EL DORADO

The Hidden Gold of My Yard

I still remember the morning El Dorado hatched. Dawn light slipped through the bamboo slats of the brooder house, and dozens of Rampuri chicks were peeping for heat and feed. Most were big‑boned, wide‑backed, the kind of chicks that make a breeder grin on day one. But there, right in the middle, was this skinny little fellow—tight skin, small frame, bright eyes shining like tiny lamps. I glanced at him, nodded because he belonged to great parents, and kept on grading the others. Honest truth? That first day I never guessed he would change my whole breeding plan.

Months rolled by. In my yard stood cages full of heavy, muscular cocks thumping the bamboo and showing off their power. They grabbed every visitor’s eye. And El Dorado—still slim, still quiet—stayed in the far corner. I called him an optional breeder, a polite way of saying “maybe later, if I have nothing better.” He grew tidy and neat, but never wide. I told myself, “Nice pedigree but not enough body. Leave him.”

Time passed like water through a sieve, and one winter I started dreaming of the old small‑size Rampuri fighters my grandfather talked about—birds that moved like arrows, fought like lightning, never tired. I looked around and realized my yard was full of big boys, but none fit that picture. I needed speed, snap, and purity in a smaller shell. Every evening I walked the rows searching for an answer, and one quiet dusk my eyes fell on that lean cock in the corner. He stared back, head slightly tilted, as if asking, “Remember me?”

So, with half hope and half doubt, I penned him with a set of chosen hens—some from my best heavy line, some tight old blood, some out‑crosses I was testing. I figured: might as well see what he throws. Eggs set, weeks ticked, chicks cracked shell. And that’s when my jaw began to drop. Batch after batch, the babies all carried his look—same tight body, same sharp face, same dry shanks. Even chicks from hens famous for passing their own heavy traits came out stamped by that little sire in the corner. I had planned on blending blood; instead El Dorado was repainting the whole canvas.

At first the uniformity annoyed me—where was the mix I wanted? But the more I watched those chicks, the more I felt a tingle down my spine. Something powerful was hiding under that smooth skin.

Still, I kept quiet. I raised his sons in a back pen, fed them, let them molt, let them harden. Two full years slid by. Then, one hot afternoon, a friend dropped in and begged to test a couple of cocks. All my usual stars were molting, so I shrugged and said, “Let’s pull a couple of the small fellows. They’re El Dorado sons. Might be fun.” We carried a red‑legged pullet‐sired son to the sand pit. He was light in hand, calm in the eye. My friend smirked, expecting nothing.

The bell rang. In a blink that bird shot into the air, wings humming, legs firing like pistons. He struck his opponent so fast the other cock spun before he even saw the hit. We stared, mouths open. The fight lasted less than a minute—clean hits, heavy landings, pure accuracy. My friend whistled low. “Brother, what line is that?” I swallowed and said, “Same line as the skinny cock in the back.” We brought out a second son. Same storm. Third son, different hen, same story. Speed like I’d never bred, power packed into a small engine. Each bird fought as if the ground burned their feet—always in the air, always hitting first.

That evening I walked the yard in a daze. The humble cock I’d nearly written off had just given me fighters that made my heart race. I sat on an empty feed sack and laughed at myself. All that time gold had been shining right under my nose, and I was blind to it.

Right then I gave him his name—El Dorado, the city of lost gold. Folks hunt treasures across deserts and mountains; I almost threw mine away with the sweepings. But gold doesn’t shout. It glows. And when you finally see it, you see nothing else.

Word spread fast. Visitors came to watch the trials, all expecting big hulks and finding slim firebrands dropping bombs from the sky. Some shook their heads, not believing small birds could deliver such blows until they saw the bruises on rival cocks. A few old timers winked at me, said, “That’s classic Rampuri blood, son. Pure steel in a light frame. Don’t ever lose it.”

El Dorado’s sons weren’t just deadly in the pit; they were tough in every corner of life. Hot summer? They crowed louder. Monsoon damp? They stayed dry in spirit. A bout of sickness swept the yard—other lines coughed and lost weight; Dorado’s lads kept eating, kept shining. Strength in the blood, clear as daylight.

I learned a lesson that season: trophies look nice, but true value is in the genes. Many breeders say, “Breed winners to winners.” Yes, that works. But sometimes a bird who never fought contains a whole army inside him. El Dorado never stepped into battle himself, yet he sent wave after wave of warriors onto the field. That is a gift few birds carry, and fewer breeders recognize.

Today his pen is no longer in the corner. It stands right at the front gate, so every visitor sees the little cock with the big legacy. I take pleasure telling the story—how he was almost sold as surplus, how he renamed my yard’s future. His daughters now sit on my best eggs, passing that tight body and fearless nerve to grand‑chicks. His sons anchor my small‑frame Rampuri project, giving it the kick I dreamed about. When they crow at sunrise, the sound shoots straight into my chest like caffeine.

If you walk through my yard I’ll show you scars on bamboo uprights where his boys slam their shoulders during morning exercise. I’ll point out an old grain sack where I’ve scribbled match notes—times so short they look like typing errors. And I’ll take you to El Dorado’s roost, lean hand on his tail, letting him stand tall so you can see the fire in his eye. Small bird, big shadow.

I thank the Almighty daily for that moment of curiosity when I finally bred him. Had I sold him, or simply ignored him, my yard would be quieter, slower, poorer in spirit. El Dorado reminds me that every bird deserves a chance to speak through its children. Some shout early; others whisper for years until their offspring raise the volume.

So that’s the tale of the gold I almost missed. A skinny chick in a crowded brooder, a silent cock in a dusty corner, a father of fighters who fly like arrows. His name is El Dorado—and if you ever doubt small birds, come watch his sons in the sky. Then you’ll understand why I guard this hidden treasure with both hands and a thankful heart.