Haymakers 13, Stockings 13.
“I checked with Western Union,” Millar said. “When the first inning’s score went out, every sharp in the East tried to get money down on the Haymakers.”
“And now?”
“Now the wire’s jammed with messages for McKeon.”
“What sort of messages?”
“They can’t tell me, but I’ll bet we see the Haymakers pull some curious stunts, now that we’re settling to our business.”
Millar’s words proved to be prophetic.
In the top of the fifth, Brainard’s double scored two and sent Andy to third. Andy then scared the daylights out of me—and rubbed salt in Craver’s wounds—by stealing home, belly-sliding to touch the plate before Craver drove the ball hard into his thigh. Andy bounced up as if he’d felt nothing. We led by four runs.
“Don’t try him again,” I warned. “He’ll kill you.”
“I’ve gone over and under him,” Andy said, laughing. “Next time maybe I’ll go through him. Wouldn’t that be a dinger?”
“No, it’d be suicide.”
Fighting back, the Haymakers kept the game what Millar called, “Dick pull, Devil pull.” Brainard’s late start for first on a grounder to Gould allowed a runner. I scrutinized Brainard, wondering if the miscue had been deliberate. So far he’d been nearly as up-and-down as Andy. Then he walked Flynn—Brockway’s calls had favored hitters all afternoon—and Craver stalked to the plate. Uh-oh, I thought. Sure enough, Craver smashed a belt-high fastball into the left-field corner for a triple. Brainard grooved another to Mart King, who went for it like a shark after blood, ramming the ball clear out of the Union Grounds. So much for our lead. It was now 17—17.
“What the hell’re you doing?” I demanded of Brainard when he came off.
“Not showing the white, if that’s what you’re saying.” He massaged his pitching shoulder. “My wing’s nearly used up, and they’re heavy strikers.”
“We gotta win,” I said. “By at least ten runs.”
He shrugged, as if it were out of his domain. The crowd’s noise rose around us. We turned toward the plate, where Craver was talking animatedly with Brockway. Mac looked on in the striker’s box. Harry strode past us.
“What now?” I asked.“Can’t tell,” Harry said. “A wide called on Fisher, I think.”
But it was more than that. Mac had fouled a pitch straight back that Craver bob bled. Brockway ruled that it touched the ground before he’d secured a hold on it. The catcher now turned away and looked questioningly at McKeon. He did so again after the next pitch, a called ball. Brainard and I exchanged looks. Something strange was going on.
Fisher delivered again. Mac swung late, barely making contact. The ball flew back on a low trajectory, striking the gravelly dirt between Craver’s feet. He bent quickly, rose, and held it up. “How’s that?” he demanded.
We couldn’t tell from the Stockings’ bench whether Craver had taken the ball cleanly on the first bound. Brockway, however, stood only several feet from the action.
“Two bounces!” he announced promptly. “No out! That’s two against the striker!”
Craver didn’t say a word, but looked at McKeon, now walking toward him. They exchanged a nod. McKeon said something to Brockway. Then, before our disbelieving eyes and those of the buzzing crowd, Craver waved the Haymakers off the field. They began packing up their bats.
“What the hell?” I said.
“They figured there’s too much chance of losing,” Brainard said. “Or their backers did.”
We watched the carriage gates swing open and their omnibus come on the track. A rising murmur of discontent issued from the stands.
“Gonna get stirred up here,” Brainard said.“But what happens to all the bets?” I said.
“Don’t you see? We’ve finished five innings, so they’ll claim a tie. They were hoping for this or better.”
“McDermott will collect, then?”
“He’ll try, depending on what else happens. But he sure can’t lose now.”
As I tried to digest what that might mean for me, the Haymakers boarded their bus. A band of boys broke through the ropes, dodging cops and flinging rocks at the departing vehicle. Behind them the crowd flooded over the police line. Around us suddenly scrambled men yelling and running and hurling things.
“Let’s go,” I said, and was simultaneously aware of a subtle, almost subliminal whizzing sound. I heard it again, then a thud in the sod exploded dirt upward in a tiny eruption before me. I stared at it stupidly, then felt a tug at my pants. I saw a neat hole in the baggy white material just above my knee. Only then did I realize that somebody was shooting at me.
Chapter 21
I grabbed Brainard’s arm and we wedged through the crowd toward the clubhouse. Inside, I breathed easier. As the others came in, we pieced together what was happening. Mac held his place at home plate while Harry talked to Brockway, who at length climbed atop his chair and announced he was awarding us the game. To leave no doubt, Harry had him write his decision in the score book:
McVey at the bat. The Haymakers refuse to proceed. I decide in favor of the Cincinnati club. J. R. Brockway, Great Western B.B.C.
While I changed and waited for the others—no way I was venturing out alone—I saw Millar approach Brainard with pencil and pad. “Asa,” he said briskly, “I need your comment on rumors that you were offered money to throw off this match.”
Brainard gave me a probing look. “You can say that I’d swear to it under oath.”
“Jupiter!” said Millar. “That’s some—”
“What I’m saying,” Brainard interrupted, “is that’s how the rumor has it.”
“But I want your firsthand statement.”
“You asked about a rumor,” Brainard said. “That’s what I’m
