Rites of Spring
Spring had arrived in Wyoming. Elk moved out of the valleys and towards their higher summer grazing grounds. The clash of the young bucks' antlers resounded over the countryside as they challenged each other for dominance. While snowdrops poked their delicate heads through the frozen surface and the first robins searched for worms, this herd, too, migrated to its traditional grazing ground – the Devil's Hole. Like the bucks challenging each other for leadership of the herd, so too did the bucks of this herd battle for pecking order.
All day the woods and hollows of the Hole rang with groans and shouts as champions rose and fell. Shots rang out, then deathly silence. At night, dinner was gulped down. The men gathered in clumps, and the compound filled with mutters and curses as weapons were cleaned, bets won and lost, and tallies totaled. The fallen staunched their wounds and drowned their sorrows in whiskey as the victors laughed and joked. Only two remained above the fray. The Kid and Kyle – each secure in his own position and place in the gang – watched the annual rite; Curry with amused contempt, Kyle with confusion.
This spring, as had happened each year, it was down to the final two combatants seeking supremacy and leadership of the gang – Wheat and Heyes. Their chosen seconds – Kyle and the Kid – stood tensely to the side, spare weapons at the ready, following their every motion. The remainder of the gang stood safely back, watching, placing bets, hoping or fearing – given their individual fancies – whether this time, this year, Wheat would succeed.
Tension showed on the combatants' faces. Wheat swaggered forward confidently, hesitated, and, taking a deep breath, reached for his weapon. A hoot arose from the watching men; Wheat swung around glaring at all until silence reigned. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took aim. Groans and cheers arose from the spectators when he missed. Wheat closed his eyes. His face set, he turned to Heyes and awaited the kill shot.
Heyes took his time. He examined the ground, his dimples appearing as he studied his position. He checked his weapon, chuckled, and handed it to the Kid, taking the Kid's proffered alternative. He strolled into position, ignoring the crowd. With deliberate speed, Heyes positioned himself, turning sideways to his opponent. He smiled with conviction. All sound stopped as Heyes, almost without looking, took his first shot. A murmur arose as the projectile flew cleanly and landed inevitably at its target.
Wheat's shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes, muttered a brief prayer, and accepted his fate. Heyes, having gained the bonus, strode confidently forward, ready to end the battle. He drew his weapon and fired his shot, the sound ricocheting as Wheat's ball flew off the plateau, over the side, and splashed into the stream far below. Without bothering to check the results, Heyes swung his mallet one more time, sending his ball sailing through the final wickets and coming to rest nestled against the final stake.
Once again, Heyes had proven himself master of croquet and master of the Devil's Hole gang.
Author's note: This silly piece was inspired by the recently authenticated copy of Billy the Kid and friends playing croquet.