The Kansas City Cowboys

by The Kansas City Cowboys (retail

  The two owners turned and blinked. The name meant nothing to them, but it stopped James Whitfield from writing down any lies in his notebook.

  “I do,” the sports writer said. “Hailed from Liberty. Played with Peoria for a while, then some local clubs around here. Signed with Philadelphia two, three years back, but kind of disappeared.”

  “From everywhere but the saloons,” Cod Myers whispered. Cod Myers remembered Frank Ringo, too, but Mox McQuery elbowed Cod, and Cod, having exhausted himself by beating Dave Rowe into oblivion, did not press his objections any further.

  “Is he around here?” Mr. Heim asked.

  Hackett nodded, which provided me enough information to nod, which caused Mox to say, “Yeah, he is.”

  “There’s something about that name … Ringo,” Mr. McKim said. “Wasn’t he in some gunplay out West? Dodge City?”

  With Charley Bassett escorting Cindy McKim home, the owners looked to me as the second-best expert on gunmen and cowboys and recent history in our Western territories.

  “Tombstone,” I said. That’s all I wanted to say so I began wiping the sweat off Fatty’s brow.

  “Well,” Mr. Heim said.

  I didn’t have a choice, so I explained, “Johnny Ringo was a gunman that went up against the Earps. Got killed a few years back.” I tried to remember everything Dan Dugdale had told me about Wyatt Earp and Johnny Ringo. “They found him dead underneath a tree. Shot in the head. Never knew for certain if he’d killed himself or if Earp or one of his friends had killed Ringo in revenge.”

  “Revenge?” Mr. Heim asked.

  “That shoot-out and all that bloodletting in that silver town in Arizona,” Mr. McKim explained. “I remember it now.”

  “Wait!” Mr. Heim beamed. “Where’s …? Damnation, I wish to God, Americus, that you had not sent Charley Bassett away. Bassett might know of Frank Ringo. There might be bad blood between those two. And that …” Heim paused, seemed to be thinking, then brightened, saying, “By God, imagine the crowd that would bring in.”

  James Whitfield started scribbling in his notebook.

  “Mox,” Mr. McKim said. “It’ll be up to you to find John Ringo and bring him to my office.”

  “Frank Ringo,” Cod Myers corrected.

  “Sure,” Mox said. His face told me that Mert Hackett, who was nodding, and I had better not let him down.

  “Well, that’s settled,” Mr. McKim said just as the police sergeant returned with an actual stretcher. It took two policemen and Mert Hackett and Mox McQuery to load Fatty and carry him out of the stadium. As the closest thing to kin Fatty Briody had in Kansas City, I followed, figuring I would be the only one at the Catholic hospital. But I was wrong. Everyone, including Mr. Joseph Heim, followed us out.

  * * * * *

  A nun brought us coffee and cookies as the doctor and nurses attended to Fatty Briody. Mostly, we reminisced about our favorite Fatty Briody stories, but that troubled me for it felt more like a wake or funeral, and Fatty was still alive. At least he had been alive when the nurses and a young doctor had carted him down the hallway.

  When Dr. Jefferson Davis Griffith returned hours later with news that Fatty Briody would likely survive the wound (barring infection, or heart weakness, or liver ailments, or unseen wounds, or internal bleeding, or simply the will of God), we celebrated by helping ourselves to more cookies and coffee. A few of the men made the sign of the cross. As a Presbyterian, I merely thanked Jesus, God, and Fatty Briody’s toughness. Then I remembered to thank Mert Hackett, and this I did out loud, for our black mascot had been the first one to go to work at stopping Briody’s bleeding. “Yes,” said Mr. McKim. “That was fine work, Mert.”

  Mert Hackett nodded.

  “Well, I have beer to brew,” Mr. Joseph Heim announced as he rose as if to go home, and no one would have blamed him as, by this time, it was well after ten o’clock at night.

  “Not yet.” Mr. Whitfield flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Who do we have to replace Dave Rowe?”

  “Frank Ringo can play outfield,” Mox McQuery offered after I had related Mert Hackett’s whispers.

  “If he’s sober,” Cod Myers whispered, adding with a sigh, “but that means we need another catcher.”

  “Wait a damned minute,” Mr. Heim said. “Two more players. That’s costing Americus, Jim, and me a lot of money. Signing you ballists isn’t cheap. And why can’t Silver here play outfield? Or Pete Conway? Or any of you idiots? How hard can it be?”

  “Why don’t you try playing baseball yourself, Joe, if you think it’s so damned easy?” Mr. McKim said testily. “We’re winning, Heim. I’d like to keep that up.”

  Heim’s mouth moved, but no words escaped.

  “Besides,” Mr. Whitfield said, “we have a mascot, and when John Ringo and Charley Bassett shoot it out, you’ll more than make up what we spend on a couple of players.”

  “Frank Ringo,” Cod Myers whispered.

  Mr. Heim’s mouth stopped moving up and down and settled into a smile.

  That’s when Mert Hackett decided to speak up, although not directly. “Say, Mister King,” he said, thickening his accent again. “Don’t you recollect that cowboy who used to hang out at the packin’ houses. I think he played with Frank Ringo back in Peoria, ain’t that right?”

  “Why, sure,” I said, although I did not know if Dan Dugdale even knew Frank Ringo, or Johnny Ringo.

  “I ain’t no ballist,” Hackett said, “but he sure knows this game. Don’t you think?”

  “I think so,” I agreed.

  “Peoria is a long way from the National League,” Mr. McKim said.

  “So is our team,” whispered Pete Conway.

  I breathed in deeply, held it, before letting it out. “Yes, sir, Mister McKim. But this player you might remember. Dan Dugdale. Folks calls him Dug. He was playing for Denver’s team in the Western League when we had that exhibition series in Colorado. Remember?”

  McKim stared at me. I felt myself sweating. Mr. McKim had come close to tearing up my contract after my miserable performance against the Mountain Lions back in April.

  “Catcher,” Grasshopper Jim said. “Hit that home run in our last game over the center-field fence. Hell of a ballist. Knows the game, too.”

  “And,” I told Mr. Heim, “Dug Dugdale is a real cowboy. You’d have a real cowboy playing for the Kansas City Cowboys.”

  “And Dan’s not as prone to lushing as Frank Ringo,” Cod Myers said.

  Mr. McKim no longer looked at me. He stared at Mr. Heim, and then at Mr. Whitfield.

  “This might work,” Mr. Whitfield said. “If we can find Ringo. And I have read some good accounts of this Dugdale’s baseball ability.”

  “I can find Ringo,” Cod Myers announced in resignation.

  “A cowboy,” Mr. Heim whispered to himself. “Playing for the Cowboys. Why, we can break out those cowboy hats again!”

  “Oh, God,” groaned another Cowboy, echoing Shorty Radford’s reaction.

  “Mox?” Mr. Whitfield asked. “Can you manage the team until Augustus returns with this Dugdale fellow?”

  “Sure,” Mox answered with eagerness. “Might be good training for me to become a policeman when my baseball career is over.”

  “It’s a long train trip to Denver,” Mr. Heim said. “And we’ve series coming up against the Phillies, Beaneaters, Maroons, Wolverines, and White Stockings.”

  “Y’all ain’t got to goes all the way to Denver,” Mert Hackett said. “I overhears a fellow at today’s game. He says that ’em Mountain Lions is playin’ just up the road in Saint Joe.”

  Chapter Twenty

  We had a problem, I thought, as Mr. McKim and I settled into our seats at the shabby ball park in St. Joseph. With both teams battling for the Western League lead, the St. Joseph Reds had tied the score at 4-all in the seventh inning—a
nd Dan Dugdale was not catching for the Denver Mountain Lions. Instead, he played first base, and after Mr. McKim bought us some roasted peanuts and lemonade, the Reds’ leviathan Edward Harting—appropriately nicknamed “Jumbo”—laced a ball just over Dan’s outstretched hand, hit fair, that rolled to the fence for a triple.

  Before scoring on Skyrocket Smith’s single to put St. Joseph ahead, 5 to 4, Harting yelled across the field at Dan, “Dugdale, you stank in Peoria, and you still stink! You’re a bum. Go back to herdin’ sheep, you pathetic, cow-punchin’ excuse for a ballist!”

  “I don’t know, Silver,” Mr. McKim said. “I like this Jumbo better than your Dug. I’ve seen Jumbo catch before, and he’s big and strong. Tall. He wouldn’t have had to jump for that scorcher, and he would have caught it.”

  Every excuse I could think of sounded stupid, so I just cracked a peanut and took a sip of lemonade. My face flushed with rage at Jumbo Harting, but Dan Dugdale ignored the St. Joe star’s insults.

  So I sweated through the rest of the seventh inning, all through the eighth, and felt relief when Dan Dugdale came to bat in the top of the ninth with two outs and runners on first and second.

  “Well,” Mr. McKim said, “let’s see how your catcher who does not even play the catching position fare in such a situation as this one.”

  I crossed my fingers.

  Dugdale swung at the first pitch and missed badly.

  “Humph,” Mr. McKim said. “Perhaps we can make this trip worthwhile, though. I’ve always wanted to see the home where Jesse James was killed. And I am certain I can sign Jumbo Harting.”

  Dugdale missed the second pitch, too.

  “Perhaps Jesse James’ mother is interested in playing for our Cowboys,” Mr. McKim commented. “She has only one arm, I understand, but undoubtedly could hit better than Dugdale.” In one of his vindictive baseball moods, Mr. McKim rose from his chair and yelled, “Come on, you worthless bum! You’re a discredit to the game of baseball, you choking coward!”

  Local fans filled the stadium, and those all around us cheered Mr. McKim, which fueled my boss and Cindy’s father even more. He shouted more insults at my friend.

  I tried to sink deeper into my seat. I had heard Mr. McKim’s shouts during many of our baseball contests, but never had I sat so close to him. Now I knew what Cindy McKim meant when she said baseball turned her father into a monster.

  The pitcher, St. Louis native Bart Grether, rifled his third pitch. I closed my eyes, but they shot wide open at that loud, solid crack. Leaping out of my seat, I watched, holding my breath as Bug Holliday raced from deep center field for the ball. He dived, as the ball hit his outstretched fingers, and fell into the grass. Yes, St. Joseph, Missouri, had grass in its outfield, while Kansas City, a team in the National League, had only dirt.

  I cheered, “Way to go, Dug! Way to go, Dug!”

  Those seated behind me showered me with peanut shells, but I did not mind. The runner on second scored to tie the contest, and the Mountain Lion on first rounded second, and looked back toward center field. Dan Dugdale, my friend, had reached first base, rounded the bag, and studied the outfield.

  I had to give Bug Holliday credit. He came up on an instant, picked up the ball he had batted down into the grass to keep it in front of him, and threw the ball to shortstop Gus “Sherry” Sheringhausen. That’s when Dan Dugdale raced for second base.

  “Idiot!” Mr. McKim yelled, and followed that with some curses learned from Mr. Heim or Dave Rowe. They certainly caused a few gasps from the ladies sitting behind us.

  Sheringhausen had pivoted, but saw Dugdale’s break for the bag. St. Joe’s catcher, Al Strueve, yelled, pointing at the Denver runner now rounding third. Dugdale, however, kept running hard for second.

  “Baseball,” Mr. McKim said later, “must be like a gunfight. You have to make that shot count.”

  Sheringhausen dived, ball outstretched, and tagged Dugdale out.

  “That’s the player you want me to sign?” Mr. McKim said, and dumped more peanut shells on my cowboy hat.

  “Mister McKim …” I gestured at home plate.

  Reds manager Nin Alexander, being restrained by Al Strueve, yelled and cursed and kicked dirt on the umpire’s pants, but the bald man shook his head with the authority of a hanging judge.

  “What happened?” asked a Reds fan sitting in front of me.

  “The runner scored before Sherry tagged Dan out,” I explained.

  Mr. McKim, realizing this, sat down, then jumped back up. “Sherry, you miserable son-of-a-bitch! You dumb lout! You should’ve thrown to home to get that runner!”

  Leaning back in my seat, I shook my head. “That was George ‘White Wings’ Tebeau running,” I said proudly. “Once Sherry hesitated when Dan broke for second, his only chance was to tag Dug out before Tebeau scored. Dug knew what he was doing. So did Sherry. Close play. Good game. Great player.” My smile beamed. “Yeah, a great player that Dug Dugdale is.”

  The players trotted to their respective benches, and Nin Alexander screamed at his players.

  Mr. McKim sank into his seat, and said, “This contest is not over yet, Silver. I bet you twenty-five dollars that the Reds rally to win.”

  “Make it fifty,” I said, and we shook.

  Bart Grether grounded out to the pitcher, and William Frey struck out. I began to relax. But Joseph Herr singled and Sherry Sheringhausen walked, bringing Jumbo Harting to the plate.

  “Now,” Mr. McKim told me, “you will see what a real ballist does in the thick of battle.”

  Harry Salisbury’s first pitch was again rifled straight down the first-base line, but this time Dan Dugdale knocked the ball down. It rolled into foul territory, and by the time Dan picked up the ball, Jumbo Harting stood at first base, safe.

  Ever the sportsman, Jumbo Harting pointed at Dan Dugdale and laughed. That provoked the spectators to hurl peanut shells and curses and jabs at Dan.

  My heart sank. Mr. McKim laughed.

  Sighing, knowing that Skyrocket Smith was now batting with the bases loaded—understanding that the Mountain Lions had not been able to get Skyrocket out during the entire game—I felt sick. Dan kneeled down by the bag, pulled on the corners, tinkered with this and that, and finally stood up. Harry Salisbury kneeled in front of the pitcher’s lines and tied his shoes.

  Skyrocket Smith tapped his shoes with his John Hillerich–made bat.

  “Your star player,” Mr. McKim said, “has just cost the Mountain Lions a victory and you fifty bucks.”

  Once Salisbury rose, Jumbo Harting took a few steps off first base. That’s when Dan Dugdale reached under first base, produced the ball, and tagged Jumbo Harting.

  “The runner,” announced the umpire, who had been anticipating this play, “is out. Ball game!”

  “What the hell?” Mr. McKim, and every person in the stadium, leaped to their feet. Art Strueve had to dive to tackle Nin Alexander from murdering the umpire. “That’s … that’s … he can’t do that.” Mr. McKim whirled toward me. “Can he?”

  The man sitting behind us settled into his seat, moaning. “The hidden-ball trick,” the St. Joseph man said, nearly sobbing, but he bounced back as anger replaced sorrow. “Jumbo. You dumb-arse bastard! Jake Beckley pulled that same trick against you for Leavenworth! Twice! And now you let Denver beat us with the same damned play!”

  Once other Reds fanatics realized what had happened, they aimed their rage, curses, epithets, peanut shells, bottles, and lemonade cups at Jumbo Harting as he glumly walked off the field.

  * * * * *

  “You want me to play for you?” Dan Dugdale pushed his stein of beer away. “Kansas City?”

  “I can offer you a contract,” Mr. McKim said, “that will pay you eight hundred dollars for the remainder of our season.”

  We sat in a restaurant at the Occidental Hotel on Main Street.

&n
bsp; “I signed with Denver, Mister McKim,” Dan Dugdale said. “I try to be a man of my word.”

  “This is baseball, Dan,” Mr. McKim said. “A man’s word is worthless. But, seeing that you’re a man of principle, I can buy out your contract.” Which he did, I later learned, for twelve kegs of porter.

  When Dan hesitated, Mr. McKim leaned forward, saying, “Confound it, man, this is the National League we’re talking about. You’ll be playing against Cap Anson, King Kelly, the best players in our United States, not miners, shopkeepers, and idiots like Jumbo Harting.”

  I found that a bit demeaning, especially as I remembered how badly we, the National League’s Kansas City Cowboys, had fared when we had played Denver’s Mountain Lions.

  Mr. McKim smiled. He shook his head and said, “But there’s one thing I want to know, Dan. You had that hidden-ball trick planned the whole time, didn’t you?” When Dan remained silent, Mr. McKim continued, “You could have had him out at first. Ended the game right there. Instead, you let him reach first base … to set him up. You wanted to embarrass him. Is that not the truth?”

  This time, Dan shrugged.

  “I like that kind of spirit in my ballists, sir. Do we have a deal?”

  Dan looked at me, sighed, and reached across the table for the contract Mr. McKim had placed near his own beer stein.

  A satisfied Mr. McKim gathered the contract and shook hands with both Dan and me, and then strutted out of the restaurant to make arrangements for our return to Kansas City in the morning.

  “Did you really muff that hit on purpose?” I asked Dan.

  Now he sipped his beer. “Never been one to take that kind of risk, Silver,” he said with a grin. “Damned lucky I even knocked that ball down in front of me. Stopped Jumbo from winning the game for those Reds.” His smile broadened. “But I was sure happy to shut that blow-hard up.”

  “I’m excited to be playing with you,” I told him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you know a player named Frank Ringo?”

  He had been lifting his stein to finish off his beer, but now he lowered it. “How many catchers is McKim planning on signing?” he asked.