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THE two fighters cradle their birds on either side of the dirt pit. The roosters peck sharply at the air, their instincts revved for combat. But before the referee starts the first match of the night, he grabs a microphone and addresses the 200 or so spectators.

“If there are any law enforcement officers in the house tonight, please stand up and identify yourselves,” asks the referee, who goes by the name Woodchopper.

When nobody stands, Woodchopper continues: “I just say this so we can all relax and have a good time. You know there are three bills against us in the Legislature and it doesn’t look good. All I know is they’re trying to take away something that we all love.”

The crowd cheers in agreement, then starts whooping and hollering in anticipation of another long night of cockfighting at the Atchafalaya Game Club, an arena-style pit housed in an old potato shed in Henderson, La.

The club, smack in the middle of Cajun country, is one of the biggest and busiest in the state, but Woodchopper’s words carry the strain of a tradition that is in its twilight.

In an almost literal sense, cockfighting in the United States is facing the same fate as a rooster in the pit. The final death match is being waged in Louisiana, the only state that still allows this ancient blood sport. With several anti-cockfighting bills currently being debated by the State Legislature, the only question is whether the end will be swift or drawn-out. One bill calls for an immediate ban; the most lenient calls for a three-year phaseout.

One thing is certain: legal cockfighting in Louisiana is about to fade into history. The end could be played out in weeks or months, depending on the legislative outcome, but it is only a matter of time before this generations-old slice of rural Americana goes completely underground.

For the uninitiated, cockfighting usually comes across one of two ways: primal and exotic, or backwoods and revolting. There’s rarely a middle ground. But if you’re determined to catch the last gasp of this roughhewn subculture, be forewarned: dress down, brace for blood and save moral debates for outside the pit.

Even in this last surviving outpost, the activity has been on the ropes for several years, staving off extinction through the cagey maneuvering of farm-belt lawmakers. But when Louisiana became the last legal cockfighting refuge — after Oklahoma’s ban in 2002 and New Mexico’s ban in March — the pressure became relentless.

SURE, they’re going to make it illegal, but they’re never going to stop rooster fighting,” said Chris Stewart, an avid breeder and fighter from Livingston Parish. “All they’re doing is pushing it underground, just like every other state.” Nobody here talks about traveling to Mexico, Puerto Rico, Bali or the Philippines, where cockfighting remains a legal form of popular entertainment.

In the dozen or so licensed venues in Louisiana, there is a palpable sense that the end is near. Recent crowds have been large and boisterous. Fighters, who usually pace their roosters to make it through the January-to-August season, are crisscrossing the state to enter as many events as possible. The activity has never been a big tourist draw, but Mr. Stewart said he had been getting calls every week from outsiders who wanted to experience a match before it was outlawed.

“I was pitting roosters when I was 11, 12 years old,” Mr. Stewart said in a country drawl. “It’s a heritage. It’s been handed down and handed down. Down in the lower country with all the Cajuns, it’s big-time. Just the way it’s in the rooster’s blood, it gets in your blood.”

With the clock on his passion ticking away, Mr. Stewart has been fighting his birds relentlessly. He is a regular on Friday and Sunday nights — in addition to participating at Atchafalaya — at the L’il Rebel Game Club in Holden, La., just down the road from his home. Clarence (Wooly) Bunch owns and operates L’il Rebel, a tiny but once-thriving club that he is painstakingly rebuilding after it burned to the ground in a 2004 accident.

Mr. Bunch, 61, spends his weekdays at the club with hammer and nails even as the curtain threatens to fall on his livelihood. He’s trying to add a small kitchen so his wife can fix hot food at the matches. A hand-lettered sign on the wall indicates that Mr. Bunch’s beer license is pending.

“I’m just going to keep carrying on,” Mr. Bunch said. “If they pass the bill, you’re going to see a lot backyarding just like every other state. I’m never going to get rid of my birds. It’s just not right for something to be legal and then, all of a sudden, it’s illegal.”

While Mr. Stewart and Mr. Bunch are resigned to the fate of cockfighting, Rowdy Albers is angry.

“My daughter’s 21 years old now and she’s been around it all her life,” he said. “Now she’s crying that her child won’t get to see it. Besides, they’re not animals, they’re birds.”

Mr. Albers’s breakdown of the animal kingdom is often repeated by cockers. In fact, the state uses this creative taxonomy to allow the activity, exempting fighting roosters from its otherwise sweeping law against cruelty to animals.

Cockers point out that most of the birds don’t die in the pit, although poked-out eyes and broken legs and wings are common. Even maimed, gamecocks can be used for breeding and, for the most part, live out their lives like any other chicken not destined for the dinner table.

Dale Barras, who has operated the Atchafalaya Game Club for 10 years, looks at a ban through an economic lens and sees a “lose-lose situation.”

“I have $250,000 invested in this place that’s going to be thrown out the window,” Mr. Barras said in a thick Cajun accent. “And it’s not just the pit operators. What happens to the feed stores? The supply houses? The breeders? You have to understand, people come from all over the country to fight. They fill up the motels. The waitresses get great tips. It’s going to be devastating.”

Laura Maloney, director of the Louisiana Society for the Protection of Animals, expresses sympathy for people invested in the fight game. But after years of unsuccessful lobbying, she and fellow activists are going for the kill.

“It’s cruel and barbaric and it desensitizes people to violence,” Ms. Maloney said. “This needs to be banned immediately, and for a ban to be enforceable, it needs to be a felony.”

In fact, a recent poll in Louisiana showed that 82 percent of voters favored a ban. The growing public disapproval pushed cockfighting into the shadows years ago.

Mr. Barras no longer posts fliers or other forms of advertisement for his club. And in March, following state police raids of two other pits, Mr. Barras established an age requirement of 21 for spectators and participants. The owners of the raided pits — Milk Dairy in Tickfaw and Sunrise in Logansport — were cited for illegal gambling and contributing to the delinquency of juveniles.

Lt. Rhett Trahan of the Louisiana State Police helped lead the recent raids and harbors little sympathy for cockfighters. “I’m just as Cajun as the rest of them,” he said, “and it’s sure not part of my culture.”

Henderson, home of the Atchafalaya Game Club, is a one-exit town near Lafayette, 120 miles west of New Orleans. The club, two large metal warehouses on a gravel road behind Peggy’s Lounge, has no signs and no parking lot.

But when Saturday afternoon rolls around, the grass field next to the club fills with pickup trucks as fighters unload their prized and pampered roosters. The birds, carrying revered bloodlines like Albany, Hatch and Gypsy, are carefully bred and trained for speed, cutting prowess and gameness.

Before the fights begin, the handlers move their roosters to “cockhouses” — air-conditioned stalls — inside one of the warehouses. Some of the regular fighters adorn their stalls with signs sporting their fight monikers: Final Cut, Fast Dolla, Wrecking Farm and Fowl Play.

On one recent Saturday, Mr. Barras served up 25 sacks of spicy boiled crawfish as the fighters and fans trickled in. The dress code trends toward faded denim and camouflage, tattoos and cowboy boots. The atmosphere is warm and friendly, with familiar rivals seeking each other out, asking about family members and swapping fight stories. Women are a distinct, but vocal, minority.

Spectators pay a $20 cover charge. As they enter, they walk past a snack bar featuring such South Louisiana delicacies as crawfish étouffée, jambalaya and gumbo. A small shop sells items ranging from gaffs and bird vitamins to souvenir hats and T-shirts. One popular shirt features two roosters grappling under the watchful eyes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln, all reputed cockfighting fans. As the rooster crowd likes to point out, an early biographer traced Lincoln’s nickname, Honest Abe, to his fair handling of a disputed cockfight.

As the sun fades, the fighters turn to the business at hand, posting their $150 entry fee, sharpening the gaffs and blades they attach to the roosters’ legs, weighing and tagging and fussing over their birds. As a fresh pair of fighters enters the pit, people in the crowd scream for betting action, offering wagers from $10 to $100. Through eye contact and a quick exchange of shouts and hand signals, the bet is on.

Mr. Stewart has entered the gaff competition, preferring the sharp spikes to the razorlike blades. He waits almost an hour before he’s called for his initial match, and blood splatters seconds into the fight. He has trained his lemon-hackled rooster for a quick kill, a fatal gaff to his opponent’s soft underbelly just below the wing. Instead, Stewart’s bird gets spiked in the neck and begins to get pummeled. The rooster is still game, though, so the fighters are ushered into a smaller “drag pit,” where the match will end when one bird is killed or “goes cold” and refuses to fight.

The drama continues for about 10 more minutes as Mr. Stewart repeatedly revives the sagging bird by blowing on its head and sucking blood from its beak. When the rooster finally fails to respond, it’s counted out, and Mr. Stewart carries his limp fowl back to its cage. He gives the bird a 50-50 chance of pulling through.

The loss puts Mr. Stewart in the losers’ bracket, knocking him out of the big money but putting him in position to win some underdog bets in later matches. The derby continues well past midnight, and his wife, Christine, ends up sleeping in the truck with the pillow and comforter she always brings.

Mr. Stewart eventually wins several matches, but never strings together the three straight victories needed to share in the prize money. He is beaten and tired, but his mood lifts the next day when his losing roosters perk up, even the bird with the near-fatal neck wound. The creature will live to fight another day, even if those days are numbered.