By Norris Chambers

            Juan was a young Mexican I met while working for W. Lee O’Daniel at the big radio station XEPN across the border from Eagle Pass. His occupation was watching automobiles for a small fee for tourists while they enjoyed a radio program. His older brother operated a hand cart where he sold chicken sandwiches and a few other delicacies. They had still another brother who was a policeman and their parents owned a café on the main street.

              Someone had dug a round hole about ten feet in diameter and two or three feet deep. Juan told me that the chickens fought in the pit. Two men approached, each carrying a rooster. They were talking to another man in Spanish. Juan told me he was the referee and they were getting their instructions for the first fight. I looked around me and I saw several other men working with their roosters. They were tying some sort of spike on their legs.
    "Those are very sharp," Juan explained. "They fight until one of the birds dies. Sometimes it doesn't take very long." Another man was going about in the crowd and people were handing him money. He was making some kind of notation in a black book. "He is taking bets," my interpreter explained. "Would you like to bet?" I told him I would watch a little before I did any betting.
    Both of the roosters were red, but one was of a little lighter color. The two men had now entered the pit, along with the referee. I was surprised to see them approach each other and dance around pushing their chickens together. This seemed to be irritating the birds and they were flapping their wings, pecking angrily at each other and squawking a little. Juan told me that they held them by the legs to stay out of the way of the knives. The men were called "handlers" and each one took care of his bird. They called this preliminary activity "billing" and I supposed that was because they were using their bills to peck each other.
    They had marked about a three foot square on the ground in the center of the ring, and a long line on each side of the pit. The lines were about six feet apart, and the handlers went to the lines on opposite sides of the ring., each holding his bird. The referee said something, and they lowered their chickens to the ground and turned them loose. Juan told me that this was called "pitting" the birds They flew at each other and started flapping their wings and trying to jump on top of each other, striking with the spurs like trained boxers. There was a continuous fluttering and jumping, the wings apparently serving to balance the birds as they went into the air and landed on each other. Juan told me that they called this "shuffling". There was a lot of blood on the ground, and I figured that one or both of them was injured. I expected the referee to stop the fight, but they kept on going.
    Suddenly, they both lay flat on the surface, struggling a little, but apparently unable to separate. "They are hung up," Juan said, "One of them has the spurs stuck in the other. The referee will call for the owner of the stabbed bird to remove the spur. This is so the opponent won't do further damage to the bird by twisting the knife." He was right. One of the handlers reached down between the chickens and apparently removed the reason for the hang up. He lifted his bird carried it to a position behind his line. The opponent did the same on his side. Each looked his bird over, and decided to continue to fight. The referee called on them to pit their birds again, and once more they flew at each other. The injured bird landed a lucky hit when they came together, and I saw an eye disappear and blood start rushing from the head of his opponent.
    The fight didn't last much longer. They hung up again, and when they were separated bother were bloody and neither one was able to get up. The rooster with the bad eye was pecking into thin air and the other was apparently out of it. The one eyed one quit pecking and the referee held him up and said something.
    "He declares that one the winner," Juan told me. "The last one to peck wins when both are disabled." Both handlers were inspecting their chickens, and one of them threw his bird out of the pit. The other did the same. When they hit the ground, I was surprised to see Pedro pick up both of them and carry them toward the pot he was heating water in. "Let's go," said Juan. " We will help Pedro pick the chickens."
    Still a little shocked, I followed Juan to the pot area. Pedro was wringing the chickens' necks. One of them was flapping half-hearted on the ground and the other lay still. Pedro tossed the still one in a small tub and started pouring hot water over it. He reached down occasionally and pulled at the feathers. When they would come out freely all around, he handed the bird to Juan. He laid it on the end of the wagon bed and started pulling the feathers out. I stood by watching.
    He was finished by the time Pedro brought the other one, and they exchanged birds. While Juan was plucking the feathers from the second one, Pedro was cutting the first one open and removing the internal organs. When he had finished with both birds, he took them on the wagon and laid them in the wooden barrel. With a gallon syrup bucket, he dipped into a big sack of white stuff and started pouring it over the dressed bodies. I asked Juan what that was. "It’s a mixture of salt, sugar, salt peter and a few other herbs and spices. They will keep in that barrel for weeks when packed in layers of that mixture."
    Another fight was about to start. The losing bettors had paid their debts and were placing wagers on the next fight.
    We ate our lunch (chicken, of course) and the fights continued until mid-afternoon. In every fight, there was a chicken for Pedro - sometimes two. One handler took an apparently strong and healthy rooster and wrung his neck there in the pit because he chose not to fight. Juan told me that a rooster that didn't fight was never kept and was executed on the spot. Of course Pedro made good use of him    I have never attended another chicken fight, although Juan invited me a few times while I was there. I have never cared for chicken after attending the first fight, and more especially I haven't cared for the distinctive flavor of the salt packed chicken. They served that special chicken in the family cafe and had some odd sounding name for it. Many people ate it and liked it - just as I did at first.
    I have never forgot Juan, though I never saw him or heard from him again Neither shall I forget the distinctive taste of the "barreled" chicken sandwiches and Pedro's ground rooster tamales.