“Give Marshal Crockett my thanks, son,” Longarm said.
“Ain’t you coming back to the jail with me? Boone said something about you being expected for dinner.”
“No, but tell him thanks. Me, I got work to do.”
Feeling considerably let down, Longarm let himself out of the post office and made his way through a happy, moving crowd back in the direction of the ball field to rejoin the team.
Chapter 32
Douglas McWhortle snarled and snapped and otherwise expressed his contempt while he led Longarm well clear of the other ball players, then once they were out of hearing asked in a calm and pleasant tone of voice, “Did you do any good today?”
“Not hardly,” Longarm complained, going on to explain the high hopes involving two good suspects who failed to show up. At which point the Capitals manager laughed, causing Longarm’s eyebrows to kite upward.
“Your two suspects wouldn’t have been named Joey Mascarelli and Jim Baxter, would they?”
“The first names are for sure the right ones,” Longarm conceded, “but how the hell would you’ve known a thing like that?”
McWhortle chuckled and explained, “Those boys weren’t in town to ‘make a hit’ like those girls thought. They were here to do some hitting. They came out while we were warming up for the game today and claimed they should have a try-out. Said they were the best batsmen ever to come out of … well, out of whatever one-horse township they come from. Said once we saw them bat we’d be pawing the ground ready to sign them up to a professional contract.”
“Shit,” Longarm mumbled. He glanced over toward the ball club but didn’t see any strangers, so he asked the logical question.
“Of course they didn’t make the team,” McWhortle told him, “though we gave them a chance to show us what they could do. After all, Jason needed to get warmed up anyway. The first kid showed he could hit a fastball down the middle well enough, so Jason gave him a shave.”
When Longarm continued to look blank, obviously not knowing what the hell the manager meant by that, McWhortle explained. “He threw one at the kid’s jaw. Would have put a permanent dent in the left side of the boy’s face if he hadn’t ducked in time. Which nearly everyone does, by the way. But after that the kid was so gun-shy he wouldn’t stand within a bat’s length of the plate and never so much as touched the horsehide fastball and wasn’t so scared of chin music, but I doubt he’d ever seen a curve ball before. For sure he’d never tried to hit a professional quality curve. Once Jason started pitching those that boy was done hitting. So I thanked them for their interest and sent them back home. Wherever that is.”
“I’d’ve been happier if they was the robbers instead of some farm boys wanting to run off and be famous,” Longarm admitted.
“Next time,” McWhortle said hopefully.
“Yeah.”
“Got your things together?” the manager asked. “We leave on the westbound in forty-five minutes. Of course you’re still under suspension, but if you ask real nice and agree to pay a fine by forfeiting one game’s pay then I might let you back in the batting order this next game.”
“Let’s leave the suspension as it is,” Longarm said. I’ll sulk off away from the team and try again to set up a trap for our boys if they show in … where are we going anyhow?”
“Town called Sorrel Branch.”
“You do pick the big ones, don’t you?”
“I do pick the ones so bored they pay for us to stop,” McWhortle returned. Then, putting on a thoroughly pissed off expression, he commenced to rant and yell about pitcher Short’s shortcomings.
A moment later the equipment boy Jerry showed up at Longarm’s elbow to inquire about Longarm’s gear, and Longarm realized that he and McWhortle were both back to playacting.
Longarm wiped the sweat off his neck and went about preparing to take another rattletrap train ride to nowhere.
Chapter 33
It was a long, slow grind to reach Sorrel Branch, partly because the narrow gauge P & P westbound stopped at every little whipstitch, either to handle freight or maybe so the engineer could take a leak, and partly because the farther west in Kansas they went, the fewer people there were who could come together and make a town.
By the time dawn and Sorrel Branch arrived, each at roughly the same time, Longarm figured they were about as far away from civilization as it was possible to get in the modern world.
Even so, Sorrel Branch was bigger than Longarm had expected. Which is to say that it was demonstrably bigger than a breadbox. But not much.
It consisted of a general mercantile, a smithy, a tool and harness shop, a barber/surgeon, two churches, assorted houses—most of them unimposing—and one lonely saloon.
“Yes, sir,” Longarm mumbled half under his breath as he passed McWhortle on the patch of beaten earth and gravel that passed for a railroad depot, “you sure can pick ‘em. Where’s our hotel for tonight?”
“No hotel or boardinghouse here,” the boss said loud enough for all to hear. “We play this afternoon and pull west again tonight.”
Which precipitated a general round of groaning and grumbling. Two straight nights spent on the grimy upholstery of Plains and Pacific passenger coaches was considerably more than human flesh was intended to endure.
Yeah, Longarm thought, the life of the professional baseball player was one glamorous son of a bitch, all right.
“All right, everybody. Breakfast is at the Catholic Church over there. Then we’ll take some fielding practice and have our dinner courtesy of the Methodists in that church there. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not sure which church is which, but the Catholics will feed us breakfast and the Methodists dinner. Leave your things piled on the cart here. Jerry will stay and watch over everything. Short, you can take your meals with us but other than that stay out of my sight. No, better yet you can make yourself useful. When you’re done eating you can bring a plate over to Jerry. All right now everybody, follow me.” The manager set off at a brisk pace toward the nearer of the two churches. Whichever one it was and whether there was food waiting for them there or not.
Longarm held back and leaned on a suitcase that was damn near as battered and disreputable as his own. He reached into his pocket for a cheroot and lighted it. “Tell you what, kid,” he said to the equipment boy. “You go ahead an’ join the rest o’ the team for breakfast, an’ I’ll eat when you’re done. That’ll be better than me tryin’ to figure out what you like an’ what you don’t. I’m fine right here till you’re done.”
Jerry gave Longarm a look like he’d just been given a bright shiny toy for Christmas and ran to catch up with the team, which by now had gotten close enough to read the small sign beside the door of the church they’d been aiming for and had shifted their attention to the other church instead.
At least now he knew where to go for dinner, Longarm thought as he enjoyed the remarkably clean flavor of the cheroot he’d bought back in—What the hell was the name of that place anyhow? Already the whistle-stop schedule was making the names and the memories meld into a single blur. Anyhow, the cigar was damned good. And surely that counted for something, didn’t it? He leaned against the baggage cart with his eyes drooping closed and felt the heat of the coming day rise along with the sun.
Chapter 34
Damn, it was hot. Boring as hell, too. But then boring was the biggest part of being a peace officer. Which, come to think of it, was what a fellow wanted. The more boring things were the better they were going.
Still, there were times when it could get to a man. Waiting. All the damn time waiting for something stupid and wild and dangerous to happen. And then you earned your pay. Such as it was.