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b and dangling wattles； an opposing cock could get a billhold and shuffle him to death in the first pitting。 I had been putting off the dubbing； afraid that he might bleed to death。 With a stag the danger is slight； but Icky was fully matured； more than a year…and…a…half old。 And it had to be done。
I got my shears； both the straight and the curved pairs； and went outside to Icky's coop room。
He was a friendly chicken； used to kindness and handling； and ran toward me when I opened the gate。 I picked him up； sat on the bench in front of the shack； and went to work on his b。 With my experience I don't need a man to hold a chicken for me。 I've dubbed as many as fifty stags in a single morning； all by myself； and I've never had one die from loss of blood yet。 But I was extra careful with Icky。
Gripping his body firmly between my knees； and holding his head with my left hand； I clipped his b with the straight shears as close to the head as possible。 Many cockers leave about an eighth of an inch； believing erroneously that the slight padding will give the head protection from an opponent's pecking。 But I've never known a cock to be pecked to death。 I trim right down to the bone because the veins are larger close to the head and there isn't as much bleeding。 I cut sharply； and with solid； quick snips； so the large veins were closed by the force of the shears。 Luckily； Icky's head bled very little。 I then cut away the wattles and deaf ears with the curved shears； again taking my time； and did a clean job。 As an afterthought I pulled a few short feathers out of the hackle and planted them in Icky's b。 The little blue feathers would grow there and ornament his head； until they were billed out by an irate adversary。
When I pleted the dubbing I turned him loose in his coop。 He had held still nicely； and because he had been so good about it； I caught the Middleton Gray game hen running loose in the yard； and put her into his coop。 The dubbing hadn't bothered him。 He mounted the hen before she had taken two steps。 A moment later he flew to his roosting pole and crowed。 Within a week his head would be healed pletely； and he would be ready for conditioning。
Omar had taken the decapitated Ace Black with him； but the charred Mellhorn was still in the pit。 I buried the dead chicken and the other cock's severed head in the sand before eating lunch。
If I had been pletely broke； or without any gamecocks of my own； I wouldn't have considered a partnership with Omar。 But I had enough Ace chickens to hold up my end。 Omar had excellent； purebred gamecocks。 All he needed was a man like me to work the hell out of them。 The idea of forming a partnership with anybody had never occurred to me before； although partnerships were mon enough in cockfighting circles。 Besides； I had a good deal of affection for Omar； almost a paternal feeling toward him； despite the fact that he was more than twenty years older than me。 He wanted success very much； and there were many things he had to learn。 And there was a lot that I could teach him。
After feeding the chickens that evening； I drove to Omar's farm for supper。 His farm was on the state road； and his house was a two bedroom…den structure with asphalt…tile floors。 It was a luxurious house pared to my one…and…a…half…room shack。 There was an arch above the entrance gate； and a sign painted with red letters on a white background stated：
THE O。B。 GAME FARM
〃Our Chickens Lay Every Night！〃
Omar had been in advertising too many years to pass up a good slogan。 In addition to the arch sign； there was a smaller sign nailed to the post of the gate at the eye level of passing motorists。
EGGS。 15 PER DOZEN
At least once a week； some tourist driving down the highway toward Santos or Belleview would stop and attempt to buy eggs from Omar； thinking that the sign was in error and that the eggs were fifteen cents a dozen。 Omar enjoyed the look of surprise on their faces when he told them that there was indeed no mistake。 Of course the eggs were fifteen dollars a dozen and worth a hell of a lot more！ And of course； Allen Roundhead and Claret setting eggs were a bargain indeed at fifteen dollars a dozen。
Smiling at the sign； I turned into Omar's farm。 A man like Omar Baradinsky would be a good partner for me。 Why not？ I couldn't think of a single valid objection。
That evening after supper； when Omar brought out the bottle of John Jameson； a partnership was formed。
11
For the next three days Omar and I lived out of his station wagon； driving through southern Alabama and picking up his country…walked roosters from various farmers。 The back of the station wagon had been fified with young stags before we left； each of them in a separate coop。 Every time we picked up a mature cock we left a stag to replace it。
Omar paid these Alabama farmers ten dollars a year for the privilege of leaving one of his gamecocks with the farmer's flock of hens。 In addition to the board bill； he also had to buy up and kill all the farmer's stags each year。 Selecting the right farm walk for a fighting cock is an art； and Omar had done a careful； thorough job。 All his Alabama walks were more than adequate。
A gamecock is a bird that loves freedom of movement。 With his harem at his heels； a cock will search for food all day long； getting as far as three or more miles away from his chicken house on the farm。 The more difficult his search for food； the greater his stamina bees。 At night； of course； once the chickens are asleep； the farmer must sneak out and scatter enough corn in the yard to supplement the diet。 But he must never put out enough feed to pletely satisfy the chickens。 Like members of a welfare state； chickens who don't have to get the hell out and scratch for their living will soon learn to stand around waiting for a free handout； getting fat and useless。
The hillier the farmland； the better it is for the cock's legs。 Trees to roost in at night； green fields； and； whenever possible； a fast…flowing brook for fresh water are the requisites for a good walk。 Florida is too flat for good walks； and Omar had been wise to put his roosters out in southern Alabama。
To assist us in picking up the half…wild； country…walked gamecocks； I had brought along my big Middleton Gray。 He had a deep； strong voice and an exceptionally aggressive disposition。 We had little difficulty in getting the halfwild cocks to e back to the farmyards。
First； we drove into a farmer's yard； and Omar told him we were there to pick up the rooster； and that we had another to replace him。
〃Well； now； Mr。 Baradinsky；〃 the farmer said； invariably scratching his head； 〃I ain't seen your rooster for two or three days now。〃
〃Don't worry；〃 Omar would laugh。 〃He'll be here in a minute。〃
By that time； I would have the big Gray heeled with a pair of soft sparring muffs。 As soon as I dropped the Gray in the yard； he would begin to look for hens； crowing deep from his throat。 Within seconds； an answering crow would echo from the fields or woods a mile away。 As we watched； the cock we came for would be running toward us as fast as his strong legs could carry him； his harem scattered and trailing out behind him。 He often crowed angrily as he ran… Who is this threat to my kingdom？ This interloper who would steal my hens？…he seemed to say。 When he reached the yard； he attacked immediately； and the Gray； seeing all those pretty hens； piled right into him with the sparring muffs。 Omar would catch the wild country…walked cock； and I'd put the Gray back into his coop。
After closely examining the wild gamecock； I'd saw off his natural spurs a half inch from the leg； and arm him with the other pair of sparring muffs。 We pitted the two cocks then and there to see how the bird fought。 It is very difficult to spot a runner on his own domain…often a useless dunghill rooster will fight to protect his own hens…but I could always get a fair idea of the bird's fighting ability。 If the cock was satisfactory； we left a young stag to take over the harem and placed the cock in the stag's coop。 Before leaving； Omar would pay the farmer ten dollars in advance for the next year's board and warn the man against clipping the new stag's wings。 We never took the farmer's word either。 Before leaving we always checked personally to see that there weren't any other full…grown roosters； turkeys； or guinea fowl around。 A stag must be in plete control of the yard。 If there was a mature rooster on the farm； dunghill or otherwise； the stag might have been intimidated and gone into hack； submitting to the dunghill's rule。
Omar had developed a firm； gruff manner with these farmers who loaned their farms for walks。 Despite his strong New York accent； which rural southerners distrust instinctively； he had won them over pletely during four years of contact。 He didn't merely leave a stag and forget about it until the following season。 He wrote letters periodically during the year； asking how his rooster was getting along； enclosing a stamped； self…addressed postcard to make sure he would get a reply。 The farmers responded cheerfully to Omar's active interest； and； if nothing else； they were awed by his impressive jet…black beard。
Most farmers； once they accept the idea of having a gamecock instead of a dunghill ruling their hens； are well pleased by the setup。 Why shouldn't they be？ The eggs they obtain are bigger and better…tasting； the offspring of a gamecock have more meat； and the small payment of ten dollars a year is money from an unexpected source。 And any farmer who keeps a few hens has to have a rooster。 Why not a game rooster？
Every time we picked up another country…walked rooster my heart swelled with pleasure。 Their feathers were tight and their yellow eyes were bright and alert。 Their exercised bodies were firm to the touch； and their dubbed bs usually had the dark red color of health。 Out of the twentyeight cocks Omar had on country walks； we picked up twenty…one。 The other seven； in my considered opinion； needed another full year of exercise in the country。
I was happy to get back to Ocala and anxious to get to work。 The little town of Ocala has always been my favorite Florida city； bining； as it does； the best aspects of Georgia and the worst side of Florida。 A small city； of about twenty thousand permanent residents； and some one hundred miles below the Georgia state line； Ocala is where the state of Florida really begins。
As a driver enters town on the wide island…divided highway； the first sight that hits his eyes is the banner above the road： OCALA…BIRTHPLACE OF NEEDLES！ This famous racehorse wifi be remembered by the Ocala townspeople forever。
To his left； six miles away； is Silver Springs； one of the most publicized tourist attractions in the world。 On either side of the highway there are weird attractions； displays and souvenir shops。 mercial Florida also begins at Ocala。 But the town itself is like a small Georgia town。 Decent； respectable and God…fearing。 The townspeople are good southerners…they provide their services to the rural residents and to themselves； and take only from the vacationing tourists with cameras dangling from their rubber necks。
Two miles outside the city limits in gently swelling country is my small leased farm of twenty…three acres； a small house to live in； an outhouse and outside shower； a wellconstructed concrete brick cockhouse and some thirty…odd coop walks。 My shack； as I called it； was unpainted but fortable。 The man who built it had started with concrete bricks； but ran short before the walls had reached shoulder height。 The remainder of the house had been pleted with rough； unfinished pine； and roofed over with two welded sheets of corrugated iron。 In a downpour； the heavy pounding of raindrops on the corrugated iron had often driven me out of the shack。
Omar dropped me off first and then drove to his own farm。 He had much better facilities to take care of the cocks than I had； and； upon his suggestion； I had agreed to alternate between our farms for conditioning purposes。
Buford ran out of the cockhouse as I entered the yard； a big white smile shining in the middle of his ebony face。