bad that Jia had suggested she try an ancient Chinese procedure on him. It was something her mother had taught her and involved the needles.

  ‘She was Wu,’ I’d told One Leg.

  ‘Wu?’ he’d said.

  I nodded and gave him my best serious look.

  ‘Wu,’ he said again, as if he’d understood. The thing was, he’d drunk several whiskies, and that wasn’t helping his walk or his judgement much.

  ‘Anything that might help is worth a try,’ he said.

  I must admit I was keen to see the needles, too. Especially if they were being used on someone else.

  So, now he was naked and a young Chinese girl was about to stick those needles in him.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked One Leg, giving him a get-out should he want it.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked Jia.

  ‘Be still. Don’t move,’ she said.

  One Leg’s wife, whose name was Grey Fox, was standing over by the window watching. She started grinning, laughing almost, as Jia pressed a needle into One Leg’s shoulder. The skin dimpled and then the needle broke the surface and slid into One Leg’s flesh. It was the first time since we’d met her that Grey Fox looked remotely happy.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ One Leg said, adjusting his position on the hard table. Secretly, and probably needles aside, I think he was enjoying the situation he’d found himself in.

  Jia said, ‘Don’t move.’ On the table next to One Leg was a small wallet bound with black leather and lined with soft red velvet. There appeared to be upwards of twenty of the tiny silver needles in the case. Each needle had a thin ivory handle.

  Grey Fox pouted.

  ‘You want it to hurt?’ I asked her.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But he’s always talking about how brave he is. If it hurt it would be his chance to show that bravery.’

  Jia slipped another needle in to One Leg’s back about six inches below the first. She twisted the needle slightly as it penetrated his skin. Both needles vibrated in the air as he breathed.