Buckskin, Bloomers, and Me

by Johnny D. Boggs

  BUCKSKIN, BLOOMERS, AND ME

  JOHNNY D. BOGGS

  Copyright © 2019 by Johnny D. Boggs

  E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982595-12-8

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982595-11-1

  Fiction / Westerns

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

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  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

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  Chapter One

  Kansas City Journal

  Kansas City, Missouri • September 20, 1897

  The Blues lost the opening and closing games of the season, to say nothing of the ninety-seven other games which they neglected to win. St. Paul took the first, and the rival town of Minneapolis took the last. Probably the most wretched season in baseball in Kansas City came to an inglorious close at 4:40 o’clock yesterday afternoon, when a Miller brought in the winning run on a passed ball that did not roll fifteen feet from the plate.

  He rode into my life on a real fine train just this past summer. “Call me Buckskin,” he said, but I’ll get to him directly. First, I want to tell how come Buckskin, and a lot of other folks, and me met, including the wretched woman who put me through this ordeal.

  Any of you who has had the misfortune to meet the Widow Amy DeFee in person knows I ain’t stretching the truth at all when I call her the vilest, repulsivest, meanest, contemptiblist, and poorest excuse for a woman ever to set foot in Kansas, Missouri, and Colorado. And whilst she can handle a .30-30 Winchester better than Annie Oakley, and knows more than most folks about the game of baseball—admittedly, she sure learnt me enough—nobody ever educated her that kidnapping, theft, graft, crooked gambling, horse theft, and especially murder is criminal, and she plumb forgot all them rules of good sportsmanship, honesty, and the fact that it ain’t winning that matters most, it’s the way you play the game, which is how good folks, good ballists, and us Westerners keep our heads held high—’cause we play and live the right way. And we don’t kill nobody, neither, in blood colder than a hibernating rattlesnake.

  But, well, there just ain’t no other way to put it but true: The Widow Amy DeFee ain’t got nothing in her black heart and blackest of souls but wickedness.

  Which is a terrible sentiment to say about your ma.

  ’Course, she ain’t really my ma. Not my birthing ma, I mean. Before I knew the difference between a shine ball and an emery ball, my real ma, Gertrude Grace, died of consumption or cholera or colic or ringworm, depending on how much John Barleycorn Pa had consumed and just who he happened to be relaying the story to on how he become a widower. That’s when Pa took to drink worser than he had back when Ma was living. There wasn’t no kin left on either side of the family. We wasn’t steady churchgoers even when Ma was alive, and Ma took care of all my schooling, which weren’t much except for them McGuffeys, so it didn’t take long before Pa learnt that he needed someone to care for me, else he’d never find time to get roostered while rolling dice down back of the depot.

  Therefore, some months after Ma got called to glory, Pa come across this advertisement in the Romeo & Juliet Marriage Plan Company Yearbook.

  White American widow, age 29, weight 105, height 5 feet 4 inches, hazel eyes, brown hair, Baptist, income $700 per annum, good cook, neat, clean, tidy. Will marry if suited.

  I read it to Pa, getting plenty of help from the conductor on the Frisco line with them tougher words.

  Actually, I had to read all twenty-nine other advertisements, but that’s the one that struck Pa’s fancy, maybe on account of that $700 figure, but most likely because it was the last one I read before Pa got tired of hearing them words “good housekeeper” and “no flirts will receive attention” and “anxious to meet Western men” and “will answer all correspondence as long as postage is provided.”

  Too bad Pa never took in one of them shows put on by theatrical troupes when they stopped at the Pleasanton Opera House. Had he seen Romeo and Juliet, which I took in a month ago last Thursday, Pa maybe could have figured out that this romance wasn’t going to have no happy ending. But what with the Romeo & Juliet Marriage Plan Company being based in Kansas City, Missouri, and us living in Pleasanton and right on the Frisco line, Pa gathered me up, and we hopped a freight to Kansas City. We had to do this, since Pa, though being employed most of the time by that particular railroad, didn’t have no railroad pass and wasn’t willing to pay that discounted rate for Frisco workers.

  We jumped off after Pa waked me up right before the train pulled into Union Station. That was fun for a seven-year-old, and Pa took to detecting. When he wasn’t in his cups, Pa could be right savvy, talk smooth, and fool people into thinking he was a fine citizen and God-fearing daddy. Don’t have no idea how he done it, but he got inside the Romeo & Juliet office and found out—to my everlasting regret—that this Widow Amy DeFee lived right there in Kansas City. Even talked this clerk inside that dumpy little building into sharing the woman’s address on Walnut Street. There, Pa persuaded the beer-jerker—the widow lived above a saloon—to tell him that he’d likely find the Widow Amy DeFee over at Exposition Park watching the Blues lose to whoever they was playing on that particular day. That particular day the Blues was playing Minneapolis. They was winning when we got there but had regressed to their lousy playing by the time Pa found the widow high up on the third-base side of the field.

  Even though Exposition Park wasn’t filled with spectators on a late September day, on account that that year’s baseball team was a menace to the sport, it took us a good two-and-a-half innings to track down the woman since that description of her in that matrimonial catalog—a twenty-nine-year-old American Baptist widow all of five-four and a tad over a hundred pounds—wasn’t much help, as the widow wasn’t none of them things.

  Pa found her, though, ’cause he just walked up and down the grandstand, hollering: “Mrs. Amy DeFee! Mrs. Amy DeFee! I am seeking the Widow Amy DeFee.”

  One person stood up and said, “I am Amy DeFee,” but he wasn’t. He was just drunk, which Pa wasn’t—not that afternoon. That got a lot of laughs, and even Pa chuckled before he climbed up the steps, then down them again, calling out the widow’s name.

  Till she rose from her seat, lowered her parasol and bottle of beer, and said: “I am Amy DeFee. Whom am I addressing?”

  Just so you know, this ain’t all coming from my memories, as I was only seven back then, but from accounts Pa later related to me and the Widow Amy DeFee, not to mention what all them Pinkertons, who is right savvy at this kind of stuff, produced to the judge and assorted peace officers two weeks back.

  It must’ve been the matrimonial catalog that Pa held that give him away, or at least convinced the widow that he wasn’t no detective or ordinary copper out to arrest her and get her put in the Jefferson City pen.

  Well, ain’t no matter now.

  Pa, he showed her the catalog, and she saw how he had circled her advertisement over and over again. That impressed her. So they started conversing about whatever folks talk about when they ain’t never met or eve
n corresponded by letter like most folks do when seeking potential husbands and budding wives.

  I didn’t care a whit about Pa or that woman who, I could tell, even young as I was back then, sure didn’t look like she was no twenty-nine years old. Getting numbers right sure wasn’t among her qualifications, as she didn’t weigh no one-oh-five, neither, and hadn’t in about thirty or forty pounds.

  But they must have reached a mutual agreement whilst I ate peanuts and watched the Millers whup that lousy Blues team, nine to eight, by scoring two runs in the ninth inning.

  Pa learnt that the way this here Romeo & Juliet club worked was that if you ever got married, you had to pay the marriage plan seven dollars and fifty cents. That’s how the Romeo & Juliet owners earned a living, along with whatever they charged womenfolk to advertise themselves in their yearbook to potential husbands. Talk about heathens and skinflints. My daddy and the widow—she weren’t no Baptist—lived in sin to save seven bucks and four bits.

  The Widow Amy DeFee was cheap and dishonest and unholy. And, I reckon, you’d have to put Pa in that category, too, but I’d already learnt that much about my daddy long before the widow came into our lives. The Widow Amy DeFee I would get to know right soon. She weren’t no widow, I come to figure out. Might’ve been a bigamist or worse, me later learning about bigamists from Buckskin Compton, who’ll I’ll introduce you to once he comes into this story I’m relating, just as I had to do before the judge, the Pinkertons, and the peace officers.

  But the Widow Amy DeFee did teach me a lot about baseball. Took me to games all across eastern Kansas and even into Missouri. Read to me from the sports pages in the newspapers Pa stole from the Frisco trains when he actually went to work, and then the Widow Amy DeFee would tell me what them writers meant. Reckon I learnt more about baseball from her readings than I did by playing the game during those early years. She showed me how to hold a bat and throw the ball. I maybe could have liked her, if she hadn’t been plumb evil.

  Over time, the Widow Amy DeFee told me that she had done as much as she could with me and the great game, but as we weren’t rich, I might be able to help out. Being Pa’s son, I wasn’t no hand around the house, and I was too young to go to work for the Frisco, but in 1903, back when I was only thirteen, she had bought me a bicycle—well, I guess, knowing her, she might have stole it. Anyway, whether the velocipede, which is what Pa always insisted on calling my bicycle, come to our house by honest or dishonest means, that’s when I started pedaling from one town to another, picking up quarters and dimes, and after I turned fifteen, sometimes fifty cents or a whole dollar, playing baseball games, which I got to keep for myself.

  Till Pa up and died. Got drunk and swallowed his tongue, said the doctor, the sheriff ’s deputy, and Judge Brett. After that I had to pay half my baseball earnings to the Widow Amy DeFee, who had suddenly produced a marriage license and an insurance policy, which she then showed to Judge Kevin Brett, who wrote a threatening letter to that company in Topeka, warning them that they had better not be planning on stiffing a widow and her young, invalided son—it took me a while to figure out what invalided meant and that I wasn’t invalided, or no kin to that rotten woman. The judge also told them that he had the honor and privilege to have been riding with General Pleasonton in ’64 when the boys in blue turned back the Rebels at Mine Creek and kept Kansas out of Confederate control, and that the Brett name meant something in this state—it didn’t, but folks in Topeka ain’t real smart—and especially in Linn County, ’cause it was the judge who helped found Pleasanton in ’69 and get the first post office here. My pard Buckskin Compton, who I’ll tell you about directly as I said before, later pointed out to me that if Judge Kevin Brett was with General Pleasonton during the War of the Rebellion, then how come he didn’t get the name spelled right when he got the town founded and the post office established?

  You see, Buckskin noticed that the town’s name is spelt with an a-n in the middle whilst the general used an o-n.

  But where was I?

  Oh, yeah. That occultist Amy DeFee. (Buckskin also told me what occultist meant and how to spell it. He’s real smart.)

  So, let me tell you all about Buckskin Compton and how we become pards, as it just ain’t good for a body to spend all this time penning and then scratching out words and ripping up whole pages and starting over again, especially whilst writing a lot about a mean, evil occultist, which is, Buckskin Compton tells me, like a witch or evil sorceress. Or as Louis Friedman, who I’ll also get to later, described the Widow Amy DeFee: “Jezebel, the Witch of Endor, and Lizzie Borden stuffed inside one corset.”

  See, Pa’d been dead two months, it being 1906, and I’d been velocipeding, as my Pa would have said, from town to town practically every available day since the burying, earning my keep and helping keep the Widow Amy DeFee in elderberry wine with my earnings playing baseball for mostly town-ball teams in Kansas and just over the border in Missouri.

  So in early May, I took bat and glove and pedaled close to ten miles mostly west but a little south to Mound City, which is the county seat, even though Pleasanton’s got more people, not to mention the Frisco line, but is closer to Missouri. Likely Mound City, which does have the Missouri Pacific, got the county seat job because you never want the law and all that important stuff to be too close to bushwhackers and Missouri ruffians.

  On this particular day, I was playing shortstop, though I preferred second base, for Mound City, which was battling the team from Garnett over and up in Anderson County. We beat them pretty good, because there ain’t nothing much good that ever comes out of Anderson County, and after Rufus Durant, manager and third baseman of the Mound City team, paid me my seventy-five cents, he asked: “What are you doing the nineteenth?”

  I say: “You need me for a game?”

  He says: “Not just any game. We’re playing the National Bloomer Girls.”

  I say: “The what?”

  Which made him take a step back and cock his head and give me a look that means surely I can’t be that ignorant.

  But I can.

  “Surely you’ve heard of the Bloomer Girls,” he told me.

  “No, sir, I surely ain’t,” I tell him.

  He grinned, shook his head, and said: “Well, they’re a traveling team of ballists in bloomers. Females, you see. There are teams of Bloomers all across the nation these days. Cleveland. Indianapolis. New York City. This particular team hails from Kansas City. Or is it Boston? Anyway, they’ll be here on the nineteenth. I’d sure love to have you, because the last thing I want to do is lose to petticoats.”

  “I thought they was Bloomers.”

  He straightened, studied me for what seemed like a long time, and finally asked again if I was available to play baseball on that Saturday.

  Well, I was about to tell Rufus Durant that I really don’t want to play a bunch of girls, and it don’t matter if they’re wearing bloomers or petticoats, but May 19th happens to be a Saturday, and nobody else has asked me or the Widow Amy DeFee if I can play for them on that particular day, when Rufus Durant says something that sure snatched my attention.

  “I’ll pay you a dollar and a half.”

  I’m reaching for the handlebars to my bicycle, but I look at him to make sure he ain’t joshing.

  “And,” Rufus Durant says, “I’ll tell your stepmother that I’m paying you seventy-five cents.”

  Right quick I learnt that I can be as dishonest as the Widow Amy DeFee.

  “I’ll see you Saturday. What time?”

  Chapter Two

  Parsons Daily Eclipse

  Parsons, Kansas • Saturday, May 19, 1906

  Mound City, Kan., May 19—For the first time in the history of the office of probate judge of Linn County, a young woman secured her own license to marry. Miss Maude Fidelia Lacy, of Kansas City, Mo., aged eighteen, got a license for herself to wed Ernest Earl Foster of Hannibal
, Mo., aged twenty-two. After she had left the probate judge’s office, Foster met her, and Rev. J. M. Iliff united them in marriage. Miss Lacy plays second base on the National Bloomer Girls’ baseball team.

  So that Saturday, the 19th, I pedaled hard, carrying my good bat and my only glove, and got to Mound City pretty early, expecting to find the pasture where the Mound City Nine played their games, but, boy howdy, I thought my mind somehow got addled and that I’d rid to the wrong town, because that pasture didn’t look like no pasture at all.

  I mean, to tell you there was grandstand set up and canvas fences—six foot high, mind you—around the outfield, and I could smell peanuts and parched corn, and there was horses and mules and even more bicycles and farm wagons and phaetons, some with canopies and some without, a couple of road carts, and even an omnibus that had hauled what seemed the whole population of Mapleton from down south a ways. Plus a line of folks at the gate.

  Which is where some idiot told me I had to pay him twenty-five cents to get in, but I let him know that I was a ballist—even showed him my bat and glove—and was playing for Mound City. He, a dark-skinned fellow with shifty eyes and a crooked nose, give me a look that made me think he was calling me a liar and a cheat, which got my ears to burning. But then here come Mr. Durant, and he told that fellow that I was the starting second baseman and not to give me or him no guff.

  The lady behind me patted my shoulder and said, “Knock the stuffing out of ’em harlots,” and I didn’t know what to say to that but didn’t have to, on account that Mr. Durant was pulling me through the throng and under the fence that separated the paying folk from the playing folk. There he give me a cap and a jersey, one of them bib-front jerseys, with a big blue M for Mound on the bib but no C for City, and said I’d have to play in my blue buckles, but that didn’t matter much on account that all the Mound City ballists wore different kinds of pants— duck trousers, patched woolens, and a couple even had overalls like mine. Anyway, Mr. Durant thanked me for coming and started saying a few things, but by that point, having rode a bicycle nigh ten miles, I weren’t listening to him much but just wishing he might offer me a drink of water. But then I figured it likely wasn’t water he was drinking from his flask, so I started looking across the field and watching them Bloomer girls practice.