“What about Billy’s plan for me t’ join the team? His idea was that it could be useful t’ have somebody traveling on the inside o’ things, so to speak,” Longarm said. And added, “But not as a pitcher, o’ course.”
“I already told the boys we were expecting a new pitching prospect,” McWhortle said. “Let me think.” He smiled. “I believe we can make it work anyway.”
Longarm raised an eyebrow.
“You are still an ace pitcher from Denver,” the ball club manager said, “but you hurt your shoulder. You can’t pitch until it heals, but in the meantime you can stick with the team and travel along with us. In fact, we’ll play you a little. Can you catch a ball?”
“You don’t mean like one o’ those fellas that crouches down behind the batter and gets his face mashed in a couple times every game? I don’t wanta sound like a sissy-boy, McWhortle, but those guys must be as dumb as they are tough. And I ain’t yet seen one of them with all his teeth still in his head. If that’s what you got in mind for me then thanks but no thanks.”
The young man chuckled. “That isn’t the kind of catching I had in mind. What I meant was, if there’s a ball falling out of the air can you run under it and catch it before it hits the ground.” Longarm shrugged. “Sounds easy enough, don’t it.”
“Oh yes,” McWhortle agreed with a perfectly straight face. “Nothing to it at all.”
“Yeah, I expect I can do that.”
“Then while we wait for your shoulder to heal, Mr. Colorado Pitcher, we’ll play you as a relief outfielder. A right fielder.”
“Why that spot in particular?” Longarm asked.
“Because about the only balls ever hit into right field are struck by left-handed batters. And there are damn few of those on these small-time local clubs. It would be different against other professional clubs, of course. They make it a point to have left-handed batters so as to increase the odds of getting hits successfully. But on small amateur clubs,” he shrugged, “a right fielder in games like these can go a week or more without ever having to actually catch a ball.”
“That sounds pretty good t’ me,” Longarm admitted.
“How about your batting?”
Longarm grinned. “I dunno if I can hit a ball with one of your sticks, but if you throw the little sonuvabitch up in the air I can shoot it at least once before it hits the ground, maybe a couple times.”
“Good of you to offer,” McWhortle said in a dry tone, “but I’ll have to check the rule book before I let you do that.”
“Yeah, let me know what you find out.”
“In the meantime we’ll stick with the old-fashioned methods.”
“Did you happen t’ tell your fellows the name of this player you was expecting from Denver?” Longarm asked.
“Why?”
“I don’t mean t’ sound immodest, but if this bunch o’ thieves are professionals, which it looks like they might be t’ have things worked out so far ahead o’ time, then there’s a good chance they will’ve heard of a federal deputy named Long.”
“I see. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know your name to tell to anyone. All Mr. Barnes said to me was that I could expect someone. He never said who.”
Longarm had the fleeting thought that maybe that damned Billy Vail had snookered him. Maybe the boss would have caved in had Longarm absolutely demanded the Leadville assignment. Maybe, dammit, Maeternick would have been saddled with this deal after all if Longarm had simply dug his heels in hard enough. Maybe that was why no name had been transmitted ahead of time.
Not that there was any point in thinking about that now. Dammit.
And not that Longarm could help but think about it at least a little bit. Dammit.
“I’d as soon fly false colors if you don’t mind then,” Longarm suggested out loud.
“It makes no difference to me. Just tell me who you are,” McWhortle said.
Longarm pulled at his chin and gave a close examination to the soggy end of his cheroot. “My mama once told me she’d thought of naming me Chester.” He thought of something else and barked out an abbreviated laugh. “My name is Long so I never before been called Short. So how’s that for a new name? I’ll be Chester Short, one first- class baseball pitcher from good ol’ Denver, Colorado, Ewe Ess of Ay.”
McWhortle stuck his hand out for a shake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chester Short. I certainly hope your shoulder gets to feeling better soon.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Longarm said.
“We’ll fix you up with a uniform this evening when we get back to the boardinghouse from practice. In the meantime you can have the rest of the day off. Tomorrow you’ll begin working out the same as any other team member.”
Longarm nodded and watched the manager head back to supervise the practice.
There was, Longarm—or rather Chet Short—reflected as he watched the players at work, quite a lot about the game of baseball that he did not know. Yet.
Chapter 6
Before becoming a sure-enough baseball player, flannel uniform and all, Longarm thought it might be a fair idea for him to act like a deputy marshal just a little while longer. When he left McWhortle and the other boys playing their game behind the church building, Longarm headed not for the boardinghouse but back downtown where he’d
