Love on the Line (12 page)

Ding.

She quickly plugged in a cable. “Hello, Central . . . I had a bit of trouble with the switchboard, but Mr. Palmer has it up and running for me now.” Her eyes connected with his.

He lowered the lid on the hutch.

Her gaze shot to the cable she’d plugged in, her eyes stormy.

He hesitated.

“Yes, Judge. Five live birds is three dollars entrance, including birds. Twenty live birds is fifteen dollars entrance, which also includes the birds.” She pressed her lips together. “You’re welcome.” She snatched the cable from the jack. “I hate this. I’ll have to answer these stupid questions and report on this awful shoot for days.”

“The switchboard’s working, then?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Dropping the cloth on his desk, he made his way to the screen and looked out. The town’s librarian let herself through the gate and hurried up the walk carrying a hatbox.

“Luke?” Georgie’s voice held a quiver.

“There’s someone here to see you.” Opening the screen door, he stepped onto the porch. “Good morning, Mrs. Crutcher.”

“Mr. Palmer.”

Georgie rose. “Come in, Wendy. You have a hat for our contest?”

“I do,” she replied, her smile infectious.

Tugging his brim, he nodded to the women. He could see Georgie’s distress, but he hardened his heart. “I’ll call you with the results of the events as they happen. I’m sure folks will be wanting to know.”

Letting the screen slap shut behind him, he nursed his irritation. Better that than the softer, more dangerous emotions she evoked.

Crates filled with one thousand fluttering pigeons surrounded Luke, their throaty coos an unceasing clamor, their musky smell overpowering his senses. Reaching into a wooden cage, he grabbed one, its tail feathers fanning.

“Here you go,” he said, handing it to Duane Pfeuffer, the son of the feed store owner.

Skinny as a darning needle, the young man tucked the bird under his arm and jogged to the pigeon ring several yards away. A barricade stretching around the ring in a half circle held back a sea of men in their Sunday best vying for position. It appeared to Luke as if every rancher and townsman in the state had turned out for the 26th Annual Texas State Sportsmen’s Tournament. A raucous mixture of English and German voices and the exchanges of last-minute bets added to the chaos.

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.