The locals outnumbered the visitors from Texas, but as it had been with the now interrupted game, it appeared that it was the visiting team that had the edge in experience and ability if not necessarily in the area of willingness. The local boys were game but the simple truth was that they were outclassed.
Longarm saw the redheaded center fielder—Ted, was it? he thought so—snatch a man twice his size off the back of his outfield companion Nat and cut the big man down to size while Nat was busy breaking the nose of an unlucky Kansan who didn’t duck in time.
Caleb, the catcher, took a vicious-looking punch square in the face and hardly blinked—but then, hell, a mere punch would hardly compare with the punishment of catching a foul ball flush on the puss—before grabbing the offender by the belt and lifting him bodily overhead. With a roar Caleb threw the fellow at a trio of onrushing locals. All four, counting the one Caleb tossed, went down like so many duckpins and rolled around on the ground with arms and legs flying.
Things might’ve gone on like that for some time except some of Marshal Daily’s whistle-blowing coppers came along and stopped the fun.
The local deputies took charge like they knew what they were doing. They both carried hickory batons and weren’t shy about applying them—carefully though so as to inflict more than a mite of quick pain but not anywhere that would cause actual damage. They mostly went for the meaty parts of a man’s thigh so he would feel the bruising for the next week or so but where nothing would be busted and no organs could be ruptured. Longarm admired the technique for the professionalism it showed.
“All right now, dammit, everybody be still and …”
Ben, the young asshole who’d started all this, tried to pipe up with a mouthful of complaint which the older of the two deputies quickly snubbed short.
“You.” The cop pointed his baton at Ben. “Shut your mouth or you’ll be the first to look inside a jail cell.”
“Yes, uh, sir.” Ben was lying on the ground with blood all over him, clinging to his right leg with both hands where he’d shot himself.
“I don’t want to hear a word. Not from any one of you until I ask. And then you’ll talk to me one at a time. Do I make myself clear?” The policeman glared slowly around the now silent circle of combatants. “All right. Now I want you to separate. Ball players over there.” He pointed. “Everyone else over here. And don’t a single damn one of you say a word, not one, until I look you in the eyes and give you permission to speak. Are we clear? Is everybody happy? Fine. Now move. Nice and slow. That’s it.”
Longarm shut his mouth, looked around on the ground for the cheroot he’d been enjoying when this mess got started–couldn’t find it though, dammit—and moved to do as he was damn well told.
Chapter 17
The local lawmen were sensible enough to be more interested in peace than in retribution. They cut the visitors out of the herd and sent them all packing after declaring the lopsided ball game over and done with.
That was just fine by the ball players, most of whom by that time were fairly well battered. They might have beat hell out of the locals on the ball field, but prowess most often has to bow to the sheer weight of numbers when it comes to a brawl. And this time was no different. There were more of the Kansans than there were Texas boys, and that right there proved to be the long and the short of it when bumps and bruises were handed out in the free-for-all.
Longarm himself had a nasty gash in the vicinity of his left eyebrow, a shoulder that would be sore as hell for the next couple days, what felt like a bruised tailbone—either from a fall or from being stomped on while he was already down, he wasn’t sure—and knuckles that looked like they’d been run across a cheese grater about five times too many.
The other boys had similar assorted ailments.
But then so did a good many of the members of the mob that jumped them.
All in all, Longarm thought, it could be said that a good time was had by all. And a fair time if you wanted to look at it that way. The Capitals won on the field but the locals reclaimed their honor in the melee that followed.
Longarm had lost track of the inept poker player who had started the whole thing. Which was all right, really. Longarm damn sure didn’t want anything from the boy. And this way the affair ended without anybody being shot. There was much to be said for that.
Douglas McWhortle looked his players over after the coppers were done chewing on them. The team manager planted his hands on his hips and tried, probably for the benefit of any of the locals who might be paying attention, to sound like he actually cared that there had been a fight.
“All right, everybody, you heard what the officer said. Stay together in a bunch and go … quiet, mind … straight to the train station. Our train is scheduled to leave in”—McWhortle pulled a watch from his pocket and consulted it—“in a little less than an hour. I want you all to keep together. No stragglers and no stopping to bellyache with the hometown folks. Above all don’t any of you try and sneak away for a drink. You hear me? I’ll make sure you get something on the train, but don’t get into any more trouble here in town. The police here aren’t giving us a hard time about this, so let’s not give them any more grief either. Nat, Esau, that goes for you two especially. It’s over, and let’s leave it that way. Jerry, is the cart all right?”
“Yes, sir. Nobody bothered it none.”
“All right then. You’re in charge of that. And keep an eye on this crowd, will you? If anybody tries to sneak off on his own …”
“I’ll tell you, boss. You know I will.”
“You all heard that, I hope. Jerry will be watching you while I go by the box office and get our split of the receipts. Go on now. You all know the way. I’ll meet you there in about a half hour.”
While all that was going on, Gene Darry’s deputies were giving the local crowd a talking to—with more than a few winks and grins, Longarm noted—to keep them out of trouble.
That was all just so much window-dressing, of course. The deputies would keep up an appearance of tough talk while making sure they didn’t damage the pride of the home folks and while keeping the fun from escalating into something that could have been dangerous instead of the harmless amusement it actually turned out to be.
McWhortle hustled off in the direction of the ticket booth, and Jason Hubbard, the number one pitcher more or less took charge of the ball players, shooing them away from the battleground and on toward the train station.
As they walked it occurred to Longarm that none of the ball players seemed to find it at all exceptional that every man-jack among them should have come rushing to Longarm’s defense once the punches started flying.
He sidled over to Dennis, number three or four among the pitchers and one of the youngest members of the Capitals, and asked the kid about it.
Dennis gave him a wide-eyed look of puzzlement and said, “Hell, you’re a teammate, aren’t you?” As if that explained everything.
And perhaps, Longarm thought, it really did. He was a stranger, true, but a Cap as long as he was wearing the uniform. Accustomed to working alone, and in a business where sportsmanship and cooperation were not exactly priority items, that was something he wasn’t really used to. For these boys, though, maybe it really was that simple. A teammate was in trouble, so what else would they have done but jump into the fray right along with him.
He found that attitude to be amusing in a way. But kind of touching too.
He slapped Dennis lightly on the shoulder, then drifted back through the moving pack until he was beside the baggage cart. He was still hankering for a good smoke and hadn’t had time to finish one in entirely too long.
Chapter 18
The manager was late getting back from whatever errands he’d been on. He barely made it to the station in time to shoo the team onto the train ahead of him. Longarm attributed McWhortle’s grim expression to his concern for meeting the train schedule.