Buckskin, Bloomers, and Me Read online

  “Those plays aren’t easy to make,” Buckskin said.

  I opened my eyes as Mr. Norris sat up straighter, and I watched his reflection in the window. He glanced over at me but must’ve thought I was sleeping, which was natural, because that’s what I usually do on trains. Then he turned back to Buckskin, leaned forward.

  “Picking up a ball off the ground,” he said, “and throwing it across the field before a two-hundred-forty-four pound slob or a gimp can run ninety feet when it’s ninety-five degrees and the wind’s blowing from right field to home plate … that’s infinitely easier than shooting two men off galloping horses at four hundred yards. Don’t you agree, Buck?”

  I became pretty interested and curious about the conversation nobody figured I was listening to.

  Mr. Norris placed his deck of cards in his coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, took a swig, and passed it over to Buckskin.

  When Buckskin took a swallow, Mr. Norris leaned in close and brought his voice down to a whisper, but since there wasn’t no woman lawyer preaching about suffrage and Susan B. Anthony and Wyoming, and no noise except the typical train noise, which I’d gotten used to with all the traveling, I heard him plain as day.

  “I know you love baseball, Buck. And I know you really want to coach and manage a team. But you need to think about yourself. I hired you on to save your life. We get enough press as it is. Do you want to have people take note of you like they do Waddell?” Mr. Norris paused just long enough to take a swig of liquor. “They’ve got a new prison in Wyoming, Buck, four or five years old now. They’d love to have you making brooms till they could let you test out that Julian Gallows they used on your pal, Tom Horn, three years ago.”

  Buckskin wasn’t saying nothing.

  “You never struck me as a fool, Buck. Let the girls take care of themselves. You take care of yourself. I’ll take care of the team. Tread lightly, pard.”

  Wasn’t much after that before I really fell sound asleep and stayed that way till Buckskin woke me to say we was in Axtell. Getting woke up with my head hurting from resting against a train window for a number of hours, I had trouble figuring out if I had dreamt that conversation. But then, like it had been a dream, I plumb forgot all about it for a while.

  * * * * *

  The Bloomer team arrived in Axtell around 2:30. Mr. Norris had sent the crew on ahead of us to put up our canvas fences and grandstand in Axtell. As we waited at the depot to find out when we needed to be at the ball field and then what time the train would be leaving for Concordia, Ruth came up to me.

  She said she couldn’t wait to get her new glove, which had been mailed to Axtell, and she asked me to take her to the post office to fetch the package. Carrie Cassady offered to make sure Ruth’s luggage was taken care of properly. Since the post office was right across the street, Buckskin told us we’d best hurry before Mrs. Eagan caught sight of us. So we hurried across the street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brown County World

  Hiawatha, Kansas • June 15, 1906

  … The “manager” of the alleged “lady” ball team was about the toughest looking specimen of humanity seen in this city for some time. Some of those attending the game say it is not the first time they have been played for suckers, for a number of times last year, a gang was picked up somewhere and run in under some name, and as a result they paid their money to see a rotten game. A Sunday ball game is bad enough, but that such an attraction should be pulled off on a Sunday afternoon, within the city limits, is a disgrace to the city and an insult to every respectable lady in the community.

  For a small town of maybe seven hundred folks and about seven million flies, Axtell had a gigantic post office. And I sure didn’t expect to see so many folks inside.

  One gent was trying to cash a money order, whilst another worked one of them telegraph machines. A tired-looking old fellow was complaining to somebody behind the counter that driving them rural routes had turned into a misery, ’cause nobody bothered to drag the roads, while a woman sending some letters nodded like she understood whatever the postal worker was telling her. Weren’t long, though, before everybody stopped talking and just stared at Ruth and me, but mostly at sweet, pretty Ruth. A gent behind the head-nodding lady turned around to face us, as he must’ve been sick of hearing the postal carrier complain about roads. He removed his straw hat, bowed, and stepped aside, saying: “You two ladies must be from the National Bloomer Girls.”

  Ruth, never much of a talker, except when she got mad, especially at Maggie Casey, made her head bob whilst the man was putting his straw hat back atop his bald head. So I said, “Yes, sir,” in my girl’s voice about the same time he give his name, Mr. Sehy, editor and publisher of The Anchor, as he produced a notebook and pencil from his pocket. He requested an interview.

  The nodding lady, finished with her mailing, smiled at Ruth but she gave me a look that said she might be suspicious of what I was up to, then she was gone. At the same time, the fellow trying to cash the money order turned around and said to no one in particular: “This town has a baseball team?”

  When I glanced at him, my heart just about stopped beating, because he weren’t no gent at all, but Judge Kevin Brett. I jerked down my cap and turned toward the fellow working the telegraph who stood up suddenly and announced: “That’s funny. It just went dead.”

  To which the old codger who was complaining about the roads sighed and said: “Probably the weight of the flies collapsing the line.”

  “Our Blues,” said the fellow who had just finished counting out the cash for Judge Brett, “will be playing the National Bloomer Girls of Kansas City in less than an hour.”

  Ruth just smiled, and the judge moved over toward us. I said in my highest and most nervous girl’s voice: “Ruth … Ruth Eagan … here has a baseball glove that was supposed to be delivered to this post office.”

  Thankfully, the mail clerk called the judge back to the window to get his cash, and then the old guy who didn’t like flies and undragged roads, though I don’t reckon anybody truly likes flies, said he knew where that package was, and went to the back of the building which was packed high with boxes, crates, and sacks of mail, magazines, and newspapers scattered across the floor.

  I strode over to the counter, because I wanted to help Ruth, but mostly because that section lay clear on the other side of the room from where that man-killing judge stood getting his money. Much later, I wondered if Widow Amy DeFee and Judge Brett had swindled that money out of the insurance company, or if it was ill-gotten gains they’d stole from other honest folks.

  “Baseball,” the Anchor editor began his interview, “is a dangerous game, Miss Eagan.”

  Ruth said: “Dangerous?”

  The editor said: “Why, yes, I have received reports this very week that a boy in Kansas City, not seventeen years old, was hit over his heart by a pitch and died instantly.”

  “How horrible and sad,” said Ruth, because she was nice and liked people, even ones she’d never met.

  The man working the telegraph tapped relentlessly, about as fast as my heart kept pounding, and said: “This is the queerest thing.”

  Sweating now and thinking my heart might just quit, I asked a man behind the counter: “Should I go help the fellow look for the package, sir?”

  But the fellow said: “Ma’am, civilians are not allowed in the mail room.” From the corner of my eye, I spied the judge glancing at me, and I lowered my head and muttered: “I understand, sir.”

  The judge stepped away from the counter, as the telegrapher said: “It’s still not working. I don’t understand.”

  At the same time, Ruth said to the reporter: “Lightning can strike anywhere, Mr. Sehy, whether you’re playing the game or not.”

  The judge counted his money and, once satisfied, shoved it in his pocket, and said to the mail clerk: “Are all your players locals,
sir?”

  “Of course,” the man helping him said. “We bring in no ringers, sir, and our Blues are fine sportsmen.”

  After gnawing on his lip, Judge Brett commented loudly: “Playing the Bloomer Girls?”

  Ruth turned to him and said: “You should come to our game, sir.”

  I swear, if I hadn’t held Ruth in the highest regard, I would have strangled her right then and there, because the man-killing judge said: “The game is to be played in …” He checked his watch.

  The clerk volunteered the game time and told him the location: “At Stout’s Pasture.” The way he said it sounded like a brag, as if Stout’s Pasture was something like South Side Park in Chicago.

  The killer of my pa slipped his watch back into his vest pocket and thanked Ruth and the postal clerk, and moved toward the door, just as the old codger hollered from the back: “Here it is!”

  Those words stopped the judge, who I wished would mind his own business, and, for some reason, he watched the old-timer bring the box over to me.

  When he asked if I was Miss Ruth Eagan, I said: “No, I’m Lucy Totton, but Ruth is right over yonder.”

  I didn’t turn around to point Ruth out, because I knew the clerk wasn’t blind and, the old woman having left, Ruth was now the only real female in the post office, and, more importantly, I didn’t want Judge Brett to get a better look at my face. I started to really dislike the old fellow who hated undragged roads.

  Package in hand, he said: “This must be signed for by Miss Ruth Eagan or …”

  “Her ma,” I said in defeat.

  The old fellow looked up at me. “You can’t be her ma.” His eyes squinted, and he give me a look like I’d seen folks give Russ Waddell or Buckskin or, most often, fat and ugly Nelson McConnell when they were decked out in their Bloomer uniforms. Under another circumstance, I would have been happy, because I’d grown sick and tired of getting mistook for a female. He laughed and said: “Your name is Lucy? ”

  Ruth came over and said that she’d sign for her own package, because we had to leave before Mr. Norris, our manager, had a conniption.

  In the meantime, the telegrapher had gone over to this box on the wall, which was a telephone I learnt, and he tried doing something to it a few times. “Thunderation, the telephone is dead, too,” he said as he set down the piece he’d put against his ear, mumbling: “This is really quite mysterious.”

  “Had the same problem a few years back … during that bad winter … remember?” commented Mr. Sehy, the reporter.

  The telegrapher said: “That was because of the snow and ice. It’s summer.”

  The old codger stepped over by the reporter, as he said to the telegrapher: “But there’s dirt and dust and wind and flies and flies and flies.” Then he turned to yell at the judge to shut the fool door, because there were already enough flies swarming the building. I stopped hating that bony old Methuselah when I heard the door shut, followed by footsteps on the boardwalk, which meant Judge Brett was out of my hair.

  When Ruth was done signing for the parcel, Mr. Sehy asked her for another five minutes, but Ruth said she was sorry, but she had to get ready for the game. She told him to come to the game, and then perhaps he could talk to other players when it was over. That’s the kind of person Ruth was, considerate. Didn’t matter if you was writing for The Axtell Anchor or the Sporting News, she treated you the same. Decent. Better than decent.

  When Ruth and me stepped outside onto the boardwalk, I felt a mite better, and then, briefly, true happiness come over me when Ruth pulled the new-leather smelling wonderful Spalding mitt out of the box and cried: “Look …!” She looked even more beautiful than usual, and I almost bit my tongue, because I could tell by the way her lips were forming that she was about to call me by my Christian name and not Lucy Totton. I cringed on account that Judge Brett hadn’t gone no farther than a few doors down and was standing outside Berry’s Hardware. Ruth did call me by my true name, but nobody could’ve heard it—I barely did, and I stood right beside her.

  And nobody would have cared—except for the judge—because at that moment, everybody in Axtell figured out why the telegraph lines was down and the telephones weren’t working.

  * * * * *

  There was two banks in Axtell—the Citizens Bank and the State Bank of Axtell. The Citizens Bank had $133,667.61 in deposits and $25,000 capital, while just across the square, the State Bank had “abundant capital and a fine equipment” and was “prepared to extend every reasonable accommodation.” I learnt this, as did everybody else, if they happened to read The Axtell Anchor, ’cause these numbers and facts had been printed in that newspaper.

  And that’s how come the Gallagher Gang knew about the banks. Which was why, an hour or so later, Mr. Bannan, a director at the State Bank of Axtell, and a Mr. Hostetler of the Citizens Bank, were yelling at Mr. Sehy of The Anchor for having printed them figures in the newspaper. Mr. Sehy told the two angry bankers that if they didn’t want them numbers printed, they shouldn’t have included that information in the advertisements they wanted put in The Anchor.

  I don’t know why the Bannan fellow was so mad. The Gallaghers didn’t rob the State bank, just the Citizens Bank. Guess maybe they had heard about what happened to them Daltons down in Coffeyville, and decided they best not try to rob two banks on the same day. So they had picked the Citizens Bank.

  Not that it mattered all that much.

  But don’t believe that blood-and-thunder account written by that Colonel Bertrue some two weeks later that got published in the Wide Awake Weekly. I don’t see how a fellow can write about a bank robbery when he wasn’t even there. The reason I know he wasn’t there is because he didn’t mention me or Ruth or Buckskin or the Axtell Blues. He didn’t write about the Kansas City Bloomer Girls, either, or even say anything about baseball in that little bitsy type. He wrote about a Marshal Fairweather, a fictional person according to Buckskin, and said there was ten Gallagher brothers when there was only three, with only two of them being brothers. The third was a first cousin. At least, that’s how the Caney Chronicle had it in its story that got printed up in a Topeka newspaper when we come back down south for a ball game four days later. Colonel Bertrue got it right though when he said the Gallaghers cut the telegraph lines and broke into the telephone company where they hog-tied and gagged the two employees and messed up most of the equipment inside the office just before they rode up to the Citizens Bank.

  When they come out of the bank, which is right when Ruth and me left the post office, they started shooting. I’d only been shot at once, when that rotten judge fired at me from inside my own home, but I know more bullets likely would have been sent my way had he recollected to reload the Winchester. But I can tell you the sound of these three guns being fired at the same time was a lot louder than that Winchester.

  Glass was breaking. Dogs were barking. Men were screaming right along with the women. I yelled at Ruth, “Get down!” Then I dived, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her behind a water trough right before a bullet fired by one of them Gallaghers smashed the plate-glass window of the post office.

  Hearing that shattering glass, I rolled off of Ruth and sneaked a glance inside, where I saw the newspaper editor and the old codger diving behind the desk of the telegrapher, whose eyes were large behind his spectacles before a hand reached up, latched onto his arm, and jerked him off his stool and out of sight.

  My ears were ringing from the cannonade as I looked down the boardwalk and seen Judge Brett, who wasn’t looking at me but at the Citizens Bank and the three Gallaghers, before reason come to him, and he leaped into the entrance way of the hardware store.

  “My new glove,” Ruth whispered, but, with all the noise, my ears didn’t register them words.

  You see, my brain was preoccupied with that homicidal judge, wondering if it would be unchristian if I wished that a stray bullet or even an inten
tional one struck the man and killed him dead. Then I thought it might not matter if it was unchristian, ’cause, by grab, that no-good had murdered my pa, and God likely don’t mind revenge in appropriate cases.

  But then Ruth’s words took hold of me as I felt movement behind me, and when I rolled over toward her and the water trough, all I saw was the water trough. Slowly, but not too slowly because all this was happening faster than Russ Waddell’s fastball when he ain’t hung over, I recollected that when I had tackled Ruth, her new baseball glove flew out of her hands and over the water trough and into the street.

  Cussing, I stood, and I saw Ruth bending over as deadly bullets flew all over the place. I ran around the water trough just as a bullet sent water splashing up like an oil-well gusher, like the drawing I’d seen in a Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper. Ruth scooped up her new Spalding and stood. I jumped and grabbed Ruth around the waist to pull her to safety at the same time one of them Gallaghers rode up and aimed his Colt revolver at Ruth and me.

  I’m no hero. Golly, I ain’t nothing but a second baseman, though I can play anywhere I’m needed but not as good as I do in the middle infield. But seeing that Colt and fearing that the bank robber was about to gun down sweet, pretty Ruth in cold blood, I shifted and flung Ruth into the water trough with her brand new Spalding first basewoman’s glove.

  I wanted to dive in with her, but my legs did not move.

  I could see the finger of the mounted Gallagher tighten on that trigger, and I pictured myself getting shot dead, and would’ve been dead, too, had not a bullet just then hit him just above the second button of the bank-robbing scoundrel’s calico shirt. This Gallagher—learnt later it was Charles—fell out of his saddle, along with his still-cocked Colt. His body slammed right into me and drove me to the ground. I couldn’t see nothing now, ’cause Charles Gallagher was right on top of the upper half of my body, the tails of his duster covering my head.

  Sure made them millions of flies happy as they buzzed around this carnage going on in Axtell, Kansas, on a late Wednesday afternoon in early June.