Arapahoe Brown was restless, cooped up in Paco’s apartment for days and he was bored stiff. By the third morning his restlessness had gotten the best of him and he was getting out of control. He had emptied two bottles of his so called medicine and he needed to get out and get some more. He was also hankering for ‘that high fallutin’ food they serve in restaurants.
He had been listening to the noise outside on the streets and he was curious about all the shouting he heard in the afternoon from a couple of streets over.
Paco had told him it was something called a baseball game and people went to watch baseball players play the game.
“Bunch of fellers beatin’ up on another bunch of fellers. Is that what it is?”
“Not exactly,” Jeremy said. “But I suppose it’s something like that. Would you like to go to a game and see what it’s like. I sure would. Wouldn’t you Chief,” he added turning to Henry.”
“There’s another game to day. The Saint Louis Browns against the Pittsburgh Pirates.” Paco put in.
“I don’t know how much of it I’d see,” Chief said. “But I’d like to go. Maybe get a hot dog.”
“Hot dog?” Rap said. “What d’ya want a hot dog for?.”
“To eat, paleface. What else?”
“You mean to tell me you want to eat a hot dog? You mean you cook him?”
“No, Rap,” Jeremy said. “It’s not a dog like what you’re thinkin’. Its a long round piece of meat in a bun. You know like a sandwich. Only it’s long. Some people call them wieners.”
“Wieners?” Rap laughed and slapped his thigh. “You stick ‘em in buns? Now I know you’re loco.”
Robison field was the home of the Saint Louis Browns and was located just south of Fair Grounds Park and bordering Prairie Avenue, Vandeventer Avenue and Lexington. Home plate faced a deep center field at 500 feet. Right field was 290 feet deep and left field measured 470 feet; a mighty lopsided field.
The main entrance to the park was a covered structure and the grandstands could be reached from any of four stairways. A beer garden beneath the grandstand garnered Arapahoe Brown’s attention right away; just after he calmed down from the tizzy he had worked himself up into when they entered the park.
First off, he thought he was being ripped off by paying a whole twenty five cents for a mere piece of paper. Jeremy tried to tell him it was a ticket that would allow his entrance into the ballpark. He had become even more irate when the attendant at the game took his ticket from him and tore it in two; handing the stub back to him.
“Hey! I spent a lot of money for that piece of paper. You got no call to tear it up on me.”
Chief Henry and Jeremy had all they could do to restrain Rap from belting the man.
This day’s game was against the Pittsburgh Pirates. Starting pitcher for the Browns was Red Ehret and the catcher was Heinie Peltz. Jeremy, Chief and Rap had seats about halfway up the grandstand , directly behind home plate.
“What’s he throwing the ball at that guy for?” Rap said with concern when Ehret pitched to the first Pittsburg batter, who swung and hit the ball sending it to the right and into the stands. “Is he mad at him?”
“No, Rap,” Jeremy started to explain. “The man throwing the ball is known as the pitcher.”
“Like what you put water in?” Rap interrupted.
“No. That’s just what they call him. He throws the ball to the batter.”
“The one with the stick?”
“That’s right. Only the stick is called a bat and the man swinging it is called a batter.”
Just then the batter hit the pitched ball and sending it into the stands to the left.
“Oh I get it,” Rap smiled gleefully.” And he tries to hit people in their seats.
“I sure hope he doesn’t take a dislike to me.”
“No Rap,” Jeremy said. “He’s not trying to hit people. Those balls he just hit are called foul balls because they didn’t go where they were supposed to. He’s supposed to hit the ball toward the other players in the field ahead of him.”
“What, he doesn’t like them fellers? He’s tries to hit them. What do they do, dodge the ball?.”
“No, they try to catch it and try to put the batter out.” Just then the batter hit the ball high into center field, dropped his bat and ran for first base.
The ball dropped in front of the center fielder and took a hop off the ground into the fielder’s glove. He readied himself and threw the ball to the first baseman just before the batter reached first base. Dejectedly the runner turned and walked off to the side of the field to join his teammates.
“Why’d he run right toward those fellers. Look how mad they were. They threw the ball at him.”
“No Rap. They didn’t try to hit him. They only wanted to put him out.”
“Out cold?”
“Look Rap, let me explain to you how this game is played.”
Once Rap settled down and listened, he finally got the jist of everything and he began to enjoy the game.
The next two batters got hits and were on base when the fourth batter got up. He missed the ball two times, fouled it three times and failed to swing at the ball four times. He then tossed his bat down and walked to first base.
“How come he didn’t have to hit the ball and why is he walking?” Rap complained.
“Because he had four balls on him,” Jeremy answered.
“Really. You gotta be kidding. I’m surprised he can even walk.”
The afternoon wore on and in the bottom half of the seventh inning a runner came sliding into home plate. The ball sailed over his head as he slid between the catcher’s legs as the catcher tried to block entrance to home plate. He caught the ball and tagged the runner as he simultaneously touched the plate.
The umpire made an arcing swing of his arms and snapped his fist down. “You’re out!” He shouted.
The crowd jumped to their feet shouting indignantly, protesting the umpire’s decision. Boos and catcalls came from the stands and the crowd started to chant, “Kill the umpire! Kill the umpire!”
Rap jumped to his feet. “They can’t do that!” He shouted. “They can’t kill that man. He didn’t do nothing wrong.”
He turned to the crowd behind him and shook his fists. “You can’t kill him! You can’t kill him!”
The chanting was continuing and no one could hear Rap except for the people sitting close to him. They all looked at him as if he were a crazy man.
“Well, I ain’t lettin’ nobody kill nobody, here today!” Rap shouted angrily. His hand disappeared beneath his coat and when it reappeared his pistol with the nine inch barrel was in his hand.
Seeing what was happening, Paco, Jeremy and Chief Henry lurched from their seats and attacked the wild eyed Arapahoe Brown.
Rap tried to avoid them, his pistol rising high above his head. Jeremy on Rap’s right, wrapped his fingers around Rap’s wrists. Rap’s arm straightened, holding the gun higher and skyward.
Chief Henry came from the other side, grasping Rap’s arm above the elbow. Paco rammed into Rap’s midsection.
The crowd suddenly realizing what was happening ceased their chant and started screaming with terror.
The pistol roared, smoke pluming from the muzzle just as a camera from the press box framed the wide eyed foursome of Jeremy, Chief Henry, Paco, and Arapahoe Brown; their faces full to the camera.
The shutter clicked and they were frozen in time.
Miles away, frozen in time, the image of Arapahoe Brown, pistol high in the air with a puff of smoke emanating from a nine inch pistol barrel with an excited Jeremy Carlin, Chief Henry Two Owsl Tolliver, and Paco Morales wrapped around the big man’s body trying to rest the weapon from his hands peered out from beneath the headline of the next day’s issue of the Saint Louis Globe Democrat. “Fans Go Berserk at Ball Game.”
“That’s them, alright,” Simon Price said, grinning like a Cheshire Cat that was about to catch a canary. “So, they’re in Saint Louis. I wonder what they’r
e doing there.”
He was almost saying it to himself, but it was also meant for the ears of Sheriff Harvey Trask who was leaning lazily against a file cabinet along the wall adjacent to Simon Price’s big mahogany desk in his office at the rear of the Fortune City Bank; formerly The Thistle Creek Bank before the renaming of the town as Fortune City. The name change had been a tribute to the city’s most powerful citizen, Simon Price.
Across the office in a far corner on the opposite side of Price’s desk, Flo Baxter languished in a big leather stuffed chair. She was bored as usual and didn’t seem to be the least interested in Simon’s discovery. Her long, blond hair; coiffed gaudily high on her head spilled out onto the back headrest of the chair. Her chubby behind barely fit the seat without completely wedging her in.
As much. as Flo was disinterested, Harvey Trask’s interest had suddenly been piqued. He suddenly straightened and pushed himself away from the file cabinet to step behind the slightly rotund banker to gaze over his shoulder and look at the paper. He chuckled at the silly and grotesque pose of The Wildcat Gang members. “Idiots,” he muttered. There was an amused smile on his lips almost hidden by his drooping gray mustache.
“Yes, they are,” Simon agreed, leaning back in his chair and patting the bald spot on the back of his head as if he could cover it with a few strands of hair.
“I don’t know what they are doing there, but now that I know they are out of our hair, perhaps we can proceed with the plan.”
“I don’t know, Simon,” he said. The amusement on his face suddenly disappeared and a grimness spread over his craggy face.
“It’s dangerous business, even with The Wildcats out of the way. Remember what happened last time. Matt Starr is still around and that other feller got himself killed.”
“I think we can work around that pesky marshal this time, Harve. Let me show you what’s on this other page.” He flipped the paper open and spread it out on his desk.
“I see what you mean, Simon,” Trask chuckled, feeling a relief from his original fears. “Looks like our boy’s gonna be a bit preoccupied for a while.”
Then, as realization set in, he said, “But that Dalton fella’s dead.”
“We’ll just have to find us someone else,” Simon smiled thoughtfully.
At the mention of Kip Dalton’s name, Flo Baxter was suddenly interested. She pushed herself into an erect sitting position. “What’re you hatching up, now, Simon,” she said accusatorily.
“Nothing. Nothing that concerns you,” Simon said without looking up. Then when he did, he said, “Don’t you have some work to do out front?” It was more an order than a question.
“Since when, do I hafta work?” She answered surily.
“Well, go out there and don’t work,” he blustered. “Just get out!”
“I don’t have to have a wall fall on me to take a hint,” she said sarcastically as she lifted herself lazily out of the chair. She adjusted her skirt that fitted too tight around her expanding hips and sauntered out of the office, closing the door none too gently.
“You got someone in mind, Simon?’ Trask eagerly asked as soon as the door closed.
“I’m not sure,” Price answered. “I need you to get in touch with my son.”
“I thought you sent Conrad away?”
“I’m not talking about Conrad. I’m talking about Rafe.”
“Rafe?” Trask exclaimed. “He’s probably in jail somewhere’s.”
“Then Get him out!”
Simon thumbed the paper back and once again stared gleefully at the picture of Rap and the others
Miles away in Kansas City, the same picture: Wildcats frozen in time, in another copy of the same newspaper, appeared on the desk of Willard Morton, chief investigator for The Pinkerton Detective Agency. Two other male detectives and one female detective stood around his desk. “You’re sure these are the men you saw on the train?” he asked of the female agent.
“Yes Sir,” she said. “At least three of them are. I never saw the Mexican man before, though.”
“And the thieves you captured on the train identified these men as members of The Wildcat Gang.”
“Yes, Sir. And there were two more; an old man and a girl.”
“That would be Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid,” Morton explained. “If these three are in Saint Louis, you can bet the other two are too. I’ll send a wire to our branch office in Saint Louis. Maybe they can track them down
Morton grinned broadly, “Good work, detective,” He said, extending his hand to the female detective.
She smiled triumphantly. She had just proved women were just as good as men.
****
Chapter Ten
Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid Ride Again Page 11
