“Think of it as laundry,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I got him a short term enlistment. He’ll only have to serve a couple months, and then he’ll hop on a train bound for New York.”
The look on Rosie’s heavily rouged face told him she still didn’t understand.
“It’s simple, really. My man in the Department of the Army is taking care of the paperwork. Corporal Dunnegan won’t be in uniform long enough to establish any kind of records.”
“So?”
“So he’ll leave Montana as an army veteran. Nobody’s going to know he played ball in a nothin’ town like Greeley, Texas.”
She nodded, but the effort lacked conviction.
“By the time he arrives in New York, I’ll have made him a hero. He’ll be able to make or break any game he plays in. We’ll make a killing!”
“We?” she asked.
“The kid listens to you, Rosie. You’re his mother--“
“Please!” She glanced around the train car, but no one else displayed any interest in their conversation.
“You’ve only got his best interests at heart, right?”
“I guess,” she said. “Thinkin’ back on it, he’s not such a bad kid.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
After a moment’s reflection, she smiled. “Nah. He’s just as rotten as we are.”
Feeney kissed her on the cheek.
~*~
W.H. Cammeyer unfolded his New York Tribune with its frantic centennial headlines and laid it on his desk. It wasn't the hundred years since the Declaration of Independence that was on his mind. It was the hundred or so days since he linked his Mutuals of Brooklyn with seven other teams to create the National League of Professional Base Ball Clubs. Nothing had gone well since, and every game day brought a new headache over players or money, usually both.
Cammeyer looked up at the travel stained gambler standing in front of him. "All right, Feeney, tell me about this Dunnegan kid."
"You'll love him," the gambler said. "He's playing on an Army team somewhere in Montana, but he musters out next month. I’ve seen him, and he's tops--the bloom on the rose. Never takes a swing that doesn't connect." He chuckled. "He's cost his team a fortune in lost balls."
"A big hitter?"
"The biggest. He makes Cap Anson look like a schoolboy."
"Nobody could do that, 'cept maybe Moses, but he didn't play first base."
Feeney flashed a wide smile. "Dunnegan does, and that ain't all. He's got a mouth on him, too. The way he rattles an umpire or a bowler--"
"We call 'em 'pitchers' nowadays."
"Whatever," Feeney said. "Crowds love it when he rags the opposition."
"What's in it for you if I sign him?"
The gambler shrank back as if to avoid the rebound of his own words. "A simple finder's fee."
Cammeyer frowned. "That's all?"
"Sign him, and the Mutuals can't lose!"
"Except the games you pay him to throw, right? I know how you operate."
Feeney laughed. "When did you start caring about the rubes?"
"Your kind will destroy the game one day," Cammeyer said. "Mark my words."
"I ain't worried, but you should be. When the other owners see this kid play, there'll be a stampede to sign him. I thought I'd give you first crack."
"How thoughtful."
"With this new League of yours, everyone wants good players, but ya can't steal 'em from other teams anymore. If you don't want Dunnegan, the Atlantics will, provided Hartford doesn't get him first. I can sell this kid without even leaving town."
Cammeyer exhaled. He hated being conned, but he hated the thought of losing a bargain even more. "What'll it cost me?"
"Five hundred for me, and train fare for the kid."
"What if he doesn't show?"
"He'll show. He lives for baseball."
"You'll guarantee it?"
Feeney nodded.
"And if he's no good?"
The gambler splayed his fingers and shrugged. "We've all gotta take chances once in a while." He removed an envelope from his breast pocket and dropped it on Cammeyer's desk. "The address is on here."
Cammeyer copied it in the margin of the newspaper. "'E' Company, 7th Cavalry. You sure that's right?"
"Absolutely."
Cammeyer briefly scrutinized an article on the front page, then folded the newspaper and eased back in his chair. "What'll you give me if he doesn't show?"
Feeney laughed. "Make it a grand -- you'll double your money."
"Plus the train fare?"
"You don't want much, do you?" He shrugged. "All right."
Cammeyer extended his hand. "Then it's a deal."
"You won't regret it."
"I'm sure I won't," he said, unfolding his newspaper. "By the way, have you seen the headlines?"
Feeney grunted. "I don't have time for that stuff."
"Perhaps you should take the time. You might pick up something." Cammeyer rattled the front page and turned it toward the gambler. "Why, just today I learned about a place in Montana called the Little Big Horn, and a man named George Armstrong Custer.”
He spread the paper out where Feeney could see it more easily. “I believe you owe me some money."
~End~
The Partner
(Circa 1903)
Few people really knew Penelope. Those who did might have described her family tree as being heavy on border collies and civil engineers. Duncan Dumont, with whom she shared a tiny shack that hid the entrance to a gold mine, never discussed it. Nor did Penelope, of course. Dogs can’t talk.
Dogs can do lots of other things, however, and Penelope managed more than most. She did so much for Duncan that he considered her a full partner in the mine. But she didn’t care about that. Penelope lived for the old miner who took her in as a pup and raised her more like a daughter than a dog.
The team of two seemed to coordinate their underground efforts by telepathic means. Penelope just knew what Duncan needed, and often supplied things -- water, small tools, dynamite -- before he called for them. If a lantern failed, she would lead him topside through the dark. If a tunnel didn’t seem well supported, she wouldn’t rest until Duncan fixed it.
Unfortunately, their made-in-Heaven match ran afoul of a trio straight from hell. Three riders appeared at their door as the miners consumed the last of a gritty lunch.
“Easy, Pen,” Duncan said. The dog had grown increasingly agitated long before her human partner picked up on the cause. “They’re just some fellas lookin’ for water or directions or whatnot. No need to fret.”
Penelope disagreed and when Duncan opened the door for the new arrivals, she refused to surrender the gap between them and the miner.
“Don’t pay her no mind,” Duncan said. “She just gets a little edgy ‘round strangers. Now, what can I do for ya?”
“You kin start by lowerin’ that scattergun,” said the tallest of the three men. Clearly the oldest, he also appeared to be the leader of the little band.
“Surely you can understand. Livin’ alone out here,” Duncan observed, “one tends to be a might cautious. Where you boys from?”
“Greeley,” said the most heavily bearded member of the band. He kept his hand on a revolver stuck loosely in his trousers and said nothing else. Their leader gave him a dark look suggesting he maintain that silence.
“We’ve decided to do a little prospectin’ ourselves,” the first man said, removing his wide-brimmed hat. The action revealed a forehead that had seen a good bit of dirt but not much sunlight.
“I staked this claim a long time ago,” Duncan said. “I’ve been workin’ it for years.”
“Find anything?” asked the third member of the group, obviously the youngest.
Their leader scowled. “Shut yer trap, Henry. You know better than to ask somethin’ like that.”
Henry did not appear apologetic as he gazed around the interior of the miner’
s humble living quarters.
Duncan refused to be rattled, nor was he about to reveal the existence of their gold. Not that it amounted to much -- a handful of nuggets in a drawstring bag. Fortunately, he’d hidden it so well, they’d never find it. “I’ll be honest with ya,” he said. “This area hasn’t got much goin’ for it. You’d do better to look further west. There’s lots of gold in the New Mexico territory. Or, so I hear.”
He went along with the prospecting fiction the visitors offered even though they looked about as much like miners as did the “ladies” working the brothels in Greeley. But, as no one other than Penelope showed signs of hostility, Duncan tried to be civil.
While they spoke, the three strangers had all pressed slowly forward, and though Penelope kept up a low growl, all four men ignored her.
“Truth to tell,” Duncan said, “we haven’t found much.”
“But you keep lookin’,” the tall man said.
Duncan scratched his head. “Yep. Kinda stupid, really. I never shoulda quit teaching. I prob’ly oughta just load Penelope in the buckboard and go back East.”
“Who’s Penelope?” Henry asked when he finished his visual tour of the cabin.
“She is,” Duncan said, nodding at the dog.
“The hell kinda name is that fer a dog?”
“It’s a grand name,” Duncan said. “Penelope was the wife of Odysseus.”
His three visitors shared blank looks.
“The Greek. Namesake of the Odyssey. Penelope remained loyal to him even though he left her for 20 years.”
Henry gave a snort of laughter. “Yer dog looks smarter’n that.”
Duncan shrugged. “Well gentlemen, it’s been pleasant, but I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“We do, too,” said the trio’s leader as he leveled a revolver at Duncan’s chest. “So, if you’ll just tell us where yer gold is, we’ll get it and be on our way.”
Duncan laughed. Give it up? “If I had any, d’ya think I’d still be livin’ here?”
“Careful with that shotgun, old man.” The bearded visitor had also drawn his weapon and looked nervously from Duncan to the dog.
Duncan had little room to maneuver. “Seriously, I don’t--“
Boom!
Finding himself suddenly on the floor, Duncan felt embarrassment rather than pain. He’d let the least imposing of the three bad men -- the runt, for God’s sake -- take advantage of him. Just as quickly, his mind shifted to Penelope. Who would take care of her? It was the last thought he ever had.
~*~
“Damn it, Henry! What’d you go and do that for?” Olen Medford swiped at the kid with his hat. “You could’ve waited ‘til he gave up his gold.”
“He wasn’t gonna tell us nuthin’,” Henry said. “He figured he was so much smarter’n us. Dint ya hear him jawin’ ‘bout his stupid dog? C’mon! You ever heard of a Greek dog? I prob’ly oughta shoot her, too. She’ll jus’ starve to death otherwise.”
“Leave the dog alone,” Olen said. “You’ve done enough damage already. If we’d kicked her around some, the old geezer would’ve told us everything.” He nodded to the bearded member of the gang. “Jasper, take your brother outside and see if there’s anything out there worth grabbin’. The old man said somethin’ about a buckboard. See if he’s got a horse or a pack mule.”
“Sure thing,” Jasper said. “But, why?”
“’Cause now that yer genius brother has gone and kilt somebody, the law’s gonna be on us sooner or later, and we’re gonna need to put some distance between us and him.” He gestured at the dead miner. “Damn yer eyes, Henry. I really wanted to go back to Greeley once we got our hands on the gold.”
“We still can,” Jasper said.
“I ain’t much interested in runnin’ anywhere,” Henry added.
Olen put the business end of his gun in Henry’s face. “One more word outta you, and I’ll put a hole in yer head so big, that dog can crap in it.”
“Why can’t we just put the old man and the dog in the mine and blow ‘em all up?” Jasper walked across the room and dragged a box of dynamite from the bottom shelf of a dilapidated bookcase. “There’s enough here to level Greeley.”
“We don’t even know where the entrance to the damned mine is,” Olen said.
Henry pulled aside a rug covering a hole in the cabin’s back wall. “It’s right here,” he said. “You still gonna shoot me?”
“Don’t tempt me. Just grab the damn dog and throw her in. Jasper, gimme a hand with the miner.”
When Henry reached for Penelope, she sank her teeth into his hand then raced out the door to freedom. Henry, busy cursing and cradling his bleeding fingers, had no hope of stopping her. He stumbled to the door and with his off hand fired several shots at the fleeing canine. None came close to the mark.
“Are you through screwin’ around?” Olen shouted when Henry finally gave up on a target he’d couldn’t have hit with both hands. “We’ve got work to do, you idjit. Soon’s we find the gold, or prove there ain’t any, we need to blow the mine. Either way, I don’t wanna be here any longer than necessary.”
Henry found an old shirt and wrapped it around his injured fingers. He also stumbled across some money the old miner had stashed in a drawer with a spare union suit. Olen promptly relieved him of the cash.
The three went to work and finished around dusk. They all managed to get out of the tunnel -- and the cabin --j ust before the dynamite went off. Thick clouds of smoke and dust boiled out of the open door of the shanty, which then collapsed.
“Y’know,” Jasper said, once the debris stopped falling, “we prob’ly oughta take the leftover dynamite with us.”
Olen gave his head a shake. “I don’t trust that shit. Never know when it’s liable to go off.”
“I wouldn’t mind blowin’ up somethin’ else,” Henry said. “We’ve got nuthin’ to show for this whole trip ‘cept a few lousy dollars. Paper money at that. I can’t believe the old man didn’t have some gold somewhere.”
“We’ll never know,” Olen said. “C’mon now, mount up. We can still make Greeley before the saloons close.”
~*~
Despite having spent so much of her life underground, Penelope maintained a powerful sense of smell. It came in handy when working in the dark, a condition she actually found comforting. Tracking the three men, whom she thought of as “hat,” “beard,” and “boom,” did not, therefore, present a problem.
After foraging briefly through the ruins of her former home, she followed the three strangers to the big, noisy place where she and her human sometimes went for food. She never cared for it. Too many horses, wagons, and people. Worse still, no one paid any attention to her. But for this visit, that suited her just fine.
~*~
Safely back in Greeley, Olen and Jasper played faro with a gambler named “Smilin’ Mike.” They occupied a corner spot in a saloon called the Spread Eagle. The table afforded a good view of the rest of the room and occupied prime space near an open window. Ventilation provided an adequate trade-off for their privacy.
Henry opted out of the game, knowing his card skill -- counting skill, really -- left much to be desired. He contented himself drinking what passed for whiskey in the turn of the century tavern. Leaning back against the unvarnished pine bar, he watched as Olen and Jasper demonstrated how Smilin’ Mike got his name.
“Tough luck, gents,” the gambler said as he cleaned them both out.
Jasper looked especially annoyed. The money he’d lost to the gambler had been promised to one of the working girls who circled the tables like wolves at an unsupervised lambing. Henry’s plan to sample the lady’s charms disappeared along with his brother’s.
“Maybe you need a good luck piece,” Smilin’ Mike said. He pulled a bandana from his pocket and waved it like a pennant, an appropriate gesture since the square of cloth looked exactly like a small confederate battle flag.
“If it’s such good luck, how come t
he South lost?” Olen asked.
“It’s good luck for me, not them,” Smilin’ Mike said. “You can’t imagine how many o’ them yokels came West and lost their asses playin’ cards.” He squinted at them. “Lady Luck’s been good to me, but I wouldn’t step across the street without my good luck charm.”
“I don’t put a whole lotta stock in luck,” Olen said.
“I do.” Smilin’ Mike then laid a dark, heavy, top load Smith and Wesson .44 on the table. “’Course, I’d be a fool to rely on it completely.”
Olen and Jasper took their leave and joined Henry near the bar. “Good thing we paid for our room up front,” Jasper said. “I’m done.”
“Me, too,” said Olen. “I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
When Henry attempted to follow them upstairs, Olen halted him with a hand on his chest. “We only got two beds, and I’m sure as hell not sharin’ mine with you.”
“Me, either,” Jasper said.
Unlike with the faro deck, Henry managed that math fast. “How come I don’t get to sleep in the hotel?” Though he knew his voice had the unbridled tone of belligerence that came from too much cheap whiskey, too fast, he didn’t care.
Olen glared at him. “’Cause I’m the boss of this outfit, and what I say goes.”
“Sometimes ya win, and sometimes ya lose,” added Jasper. “This is yer time to lose.”
“Besides,” continued Olen, “somebody’s gotta look after the horses. I saw some trees just outside of town. Camp there. I got a little money left. I’ll buy ya breakfast.”
The two senior members of the gang moved on before Henry could muster further argument. He left the saloon, located the horses, and somehow managed to climb onto his. The other mounts trailed behind as he skulked out of town.
The stand of trees Olen mentioned weren’t nearly as close to Greeley proper as he implied. They stood a good half mile from the nearest building, and while they might have once been part of an actual forest, they were outnumbered by stumps twenty to one. While such a sad commentary on man and nature might have impacted someone caring and sober, it made absolutely no impression on the whiskey sodden killer.
After staking out the horses, Henry tossed his bedroll on the ground and collapsed on top of it. Sleep came quickly.
Unfortunately, morning came quickly, too. The merciless sunshine drilled into him like the bit on a boring machine. He’d seen one once, in a Memphis railroad yard. His mouth felt like he’d swallowed a sock, which was odd since he didn’t own any socks.