Horsehide
by Galen Peoples
Part One
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Horsehide
by Galen Peoples
Part One
"North!"
"South!"
"North!"
"South!"
The two men docked at the bar as the saloon doors slammed behind them. Ken poured them two beers without asking. He was the acting barkeep while the proprietor was away visiting.
"It was the North, by an ell," he said, "but the South made a good showing at Bull Run."
His jokes were so rare his hearers did not realize at first that this had been one of them. At the far end of the counter, Joshua Bolt gave a chuckle.
"Yeah, very funny," Aaron Stempel said. He took a gulp of beer with no evident enjoyment. "But we were talking about the new landing."
"Didn't know there was one," said Joshua.
"Isn't," his brother Jason said, "because Stempel's too pigheaded to admit the only fit location's south of town."
"Fit for your log race," said Stempel, "not for my mill."
"Do it your way, I'll have to cut a sluice all the way from the mountain."
"Why should I have the worse part of the deal? I'm paying half."
"And I'm paying the other!"
Stempel turned away. "Knew it was a mistake us going partners."
Jason had a bright thought. "We'll ask an unbiased party. Ken?"
Ken was seldom asked his opinion and had to wind himself up to it. "Divide the difference," he said finally, "put it in the middle."
"We have one in the middle!" said Stempel. Ken shrugged.
Jason's eye lit on his brother. "Joshua!" Unbiased party, Stempel grumbled silently. "Don't let our ties of blood sway you unduly," Jason said, with his arm around him.
Joshua pondered the painted nude the men had dubbed Cultus Kate. "Either way," he said, "somebody loses. No solution possible."
Jason removed his arm. "What kind of answer is that?"
"What you asked for," said Ken, "an unbiased one."
"Where's Jeremy?" asked Jason.
Joshua nodded toward the street. "New peddler in town. Jeremy's looking over his wares."
Jason started for the doors in alarm.
"It's all right," said Joshua, "he hasn't any cash. I won it from last night at poker."
"All of it?"
"All but a quarter."
"And for that quarter," the peddler was saying, "you can acquire the recreational marvel of the age–for those with the acumen to appreciate it." He took a small object out of his wagon.
Jeremy watched with curiosity. The young woman on his arm was also curious, but mostly to find out how he would be made to buy something (as he certainly would) after his express promise not to. "Can't anyway," he had said. "Only got a quarter."
The peddler turned to reveal the item at offer: a genuine Spalding baseball.
Jeremy showed his disappointment. "That's for kids," he said. Candy Pruitt was relieved.
"Kids!" said the peddler. "Where have you been for the past twenty years?"
Jeremy was exactly twenty. "Here in Seattle."
The peddler clucked sympathetically. "How a community can be so far behind the times–!" He informed them that baseball was no longer a schoolyard frivolity but the game of choice for gentlemen, in fact on the verge of becoming professional, although he himself would hate to see that befall. If Jeremy had never seen a proper match–men pitted one against another in a trial of skill and will–the peddler pitied him.
Candy did not like the look in Jeremy's eye. "Let's go," she said.
"Can I see?" he asked. The peddler handed him the ball.
Jeremy hefted it, squeezed it, sniffed it, tossed it in the air.
"What do you say?" prodded the peddler.
"What do you say?" prodded Jason. He was standing at Captain Clancey's shoulder, with Stempel at the other. They had fallen on him the moment he entered.
Clancey pursed his lips in reflection. "Before I make me decision, I wonder–would one of yiz gentlemen be so kind as to stand me a whisky?" Both waved at once and two glasses were set before him. He emptied both and sat looking satisfied.
"Well?" they said together.
"Me decision is," said Clancey, "I'm not goin' to make a decision." He turned and headed for the doors.
"Why not?"
"Because," he said from the doorway, "if I did it'd be a sure t'ing that one or t'other of yiz would no longer be disposed to be buyin' me a drink as ye was so kind to do in the first place. I t'ank ye and good day to ye." With a tip of his hat he left.
"So much for your unbiased parties," said Stempel. "And it's still north!"
Jason glared at him.
Jeremy was still undecided. "Has a firm manly feel, don't it?" said the peddler.
"Won't when it's been batted around a while," said Jeremy.
"In that case–" The peddler turned to the wagon and pulled out a drawer filled with baseballs. Jeremy's eye roamed over them. A patch of balls, a harvest of games.... "I'll throw in a set of the Knickerbocker rules," the peddler said, "absolutely free." He took out a small book bound in soft brown leather: The Base Ball Player's Pocket Companion. Jeremy had never heard of those rules but they sounded famous.
"And for the young lady," the peddler continued, combing the wagon's compartments, "–ah!" He said it as if he had found the Holy Grail but it was only another small book bound in blue: The Speller's Manual.
"Just what she needs," said Jeremy.
"Scoff not. This little vade mecum will furnish her with the spelling of any word she's likely to require."
"How do you spell vade mecum?" asked Candy.
"Look it up, it's in the book," the peddler said brusquely. His attention had shifted to a pair of men coming over from the saloon. A sight like that usually foretokened a dissatisfied customer or a legal nicety he had failed to observe, never good news. "Come, young man," he said, "I can't stand here all afternoon."
"Come on, Jeremy," said Candy.
She meant, come on and forget this nonsense, but he interpreted it as encouragement. "I'll take it," he said, parting with the quarter.
It was then his brothers arrived. Jason asked to see what he had bought. Jeremy gave him the Player's Companion and tossed the ball to Joshua, who tossed it back. He had not handled one of those for a while.
"And one spelling book," Candy said, staring at the peddler. He quickly turned it over.
Joshua and Jeremy moved their bout of toss-and-catch into the street. "Of course for a proper game you need a bat," said the peddler. Jason eyed him knowingly. "Don't carry them myself," he said, "but surely somewhere in this town–" He looked toward the general store.
"Got a bat around here somewhere," Ben Perkins called from the back room. The younger Bolts waited at the counter. "Used to get up some scratch games," he continued, "with some fellas from the mill." He brought out the requested article, coated in dust, and wiped it with a rag. "You two startin' up a team?"
"No," said Jeremy, "we just–" He stopped. "Why, you interested?"
Ben took the combined positions of center, right, and left field. Joshua promised him he could pitch next. Jeremy was batting. The wall of the livery stable was standing in for catcher. Its presence was fortunate, since it stopped every ball Joshua pitched. Eventually the stable man stuck his head out to shoo away the noisy boys. Finding them older than he had expected, he made his request more polite, and the players moved down to the fence behind the brides' dormitory.
There Jeremy insisted that Joshua let Ben take his turn. "Can't hit what you throw," he complained.
Joshua laughed. "That's the idea, brother."
He backed out into the street to field. Passers-by circled wide around them.
If Jeremy had expected Ben to take it easier, he was quickly taught otherwise. The first pitch not only passed him without his seeing it but flew over the fence pickets and through the brides' back yard to land in a clearing near the church.
"I'll get it!" a voice shouted. Candy's brother Christopher, who had been watching from the back door, took off at a run.
On his return, Jeremy asked if he would like to pitch. Ben and Joshua laughed.
"Away from the windows, Christopher," said Candy from the door. She had returned home after Jeremy had left her standing by herself in the street. She waited for him to apologize.
He did, in a way. "Sorry," he said, "we didn't think of the windows." Candy shut the door on him.
"That's why me and the boys stopped playin' before," Ben said as they moved to the clearing. Now that they were four, they no longer needed the backstop.
Presently a logger called Corky showed up. "Drummer said there was some fellas playin' ball," he said. He took right field, Christopher took left. Then the peddler led over two of Stempel's workers: Harve, the foreman, and a little, fidgety, obscurely historied character called Woodchuck Jimmy.
"Heard there was a game," said Harve, "but it looks like loggers only."
"Come on in if you're up to it," said Joshua.
"Woodchuck," said Harve, "let's show these mountain boys how it's done."
All afternoon, sounds of the game floated into the dormitory. Some of the brides tried to pull their men away for a sit in the parlor but were rebuffed.
Candy was one of them. Watching the others listen forlornly to the shouts, cheers, and occasional cracks of wood against horsehide, she arrived at a conviction. "We'll entertain ourselves," she announced.
She left and came back a few moments later with Christopher's slate and a piece of chalk, which she handed to Biddie. "You keep score," she said.
"Score for what?"
Candy picked up the Speller's Manual. "A spelling bee." There was a general groan. "We'll take turns selecting the words," she went on. "Each word counts two points. The player who's ahead after two hours–"
"Two hours!" cried a pretty, moon-faced blonde.
"Now, Sally, it'll be fun. You go first. Spell 'recapitulate'."
Sally wrinkled her nose in thought. "R - E -" She paused. "R - E...K...." She paused again. "Sorry, what was it?"
"No points, Sally."
"Sally–0," Biddie wrote.
Her own turn was next. "R - E - C - A - P - I - T - C - H - U - A - T - E," she said with confidence.
"Sorry, Biddie." Candy moved on to Franny, a tall blonde who was not even pretending interest. She reeled off the correct answer. Candy applauded. "Two points for Franny."
"That can't be right," said Biddie. "'Pitch' is P - I - T - C - H."
"No, Biddie," said Candy, "that's different."
"I thought it had something to do with baseball. Pitching and that." The others stared at her. "Well, it could have." She logged Franny's score sulkily.
"See?" Candy said brightly. "Let the men have their fun. We don't need them."
Sally leaned on her chin. "Yes, we do," she sighed. The others hummed in agreement.
Coming out of Lottie's, Jason met Stempel. "My men in there?" Stempel demanded. Jason shook his head. "Never knew so many to miss supper. What are they up to?"
The activity in the clearing had mushroomed into a full-scale game. Two dozen more than the necessary complement were on hand. Those not playing waited their turns or just stood and watched. As Jason and Stempel arrived, they met Candy leading Christopher off, resisting his pleas to stay longer. "Behold," said Jason.
Stempel took in the scene with a mixture of wonder and suspicion. He asked how it had all started. Jason pointed to the peddler's wagon sitting to the side. He was showing off some of his genuine Spaldings. "Out to sell more baseballs, I expect."
"Better have a talk with him," said Stempel. "This won't do."
"Let it alone. They're enjoying themselves."
"Foolish waste of time." Jason shook his head in pity. "Next thing you know they'll be skipping work."
Usually on a Monday morning the walkway was free of hazard. But today a ball sped past Candy's nose, stopping her short. One of Jason's road monkeys jumped in front of her to catch it.
"Aren't you supposed to be up at camp?" she asked crossly. Sam put a finger to his lips and ran away.
As far as the waterfront the street was dotted with miniature ball games. There were young men, old men, boys–and where was her little sister, now she thought of it?
A figure in a black coat strode through their midst, tails flying. "Harve, Woodchuck, the rest of you!" he shouted. "Quit this foolin' and get back to work!"
Half the men fled. Stempel chuckled to see who remained. At least Bolt was losing some too–and he didn't even know it.
"Billy, Sam!" came a familiar voice. "Back to camp!"
Stempel gave him a sour glance. Blaming me, I shouldn't wonder, thought Jason, as if I was responsible for everything that goes on around here. Yet for once it was not Stempel doing the blaming but a young woman with an upturned nose, and it was only guilt by association.
That night it was Biddie's turn to select. "'Marmalade'," she said.
"Oh, Biddie," said a kittenish brunette, "everyone can spell that."
"Not everyone, Ann," said Franny. "What about Sally?"
"Can too!" said Sally. "M - A - R - M - A - R - M - A - R...D. There!"
Candy stared at her. "Sally, how could that possibly spell 'marmalade'?"
"Well, I don't know. All the words look strange when you see them written down. With all those different letters."
The silence that followed was broken by Franny giving the right answer, although she had not been called on.
"Two points to Franny–again," said Biddie. "Next word, 'supercilious'."
"Ask Franny," said Ann. "She's sure to know that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
Franny started for her. Candy quickly interposed herself.
"Here's a word," she said loudly, "'ornery'."
Biddie checked. "That's not in the book."
"But it applies–to every one of us. Our men are paying us no attention and we don't like it. But we can't behave as if they were that important."
"But they are," Sally said desperately.
"Of course. But we mustn't let them know that."
A chorus of male voices made their ears perk up.
Sally ran to a window. "They're coming here!"
"Pay them no mind," said Candy.
Some of the men had begun to yearn for a break from baseball, despite its enticements, and to repent having dismissed the brides so offhandedly. Now they were prepared to make amends, and had picked Jeremy as their spokesman. His knocks on the screen went unanswered, although he could hear unnaturally loud laughter from within.
Candy came on his third call. He informed her he had been knocking for some while. "Didn't hear," she said curtly. "We were having such a laugh!" She demonstrated.
Jeremy realized it had been mainly her laugh he had heard. He wondered if she might have been sampling the brandy on the sideboard. "You feelin' all right, Candy?" he asked.
"Won-der-ful!" she said. Jeremy regarded his suspicion as confirmed. "Something I can do for you and your teammates?"
Jeremy looked back. The others nodded him on.
"We, uh, we figured you and, uh, some of the–"
The chorus joined in: "Ann!" "Biddie!" "Franny!" "Sally!" They drowned out most of the sentence, but Candy got the last three words: "...take the air?" The men waited eagerly.
"Not me," said Candy, "I'm having too gay a time. But I'll ask the others."
They appeared as if poured from the ceiling. She quickly stepped in front of them. "These gentlemen wish to know if you care to take the air." She clutched Sally by the forearm (which the men could not see) to hold her back.
"No. Oh, no," said the others.
"No," said Sally, between clenched teeth.
"Sally," said Sam, "I never knew you to turn down an invite to take the air. You know, take the air? Along the old coal road? In the moonlight?"
"Sorry, Sam," said Candy, "we're having too much fun. Isn't that so, Sally?"
"Fun," Sally gasped.
"Thanks all the same, though. Good night." She shut the door in their faces. The men stood in dismay.
So did the girls on the other side. "You sure we did right?" Ann whispered.
"You bet," Candy whispered back. "They won't be so cocksure next time."
"We'll show 'em," said Corky. "We'll just go on playin' ball." The others agreed.
"Women!" yelled Sam. "Who needs 'em?"
The others took up the cry and repeated it often during their playing, which they did purposely in view of the parlor windows. When Jason and Stempel happened past, those were the first words that reached their ears. The men were out front ignoring the women, who were inside ignoring them.
Jason lowered his eyebrows. "Seems to be precious little courtin' goin' on."
"Never mind that," said Stempel. "We've got to settle this business of the landing. Soon be the rainy season"–it was always that, Jason reflected–"and the longer you delay–"
"Me! You're the one who won't see sense. I put it to you again–"
"You won't change my mind!"
"And you certainly won't change mine!"
"Wait," said Stempel. "There has to be some way to resolve this."
"Flip a coin?" Jason suggested.
"No, I've seen that coin of yours."
"Arm-wrestle?"
"No, you'd win. But a sporting contest–that's not a bad idea. Thing is, what kind?"
The ball players were thick around them. They had nearly got hit a couple of times but had been too deep in conversation to notice.
"Have to be something big," said Jason.
"Something the whole town can witness."
"Something that'll settle this mess once and–"
"Heads!" came a cry. The ball flew toward them. Both reached for it, but Jason made the catch.
He held the ball in front of him. "–for all," he concluded. The two of them looked at each other.
"A single match game," Jason explained to his crew the next day. "The men of Bridal Veil Mountain versus those of Stempel's Mill. Winner to decide where the landing goes."
A big broad-faced chopper asked why they should care. "Because I do, Pebbles, and you work for me."
A cant-dog man about Sam's size asked whether they had to play. "No, Billy, it's strictly voluntary. But not everyone will be able to. Only nine to a side." When that did not have the rousing effect he had hoped for, he threw in a bonus of fifty cents a day. "So who'll join? Who'll play?"
His brothers stepped forward. So did Sam, dragging Billy after him. They were followed by Pebbles and a big good-natured teamster called Canada. That was the lot.
Jeremy beckoned to Corky, knowing of his enthusiasm for the game. Corky was reluctant to speak the question on his mind. "Will I still have time to see Biddie? Kinda been ignorin' her lately."
Jason had hoped this would not come up so soon. "Y'see, the way of it is–"
"You'll be in training," Joshua broke in. "That means avoiding everything that saps your natural energies. Women, drink–"
A loud murmur arose. "Well, I don't know," said Canada.
Jason offered a homily: "Practice hard and when you play you'll be sure to win the day."
Billy answered with one of his own: "Give up women, give up booze, I don't care much if I lose." The others agreed.
"Come now," said Jason, "it'll only be four weeks." His hearers looked as though they had other things on their minds. "For the glory of the camp," said Jason.
"For the honor of the mill," said Stempel. He was looking out over a motley crew. "Were they the best you could do?" he whispered to Harve.
Harve nodded. "Them two I was gonna fire."
"Do it. Send all the rest back but you, Woodchuck, and Perdition."
Perdition was an Indian who had worked at the mill since it opened. His true name was unpronounceable by whites; the closest they had been able to come was Pa-dish-o-wan, which had been corrupted almost immediately to Perdition. He was of no known tribe, and if he had any family he never spoke of it.
Stempel asked him and the others whether they had ever pitched. Harve raised a hand. When Stempel asked if he were any good, he lowered it again. "Ben Perkins can throw it around some," he volunteered.
Stempel was pleased. "He owes me the favor. I gave him his first job in this town." He hurried off to claim him.
The Bolts were hunting players too, but most of those they passed in the street were too old or too young.
"Good thing we're sure of a pitcher," said Jason, and then remembered he had not seen him at the turnout that morning. "He'll play, won't he?" Joshua asked whom he meant. "Obie Brown, of course. No other man with an arm like–" His brothers were staring at him. "What is it?"
"Obie's got three broke ribs," said Jeremy. "He's been laid up for two weeks."
"Hellfire!" Jason roared. "Why doesn't somebody tell me these things?"
"You saw–" Joshua began.
"Now we'll have to find another."
"I know!" said Jeremy. Joshua lowered his eyes in pretended modesty. "Ben! He's–" They came into sight of his store. He was out front, demonstrating his throwing arm to Stempel. "–taken," Jeremy concluded.
"Who else is there?" said Jason. "Think!" Joshua was silent.
Before Jeremy could answer, their attention was captured by the nearby slap of a ball onto a bare palm. Next to the livery stable a half game was in progress. It involved only a few players; how many the Bolts could not see because all except the catcher and the batter were around the corner.
The unknown pitcher threw again. The ball glided past the bat as if it were not there. The catcher called another strike and shook his stinging fingers. The batter cursed again.
"Maybe we've found our man," said Jason. They turned the corner. At the same moment, the catcher sent the ball back to the pitcher.
Joshua laughed. "You mean our woman."
Jason stared. "Franny?"
It was indeed Franny, in an aspect theretofore unrevealed, to them at least. She was clad in a loose blouse and bloomers that did nothing to show off her figure.
"Think Candy knows she's here?" Joshua asked. Jeremy shook his head.
They watched as she reared back and let fly. This time the batter cursed aloud. Evidently that finished the game, for there were whoops from one side and the assembly began to break up.
The brothers approached Franny. She seemed unembarrassed. "Miss West," Jason said courteously, "are you as good as you look to be?"
She tilted her head. "And what if I am?"
"Then we want you for our team. Are you willing?"
"I'm not disinclined."
Jason grinned. "Saucy tongue, fine throwin' arm–what more could a man ask?"
"He could ask Candy's permission," Jeremy said mildly.
"Permission! Who's she to give or withhold her leave?"
"You know she doesn't like the brides making free with the men."
"This is different. It's baseball!" But a little worm of unease had begun to bore its way inside. "Suppose I could mention it to her–just out of politeness."
"She can't," Candy said, not looking up from the table she was laying.
"It'll be perfectly proper–"
"I should hope so," she said, starting on the other side. "But Franny won't have time. She'll be too busy practicing for our spelling bee. Franny, didn't you tell them?"
Franny pouted but said nothing. Jason asked what spelling bee.
"When we heard about your little game, we decided to have one of our own. We arranged with the Reverend to use the church. And we invited Mr. Alvin Ambrosia Huguet to be the judge."
Jason did not know the name. Joshua could not help him. "Alvin Ambrosia Huguet," Candy repeated, as if she had just said "George Washington." She picked up a book from the side table, Everywoman's Guide to Principled Living by A. A. Huguet. Jason gave Joshua a glance. "Franny's our champion speller."
"But she's our pitcher!"
"We saw her first."
Jason noticed Franny biting her lip. "Shouldn't it be her choice?" he asked.
Joshua thumbed through the book and stopped at a passage that seemed apposite. "'Within the bounds of duty and propriety,'" he read, "'every woman should be encouraged to employ her leisure in the manner that she deems most fit.'" He shut the book with a clap.
"You wouldn't want to go against Mr. Huguet?" Jason asked.
Candy sighed. She knew her cause for lost. "Franny?" she said.
"Not my decision," said Franny. "It's up to Canada." Jason remembered that the two of them had been keeping company lately. He considered Canada's temperament and hers. Up to him? he thought.
"Well," Canada said carefully, "I think you oughta do what you want." Franny and Jason had cornered him in a thicket from which there was no ready escape.
"Wouldn't want to do something you didn't think was right," Franny said, fluttering her lashes.
"Come on," Jason said, "satisfy the lady." He was sure what Canada's advice would be. "Nothin' to be scared of."
His confidence overcame Canada's better judgment. "Well," he said, "I druther you did the spellin'. More ladylike."
"What?" Jason barked.
"So you don't think it's fitting a girl should play ball?"
Canada knew he had erred. "Didn't say that."
"You think a girl should sit off in a corner all prim and proper and never show any spunk?"
"Didn't say that either."
"You're scared, that's what it is! You're afraid I'll be better'n all you men." She drew herself up. "Mr. Bolt, I'd be proud to pitch for you." She stamped off through the woods.
"Thanks, Canada," said Jason.
"Yeah," Canada said, scowling, "you too."
"She can't," said Stempel, when he heard about it.
Jason was tired of being told that. "Why?"
"Your men versus my men. Men–that was the agreement."
"It was understood–"
"Not by me!"
One of the hands stopped the lathe and came over to them. "Mr. Stempel? You ain't lettin' women in this game?"
"Not if I have anything to say about it. Don't worry."
Woodchuck Jimmy looked downcast. "Reckon that cuts me out."
"What's he mean?" asked Stempel. Woodchuck removed a rumpled hat no one had seen removed before to let fall a cascade of chestnut hair flecked with silver.
"What she means–" Jason began.
Stempel's jaw fell. "Woodchuck? You're a woman?"
She shook her mane, piled it back up, and covered it with the hat again. "Far back as I can recollect."
"You never mentioned it."
"Don't recall as anyone asked."
Jason was enjoying this greatly. "Well?" he said.
Stempel sighed. "All right. Any man–or woman–who's ever worked for you can play. Same for anyone who's ever worked for me."
Jason did not miss the inclusiveness of his definition and tried to figure out the catch. Then he realized it would allow Ben in. He didn't mind. "Nearly every man in town's worked for one or both of us," Stempel was saying. "Is it agreed?" He extended his hand. After a moment Jason took it.
"Girl still can't play," Stempel said casually.
Jason had forgotten Franny! "Why in blazes not?"
"Never worked for you."
"Has too," Jason said promptly. Stempel asked at what. Jason searched. "Mendin' our long johns–well, Canada's."
"Don't count."
"Then I'll hire her!"
"Oh, no." Stempel was firm. "You start hirin' right and left, there'll be no end to it. Has to be as of the time of the agreement."
Jason started on a different tack. "We did shake on it," Stempel reminded him. That settled the matter. "Don't worry," he said cheerfully, "you'll find–somebody."
"There's nobody," said Jason, pacing outside Perkins Mercantile.
"No?" said Joshua. He was leaning on a barrel fashioning a homemade baseball the way he had as a boy by wrapping a long cotton strip around a cartridge casing.
"Nobody that hasn't been snatched from under our–" He stopped. "Why, I'm a blind fool! Looked every place but in my own family." Joshua stood up, looking ready to forgive. "Jeremy's got an arm!"
Joshua tied off the ends of the strip with force. "Arm?" he said.
His eye fell on the new tonsorial parlor and the hitching post outside it. He hauled back and threw a fast one that lodged in the iron ring.
Jason stared at it in amazement. "That's–" he began. But Joshua had gone.
Jason ran after him. By exhibiting great contrition, admiration, and desire to have him on the team he got Joshua to consent grudgingly to what he had been eager to do all along.
From that morning he spent most of his time in practice. "Think you're better'n Ben?" Jeremy asked. He shrugged.
Jeremy confessed surprise that Ben had once been a mill hand. "He won't be the only one coming out of the woodwork," said Joshua. He meant at the mill, but within the hour they saw it happen under their own noses.
Jason heard his name called out from below, with an indiscourageably cocky air that pervaded every inch of the caller's frame from the tilt of his chin to the breadth of his stance.
"Redmond Bass!" said Jason. "I'll be a–"
"You always were," said Bass, "but I was fond of you anyhow."
He climbed up to him and grabbed his hand. "Hear you're startin' a ball club."
"You a good player?"
"Don't like to brag–"
"Since when?" said Joshua, who had stopped practice to come and greet him.
"You got me," he admitted. "Reckon I'm about the best player I know. 'course I ain't seen Swede yet."
He revealed that Big Swede had come in on the boat with him. Joshua urged Jason to go and enlist him. Bass scratched his chin. "'fraid someone's beat you to it."
The someone was Stempel. Having met Swede at the landing, he was trying to rush him to the mill before one of the Bolts spotted him. But Swede would not be rushed in that, or in anything else. "Don't seem right me playin' against Jason," he said. Stempel explained that was why he had brought him. He had arranged it with Swede's boss and traded two of his hands in exchange.
A sudden fear seized Swede. "I get to go back, don't I?" Stempel said of course, after the game was over.
Swede thought some more. "I better ask Jason. After all, I vass his man."
"Mine too," Stempel reminded him, "that time you and he were on the outs."
"Ya, but he oughta have the first choice of me, I t'ink."
Stempel had half-expected that, and launched his attack. He hadn't liked to tell him so but Jason had said he didn't want Swede on his team. He was afraid Swede might run out on him again.
Swede nodded. "Ya, I useta did that a lot. But he don't have to fret this time. I'll tell him." He started off toward the mountain.
Stempel grabbed the crook of his arm. Jason also had said he could never keep him fed.
"That's true," Swede said. "Essie, she says the same. But he don't need to fret about that neither. I'll–"
Stempel kept a tight grip on him. Jason also had said he let a woman lead him around by the nose.
At first Swede did not know what woman was meant and when he found out he laughed. "Ya, she does a bunch of leadin'. But she alvays knows v'ere ve're goin'. The other day ve vass takin' a buggy ride–"
Stempel felt almost like strangling him. He looked for words Swede would understand. "He says in your family she's the one who wears the big top hat–"
"Never seen her in no–"
"–while you wear a little calico bonnet."
Swede thought, then thought longer, and then still longer. All at once his eyes took fire. "I'll punch him in the nose!" he said.
"No!" said Stempel. "Much better you join my team. Imagine his face when he sees you playin' for me."
"That's right!" Swede agreed. "That'll show him!"
Jason ran up with his brothers. "Swede," he said, "it's grand to see you."
"Oh, ya?" Swede leered at him. "I'll show you who vears the big hat and the little lace bonnet!" He pumped Stempel's hand fiercely. "Mr. Stempel, I'll play for you for sure!"
Stempel freed his hand. "Show you where you're to bunk." He smiled apologetically at the Bolts. "Temperamental athletes."
"Why?" Jason kept repeating. He was sitting Lottie's window, staring into his beer. "Why would he go with Stempel?"
"Stempel fed him a story," said Joshua.
"We had our differences," said Jason, paying him no mind, "but we parted friends. Doesn't he remember?"
"Swede sorta reads things one word at a time," said Jeremy.
Joshua was looking out the window. "Here's another," he said.
Jeremy looked too. It was Steve Weller. Jeremy said he had thought Weller was in prison. "Kicked out for stirrin' up the guards," said Joshua.
Jason asked which way he was headed, mill or mountain. It was the mill. Jason felt relieved despite himself.
"Figure Stempel sent for him?" asked Jeremy. Joshua said he would take what he could get.
Jeremy smiled with more pleasure than the comment warranted. Joshua asked the reason. "Something he doesn't know, " said Jeremy. "Swede hates Steve Weller."
Sure enough, within a day after Weller's arrival Harve had to separate the two of them. The stinky pig, as Swede called him, had passed a remark about Essie, which he was happy to repeat for Harve, inflaming Swede all the more. "Stow that talk," Harve said.
"Man's free to talk," said Weller.
Harve looked at him. "Why, you're right. Swede too. Go on, Swede, tell Steve some of those stories you was tellin' me the other day. The ones about his mother." He winked at Swede.
"What about her?" Weller said sharply.
Swede finally got it. "Oh, ya, they vass sure good vuns. The boys in the bunkhouse used to call her–"
"You shut up about my ma!"
"And you about my Essie!"
"What say you both watch your tongue from here on out?" Harve suggested.
After a moment both agreed. "Besides," said Weller, "that was before she come out here. Woman's gotta make her way somehow."
Harve grinned after him. "Guess character runs in families."
That evening Weller, still brooding on life's injustices, found his way to Lottie's, where he laughed to see the Bolts sipping soda pop. He ordered a beer.
"Shouldn't you be in training?" Joshua asked him. Weller swore he could whip all the Bolts, drunk or sober. Joshua raised a fist. Weller put up his guard.
"No fightin' in here," Ken warned.
"Who's fightin'?" said Weller. "Nobody's–"
Just then one of the other customers broke a chair over someone else's head. Like all the chairs, it had been furnished by Stempel free of charge, and so was incapable of doing serious injury, but it stung enough to rile the victim into picking up another one to even the score. Ken ordered him to drop it. The man spun and heaved the chair at him.
In an instant Ken had picked up the club he kept behind the bar for "hard cases," and with one swing sent the chair banging into the corner, where it broke apart at a safe distance. The man who had begun the fray joined the other in pitching bottles and glasses at him. Ken batted them all into the same corner. Weller tossed down the rest of his drink and left.
Ken shooed out the troublemakers with a swat to each of their backsides. He had worked for the Bolts, and Stempel too. Jason's brothers urged Jason to grab him first. "We have a full team," said Jason. "Stempel doesn't. And I'll wager in about a minute–"
Stempel burst in with Weller on his heels. "Miscalculated," said Jason.
Within moments it was evident Ken was Stempel's. What was not evident was that Stempel had promised to arrange for him to keep working at the saloon yet get in plenty of practice time, for only a fraction of which he would be paid. "He's already drawing a salary," Stempel explained to Harve later. "This is just gravy."
"That make nine?" Jason asked. He and his brothers deposited their glasses on the counter.
"Darned right," said Stempel. "–minus one," he added in a low voice as they went out.
Weller stared after them. "Leave it to me," he said. "I'll find you your ninth man."
Of all Jason's men, Pebbles had always been the one, next to Weller, most often out of sorts over one thing or another. Weller guessed he could turn that to his use. From his days at the camp he knew all the back ways in and so he was able to sneak up to where Pebbles was cutting and draw him apart.
"You worked for Stempel once, didn't you?" he said.
Pebbles nodded. "Penny-pinchin' old miser."
"Got a high regard for you. Wishes he had you back so's you could play on his side."
Pebbles was unimpressed. "Jason's just as glad."
Jason was a liar, Weller said. Once they had had to wait two weeks for the pay he had promised them ("but you never saw him and his brothers starvin', did you?"). He always cheated the immigrant jacks because they could not tell the difference. And he had bragged to his brothers he was paying Pebbles two dollars a day less than he was worth.
"Two dollars! That's–that's–how much is that?"
"If I was you I'd have it out with him before practice starts," Weller said. "But don't say it was me told you."
Pebbles did keep that quiet but was public enough with the rest. Jeremy judged the sun must have gotten to his brain. "You eat while we starve," Pebbles parroted.
Jason looked at the giants surrounding them. "Healthiest bunch of starvin' men I ever saw."
"'tain't funny!" said Pebbles, stepping close to him. "You're a thief and a tyrant and a double-dyed liar–and you're gonna give me what I got comin'!"
Jeremy averted his eyes.
"You're hired," Stempel said when Pebbles presented himself at the mill office. His jaw was blue and he worked it around continually while Stempel was talking. He was ordered to start work the next day and start practice that evening. His pay would be half of what it had been under Jason.
He sought out Weller and told him so. "Shoulda come to him while you had a job," said Weller. "Wasn't smart up and quittin' like that. What ever got into you?" He left Pebbles feeling more out of sorts than ever.
That would have pleased Jason, who now found himself one player short.
"Know just the fella," Bass said over supper. "Still workin' here when I left. Tall hillbilly–Jim Boy?"
Jeremy overheard. "Not Jimrick Jute? Jason, no."
"Heck of a fast runner," said Bass from the other side.
"Yeah, run after anything in sight. Remember, Jason? Every time he saw a bull team he'd drop work and follow it."
"Needs a little watchin', is all," said Bass.
"Where is he now?" asked Jason.
"Back at his cabin."
Jeremy shot Bass a dirty look. He knew how hard a climb it was up there and that when they arrived the mountain man would be off somewhere hunting or trapping, and would likely end up saying no anyway.
He was right in all things but one. The ascent to the outlook where Jimrick lived taxed Jason's legs, and the thin chill air dizzied him. He had come by himself, not to spare his two brothers, who could take the hills like mountain goats, but to give himself a space to think up ten good reasons Jimrick ought to come back with him.
That space lengthened while he waited outside the cabin. By late afternoon, when Jimrick climbed into view over the crest with a brace of squirrels on his shoulder, Jason had a hundred arguments on tap. As commonly happened, he used none of them but made up new ones on the spot.
"Don't like ball," said Jimrick. He was engaged in the messy business of skinning, dressing, and cutting the game. Jason had promised himself to leave before supper.
"Why, there you're wrong," he said. "Town ball–or baseball, as they call it nowadays–it's like the singin' of a river, the runnin' of a jackrabbit, the sparkle of a lady's eyes. Ain't natural not to like it. Might as well say you don't like hotcakes–"
"I don't like hotcakes."
"What do you like?"
Jimrick considered. "Hog skins."
"Might as well say–hog skins?"
"Fried in a mess of fat."
Jason tried not to think too long about that. "Ever thrown a baseball?" Jimrick shook his head. "Then you can't–"
"Jason," said Jimrick, pointing with his knife, "ain't no baseball up here. No flatland. It's all mountains and hollers. In the hollers, come mornin', it's dark as pitch till the sun shows. You set on your porch and watch the light move down the mountain till it's all revealed–revealed by the hand of God." Jason had seen it himself, and still could in his imagination. "These mountains is what I love," Jimrick declared. "Ain't no mountains in baseball." He brought the knife down on a squirrel head. "It's all flat–flat as can be."
"Yes, it is," said Jason, "and I'll tell you why. That ball–that ball is like the mountain–it's like the valley. Keep your eye on it and before you know it's sailin' up into the blue, then fallin' down, down, down onto the soft grass. It's every kind of up and down all rolled into one." He clapped Jimrick on the shoulder. "Give me a month of your time, and before you're done I promise you'll like baseball. Like it better'n hogfat." His face radiated a conviction that seemed like simple truth, to a simple soul.
Jimrick sighed. He sure would miss his cabin.
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