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The deaths are protracted That was one thing I learned when I went to see Loyd excel in the profession to which he was born

I’d had in :out the aniht Loyd cut the wheel sharply, taking us off the road and up a gravel arroyo He seeate the reservation by the same mysterious instincts that lead birds to Costa Rica and back holy each year We reached a thicket where a les, close together, like nervous horses ready to bolt Loyd pulled his red truck into the herd Beyond the trees was a dirt arena where roosters strutted around clearing their throats, barnyard-innocent

Loyd steeredeverybody I saw no other women, but Loyd would have been welcooing to lose their shirts today," abirds" Theponytail tied up Navajo style His na proud of me

"Glad to y A chunk of turquoise on a leather thong rested on his collarbone, below the scar of an old tracheotoo back a ways"

I laughed "You give theht?"

"No, after," Collie said "I sew theht it was to the death" I dragged a finger across ht, one of theirls always forget about the one that lives?"

"Everybody loves a hero, I guess" Loyd winked atheroic about a dead bird," I pointed out

The arena centered on a raked floor of reddish-brown dirt Loydat its perimeter to a dilapidated flank of wooden chairs where he deposited h the atmosphere was as innocuous as a picnic, minus women and food

"I’ll be back," he said, and vanished

The place was thick with roosters but didn’t smell like poultry, only of clean, sharp dust I suppose the birds didn’t stay around long enough to establish that kind of presence Sohtly; the chairs were all nailed together in long rows, the type used for parades I spotted Loyd through the crowd Everybody wanted to talk to hi in like suitors at a dance He was quite at home here, and relaxed: an important man who’s beyond self-importance

He returned to me just as a short, darkout a chalk square in the dirt of the center pit Betting flared around the fringes An old er at the crowd and shouted, angrily, "Seventy! Soaff tournament," he explained quietly "That means the birds have a little steel spur on the back of each leg In the knife fights they get blades"

"So you have gaff birds and knife birds," I said I’d been turning over this question since our trip to Kinishba

"Right They fight different A knife fight is a cutting fight and it goes a lot faster You never really get to see what a bird could do The really gaaff birds"

"I’ll take your word for it," I said

The first two fighters, men named Gustavo and Scratch, spoke to the e Scratch appeared to have only one functional eye Loyd said they were two of the best cockfighters on the reservation The first position was an honor

"The roosters don’t look honored," I said Actually they looked neither pleased nor displeased, but stalked in circles, accustomed to life on one square yard of turf Their tail feathers ticked like weeds and one of them crowed nonstop, as if impatient But impatience implies consciousness of time and a chicken is existential I know that much about birds

"How co with your friends?" I asked Loyd

"I’ve got people to train the birds, bring the birds, weigh in, all that I handle You’ll see"

"Train the birds? How do you teach a bird to fight?"

"You don’t, it’s all instinct and breeding You just train theet in a crowd"