Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  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 beyond the boundary, the shooter would not receive a point.

  “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 at him. Taking quick aim, Finkel fired and missed.


  “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 cheaters. This time when Bryan Heard took aim, Blesinger pulled the cord slowly, the clatter of the trap frightening the bird and causing it to dart out quickly. With Anthony, he gave an infinitesimal tug on one rope to make a trap move. Just as Anthony turned his head toward it, Blesinger triggered a different trap.

  The gun shop owner then took advantage of the wind by pulling traps Four and Five for those he wanted to eliminate, One and Two for those he wanted to advance.

  But it wasn’t just Blesinger. When Necker stepped up to the score line, he would on occasion signal the puller. Rocking once back and forth meant Trap Five. Giving his right pant leg a tiny shake meant Trap Four. Blowing out a deep breath meant Trap Three.

  If Duane loaded a duffer, he alerted Blesinger in some tiny way. With the last bird, Duane turned his back to partially shield it from Luke, then plucked feathers from its wing. But Luke made sure the boy knew he’d seen, then made a point of not alerting the officials. When the pigeon was released from its trap, it flew erratically, causing Heard to miss his shot.

  Duane gave Luke a sideways look. Luke responded with a sly grin. The boy’s shoulders relaxed. Luke only hoped it would establish a bond of trust on which he could continue to build.

  At least Bettina wasn’t cheating. But appointing her the retriever certainly made sense. A boy with experience in shooting might have picked up on what was happening. Then again, maybe not.

  Had Luke not been looking for Comer’s gang so intently, had he not had the clear vantage point he did from the sidelines, had Duane not let it slip about the duffers, he might not have caught it, either.

  Putting his disgust and anger aside, he continued to ingratiate himself with Duane. The closer he moved to these men, the closer he moved to Comer.

  The race came down to Necker and Faurote. Tied for the lead, with only two birds to go, Faurote approached the shooting box.

  An extremely well-dressed and vocal supporter of Faurote’s cupped his hands around his mouth. “I bet one thousand dollars Faurote takes the championship. What Necker fan has the gumption to match me?”

  Whirling around, Faurote gaped at the man.

  Silence descended. Keeping his gun hand free, Sheriff Nussbaum headed toward the gambler.

  Luke shifted his focus to Blesinger. But the gun store owner looked as shocked as the rest.

  “Can we have a recess, ref?” A member of the Brenham Hook & Ladder squad pushed toward the edge of the stands. “The lunch shed’s done shut down and I’m feeling a powerful hunger comin’ on.”

  The referee hesitated, then turned to Faurote. “Do you have any objection?”

  Faurote shook his head.

  One by one, the official gained permission from each contestant. But the fireman didn’t wait for an answer. Jumping off the side of the stands, he began to gather the men of Washington County together.

  “Thirty-minute recess!” the referee announced.

  Pandemonium erupted from the crowd.

  “Who was that?” Luke asked Duane.

  “Ed Abney. He lives over on Quitman Street.”

  “No, I mean the man who made the bet.”

  Duane put his hands on his waist and arched his back, stretching. “I dunno. Never seen him round here before.”

  Luke settled onto an empty crate. “You think Abney can get one thousand together in half an hour?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Ever’body loves Necker. And with the way he’s shooting today, it’d be a pretty sure thing.”

  The two exchanged knowing looks.

  “You betting?” Luke asked.

  Duane smiled. “Why, that’d be cheating. Ever’body knows the trapper cain’t be
makin’ any bets.”

  Luke returned his smile. “I reckon not. It’s sure a lot of money, though.”

  “More’n I ever seed at once.”

  A circle of folks surrounded the sheriff and the man who’d made the challenge. Luke wondered if he was a plant. But that didn’t make sense. If Necker was planning to win by fair means or foul, he wouldn’t bet against himself.

  On the other hand, if Comer had instigated the wager and the town of Brenham matched it, then one thousand dollars would be here for the taking.

  Luke checked his pocket watch. He didn’t have time to fetch his gun. If Comer showed up, he’d just have to improvise.

  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.