by Jon Sharpe
Money changed hands and bets went down. Fargo heard an occasional nervous laugh, indicating that some of the bettors were a little unsure they’d made the right choice.
On one side of the ring a man with a corncob pipe clamped between his teeth watched as another man took the hood off the orange-colored head of a fighting cock with its comb and wattles trimmed so that its opponent in the coming battle couldn’t grab them with its bill.
The man with the pipe removed it from his mouth and breathed a cloud of smoke into the cock’s face to agitate it, not that it didn’t appear agitated enough already.
Both men wore ragged shirts and denim pants that showed hard use. Lank hair hung down from their sweat-stained hats.
On the other side of the pit, the handler of the opposing cock spoke soothingly to it and almost seemed to cuddle it as he checked on the short, sharp metal spurs affixed to its legs where its own spurs would have been. Fargo couldn’t make out the handler’s eyes because they were hidden by a hat pulled down low on the forehead so that the features were obscured.
“That kid’s been braggin’ about how many fights that big black bird’s won,” Dodge Calder said. He took off a battered hat and ran skinny fingers through his thick white whiskers. “You might wanna make a bet on that cock. Name’s Satan.”
The kid’s rooster was so black that it was almost purple. It stretched its long neck toward its handler as if listening carefully to what was being said. Its wattles and comb had been trimmed like the other bird’s.
“I don’t bet on things I don’t know much about,” Fargo told Calder.
Calder nodded. “Don’t blame you. The Bryson brothers don’t lose often.”
Fargo had known Calder for a long time, and in fact he’d stopped off in Ashland to see him after leading some pilgrims up the Applegate Trail to the Willamette Valley. Calder had been a guide for a few years, which is how Fargo had gotten to know him, but Calder had liked Oregon so much that one year he’d decided to stay and see if there was any gold left in the area that some of the forty-niners had drifted to when the pickings got slim in California.
As far as the Trailsman knew, Calder hadn’t found any gold, but he’d found himself a home in Ashland, a little farther to the south of the gold fields. He’d done some trading and trapping and was making a living for himself one way and another.
Fargo was happy for Calder, but he wasn’t interested in settling down in one spot, no matter how easy it might be to make a living there. He was a natural wanderer, not cut out to be tied to one place for any length of time.
There wasn’t a lot to do in Ashland, and Calder had suggested the cockfight as a bit of entertainment on a Sunday afternoon. Fargo didn’t see much amusement in a couple of roosters trying to kill each other, but Calder wanted to get a bet down.
“I got my money on the Brysons,” he told Fargo. “The kid’s been lucky, but those old boys have been at this a long time, and they don’t like to lose. That rooster of theirs is rough as a cob. They call him General Washington, and he’s won four fights in a row. Fact is, nobody around here will fight against him. That’s why we got such a good crowd. Folks wouldn’t turn out like this to see just an ordinary fight.”
Satan against General Washington, Fargo thought. If the birds lived up to their names it would be quite a fight.
Fargo was about to say something along those lines to Calder, but someone moved a board aside and the referee stepped into the ring. He was the man Fargo thought might have been a lawyer. He walked to the middle of the ring and took a thick watch out of the pocket of his black frock coat. The crowd grew quiet.
“One round of thirty minutes is what we’ve agreed on, gentlemen,” the referee said. “Is that correct?”
The Bryson brothers, who didn’t look like any gentlemen Fargo had ever seen before, nodded.
“Or till our rooster kills that one,” one of the brothers said.
The other brother grinned. The kid ignored them.
“Very well,” the referee said. He backed up a little. “Bill your birds.”
When he said that, one of the Brysons nodded to his brother and stepped out of the ring.
“That’s Hap,” Calder said. “He’s the cheerful one.”
Hap didn’t look cheerful to Fargo. He looked mean as a cornered cougar.
“The other one’s Willie,” Calder said.
Willie looked just like Hap to Fargo. As far as he could tell, they might have been twins.
Willie took General Washington to the middle of the ring, holding the cock’s legs together with its body draped over his left arm. The kid walked up to him, holding Satan the same way. They let the two birds glare at each other, keeping them a foot or so apart. The birds squirmed for a couple of seconds as if trying to escape, but their handlers gripped them tightly. When the gamecocks saw they couldn’t get free, they started to stretch their necks and peck at each other, trying to reach an eye or some other soft spot. Their handlers pulled them back before they could make any contact.
The sparring went on for a short time, maybe half a minute. Fargo didn’t see much point to it. The birds already hated each other plenty. They didn’t need any encouragement.
“That’s enough,” the referee said. “Get ready.”
The handlers backed away from the center of the ring and squatted down with eight or nine feet of empty space between them.
“Pit your birds!” the referee called out, and as he did the handlers released the cocks. The quiet exploded in a flurry of feathers. The spectators pressed around the ring. They yelled, shoved each other, and made more bets.
What happened between the cocks was almost too fast for Fargo to follow. The kid’s bird flapped its clipped wings and seemed to go straight into the air as if on a spring and then to descend on General Washington before the cock had a chance to gain any height. After that, the birds attacked each other, heads darting, feet scrambling, spurs flashing.
Fargo thought that if he’d been more used to cock-fights, he’d have been able to follow what was happening better, but because he didn’t know what to watch for, the subtleties, if any, were lost on him.
General Washington, however, was getting the worst of it. Fargo could see that much. Satan was pecking furiously at the general’s head from his superior position, trying to get at the eyes, but the general was strong and somehow got out from under his opponent and scuttled away to the side. The kid’s rooster backed away a short distance, the clipped tips of his outstretched wings quivering.
The two birds glared at each other for a couple of seconds like human fighters might as each took his opponent’s measure. Then they rushed forward and launched themselves into the air.
This time General Washington got off to a good start, as did Satan, and the birds smacked together a couple of feet above the ground, their wings working rapidly. Their feet kicked so fast that they were just a blur, but neither bird could land a solid blow with either spurs or beak.
Before they fell to the ground, Satan pulled out a couple of the general’s feathers, and a few drops of blood hit the dirt of the barn floor as the feathers floated down.
The crowd got rowdier. Most of the men were yelling encouragement at one bird or the other and slapping each other on the back. Even Calder, a man Fargo didn’t consider excitable, jumped up and down as he strained to see over the heads of the men in front of him.
The birds rushed together again. Fargo thought they must have been tiring because they didn’t gain much altitude. The pecking was just as furious as before, though, and Satan ripped out quite a few more of the general’s feathers.
Fargo glanced at the Brysons. They stood stiffly at the side of the ring, stony silent, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The kid, on the other hand, sat leaning against the boards, to all appearances as calm and relaxed as if sitting in church with a clean conscience.
The fighting cocks clashed again, this time without rising from the ground. Satan got his beak into General Washington’s
neck and twisted. The birds fell to the ground, and Satan flapped his wings to rise above the General. He hacked at the general with his spurs, slashing at his eyes.
The General’s neck writhed as the bird tried to avoid the stabbing spurs, but one of them sank into his left eye. The General jerked his head away. Blood spurted, and the General went into a frenzied backward dance, his legs hardly touching the ground as he spun and flipped. He fell on his back in the dirt, his wildly beating wings stirring up a small gray storm.
Then he stopped and was still. Satan walked over to the dead bird and hopped onto the body. He looked around the ring slowly and crowed.
Hap Bryson jumped into the ring, his face twisted with rage. Before anyone could stop him, he reached the birds and gave Satan a vicious kick, sending him flying from General Washington’s body.
The referee ran toward Bryson. “Stop it, Hap! Get out of the ring!”
Hap either didn’t hear him or didn’t give a damn. His hand reached for the pistol at his side, and he jerked the gun from its holster.
The kid jumped up and ran toward Hap, but he was too late. The revolver in Hap’s hand roared. Satan exploded in a bloody mass of feathers.
The kid landed on Hap’s back, fingers tearing wildly at his eyes. Fargo thought for a second that Hap might meet the same fate as General Washington.
Willie Bryson must have thought the same thing because he leaped to his brother’s aid. He had a wide-bladed knife in his hand. He crossed the pit with a couple of long strides, and raised the knife to strike at the kid’s back.
At that point things started to go to hell.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 16607f26-c863-455a-a1e2-4e549069b434
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 16.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.50, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jon Sharpe
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