“Why?” he asked, gesturing at the hundreds of people who stood, or sat on the grass, all around the flat pasture that was designated a playing field.
McWhortle grinned and looked around for a moment before answering. “It’s something I caught onto a couple years ago. A crossroads like Hoskin here doesn’t even get a circuit preacher but three, maybe four times a year. And there’s no professional entertainment whatsoever. No traveling theater troupes or circuses, none of that. So when somebody does stop, somebody like us, everybody comes out. We are the one and only big entertainment of the year, and there isn’t a soul within ten or fifteen miles who would miss the chance to be here.”
“I’ll be damned,” Longarm said in admiration and amazement. “It sure does work.”
“Does for a fact, doesn’t it? Assuming nobody steals the gate this time, that is.”
“I’ll kinda keep an eye on things if you like,” Longarm offered.
“Do that,” the manager hesitated half a second for emphasis, “Short. But you’ll have to do it while you’re busy with baseball too.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean John Charles has a bellyache this morning. I understand the family he was with last night overfed him and he’s miserable this morning. You’ll play right field the whole game today.” John Charles, J. C. Corcovan, was the regular right fielder. And in no danger whatsoever of being beaten out of his job by Custis Long.
“Sounds like a plot t’ me,” Longarm mumbled, remembering the tongue-in-cheek accusation he’d thought of about the Schultzes, fine folk that they were, last night.
“What?” McWhortle asked.
Longarm shook his head. “Nothing.”
McWhortle grunted and walked off among the players, having a word with one here, giving a pat on the back there. He also pulled out his lineup and passed it around. Longarm discovered that he would be hitting ninth in the spot usually reserved for the pitcher … who was generally counted on to be the worst batter on the field. Longarm gathered that no one on the Capitals, including the manager, had a whole helluva lot of confidence in his abilities.
Which, he conceded, was probably downright sensible of them.
“Play ball,” the Hoskin blacksmith and sometime baseball umpire shouted, and things got underway.
Longarm kept one eye on the tent where tickets and refreshments were being sold and the other eye on the Schultz crowd, the whole mob of which was sworn to cheer for their very own. Even a rather subdued Trudy timidly wished him luck early this morning, not knowing that her attempted first tryst had been overheard by her daddy the night before.
When Levi Watt grounded out to the Hoskin second baseman to end the top of the first inning, the Schultzes waved and shouted ferociously as Longarm trotted out onto the field. He felt like a warrior taking the lists on behalf of adoring patrons. Or something. For sure it made him want to do well so as to justify their faith in him.
And that made it all the more embarrassing when the third Hoskin batter hit a towering fly ball to right.
Longarm saw the little SOB come off the bat and sail his way. He knew it was coming. The problem was that he didn’t have any idea just where.
He ran forward, decided that wasn’t right and back-pedaled, angled left a bit, then stopped and scuttled to his right. The damn ball just kept on coming.
It flew high, curled over in a picture-perfect arc, and plonked into the grass about fifteen feet to Longarm’s left and a little way behind him.
By the time he caught up with it—fortunately it didn’t roll far—the Hoskin runner was racing into third base. It was fortunate, too, that the runner didn’t know what kind of arm he was facing out there in right field. Or he likely would have slowed to a walk and strolled on into home plate. As it was he hit the ground in a belly slide and tore up some grass as he reached the base with room to spare.
Longarm cussed and muttered some and pointedly avoided looking in toward where the Schultz kids were probably disappointed in their own personal hero now. Dammit.
Worse, the next Hoskin batter, much more by accident than by any sort of design, hit a weak little excuse-me that looped over the third baseman’s head and dropped in yards short of Nat Lewis in left. The man Longarm let get on loped in to score the first run of the game and put Hoskin one up on the visitors. It was a run they wouldn’t have gotten if J. C. had been in right field, and Longarm knew it.
The next inning went little better. The ball just wasn’t flying where the Caps wanted, and the Hoskin yokels set them down one-two-three. Then to compound the insult, the Hoskin boys scored another run in the second when their batters pounded out an infield single followed immediately by a solid double to—where the hell else—right field. That one wasn’t Longarm’s fault. But he felt bad about it anyway.
In the third he came up to bat and, trying his double damnedest, struck out on three pitches.
“Those were balls you were swinging at, you know,” McWhortle mentioned—casually to be sure—when Longarm got back to the bench.
“You wouldn’t want me t’ hit something an’ spoil my reputation now, would you?” Longarm asked.
“Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well don’t let it happen again.”
Longarm did better his next time up. It took the Hoskin pitcher four tosses to strike him out. He considered that to be a definite sign of improvement.
By the time the eighth inning ended Longarm—fortunately the record books would reflect and posterity would record that all this was done by some jerk named Chester Short—had distinguished himself by striking out three times and dropping not one but two easy flies.
The Hoskin nine was leading the Austin Capitals by a score of six to four.
Longarm was commencing to hope the Schultzes had had to go home early to do chores so he wouldn’t have to face looking into the eyes of those kids when the game was over.
In the top of the ninth Caleb Jones got on base with a walk and was moved over to second two batters later when Ted Carter reached on an error by the third baseman. Longarm was grateful to see that he wasn’t the only one on the field capable of screwing up.
Dennis Pyle struck out, leaving the Caps with one remaining opportunity. And the next scheduled batter was that imbecile who called himself Short.
“You sending in a pinch hitter?” Longarm asked the bossman.
McWhortle shook his head. “Nope. We’ve all seen you hit. Just relax and don’t think about it. For some reason you’ve been tight all day. Trying too hard. Just relax and be yourself. You’ll be fine.”
Longarm gave the manager a look that suggested maybe young McWhortle was losing his grip. But what the hell. He picked up a bat and went out there.
Some people in the crowd saw who the batter was and cheered like crazy. Longarm didn’t think the voices were those of the Schultzes. Just some locals who had faith that with this guy at bat their victory was assured.
Longarm looked at the pitcher who was grinning at him from the mound. Well, why the hell wouldn’t the guy be pleased? He’d struck Longarm out swinging three times in a row, hadn’t he?
The first pitch came in low and so far outside Longarm probably couldn’t have reached it with a broomstick, never mind a ball bat.
“Strike!” the blacksmith bellowed.
“You don’t take no chances, do you,” Longarm suggested in a low voice.
“Got something to say to me, mister?” the blacksmith shot back. “See me later if you’re man enough.”
Longarm turned and gave the fellow a cold look. The blacksmith was twice Longarm’s size and solid muscle. Longarm grunted and turned back to face the pitcher. He hadn’t come here to play that sort of game. It was bad enough he was required to play baseball in this summer heat. He sure as hell didn’t need another brawl to shorten this contest.