Two in the Field (26 page)

“What for?” No older than Tim, the boy looked troubled. “Miz O’Neill don’t like Timmy playing ball.”

“Just fetch her,” I said. “Don’t tell her why.”

“She’ll think something’s wrong.”

“GO!”

A minute later Cait appeared, looking worried. As she took in the situation her eyes swung accusingly to me. With an emcee’s sweeping, open-handed gesture, I motioned at Tim:
This is your boy’s moment!
Later I would regret that bit of arrogance. The scene before Cait must have represented everything that threatened her.

But at least she didn’t leave.

My focus shifted back to the diamond as the Argonaut hitter stepped to the plate and waved his bat menacingly. I’d told Tim to mix his curveball with inside pitches. He tossed his first bender, and the Argonaut nearly fell on his back trying to get out of its way. The ball hooked over the plate; Rhodes intoned, “Warning on the striker!”

“He’s throwin’ a crooked pitch!” the hitter complained.

“What?” Dyson bellowed from where he stood on deck, hefting a bat that looked long as a wagon tongue. “A
crooked pitch?”

Umpire Rhodes, stationed beside home plate, ignored him; he knew as well as I that the rules currently permitted a pitcher’s wrist snap.

The hitter bravely held his ground on the next offering, thinking it would also curve. It didn’t, and clipped him on the hand. In this era a hit batter didn’t get a free base. All the Argonaut could do for satisfaction was hop up and down and send a few curses Tim’s way. His mood didn’t improve when another curve was called a strike. Then, desperate, he swung weakly at a third bender and suffered the ultimate humiliation: a whiff.

Still arguing the curve’s legality, Dyson came to the plate. He
posed in a threatening stance, bat aimed at Tim like a gun. Far from being intimidated, Tim actually grinned back at him for all the world like a young George Wright. Although I had to admire his nerve, the cocky grin wasn’t what I’d have recommended in those circumstances. Dyson looked homicidal as Tim gave him a steady stream of curves. Trying to atomize the ball, he fouled off a couple and finally squibbed a roller to me at first base. Tim had done the job better than I’d hoped; with only one out and the bases full, he’d stopped them.

“We’re still ahead of you ass-wipes,” Dyson jeered as he passed me on his way to the pitcher’s box.

He was right. It was our last ups. We trailed by two. I batted fourth in the inning; somebody had to get on for me to get to the plate. Tip McKee led off. I sneaked a glance at Cait to see if she was watching him.

She was, naturally.

I was conflicted, not wanting Tip to look too good—and also not wanting to lose the game. He swung hard and sent a scorcher back at Dyson. The big man snatched the ball out of the air with his big hamhock hands, which must have stung, but he gave no sign. He turned toward me with a smartass leer. One out. We had only two left.

“On the ground,” I urged the next Shamrock.

He sent a four-bouncer that their shortstop bobbled long enough for him to make first. Evidently the Argonauts were also feeling the pressure. Our next hitter came through with a seeing-eye single past third, putting Shamrocks on first and second.

And now I was up. Storybook situation. Score: 56-54. A home run would win it. Don’t think that way, I told myself. Drive the ball low. No need to be the hero. Linc’s up next. Just keep things going.

No taunts from Dyson now. Although I hadn’t hit for distance,
the Argonauts hadn’t gotten me out all afternoon. Dyson’s first ball zoomed in high, though I had called for it low. Rhodes called a warning, which activated a ball count. Three more and I would walk. I signaled low again, wanting the ball where I’d golfed my previous hits, low liners virtually impossible for the barehanded Argonauts to deal with. The offering came in high.

“Two balls,” Rhodes called.

It happened again. The pitch sailed in too high; it took an effort of will on my part not to try to club it.

“Three balls.”

Did they really mean to walk me? Load the bases for Linc, who
had
powered some of his hits? Unlikely. Intentional walks were practically unknown in these times, and I doubted that Dyson had come up with such an advanced idea. The Argonauts were yelling that I was yellow-bellied, afraid to swing. Dyson’s strategy seemed aimed at tempting me to go after a bad pitch. Well, I’d take the walk if it came.

Everybody seemed to be yelling now, my teammates, the Argonauts, the crowd of settlers. An undifferentiated roar. My hands were sweaty. I stepped out of the box for a second and rubbed dirt on them. I told myself not to glance Cait’s way, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. She was looking away.

Deliberately not watching.

Stepping back in, I tried to put her out of mind, tried to concentrate on Dyson.

It didn’t work.

I felt a monumental surge of resentment at coming all this way for a woman who wouldn’t look at me; at being on a prairie in the middle of nowhere; at dealing with louts like Dyson. It seemed that I’d been thwarted at all turns, failed at everything.

The next pitch wasn’t quite as high. Jaw clenched, I watched
it coming, a fat target, down where I could extend my arms and drive it.

To hell with daisy-cutters
.…

I torqued my hips and whipped the bat, grunting with the effort. Every ounce of strength generated by my body weight and work-hardened muscles seemed to explode through my arms into the bat and then the ball, which rocketed high and far.

The Argonaut’s left fielder was in frantic motion, legs pumping wildly as he raced down toward the river. Our runners were moving around the bases. All else seemed frozen and there was an eerie silence as every eye tracked the ball’s flight. I sensed at once that I wouldn’t have to run, but I went at full speed anyway, checking the ball’s orbit like everybody else.

It splashed in the middle of the Elkhorn.

The Argonaut fielder had halted at the water’s edge and was watching the ball bob downriver as I stepped on home plate. The Shamrocks swarmed over me, followed by jubilant spectators. We’d won, 57-56. The gold was ours.

“Sam’s tops!” Tim kept yelling. “He hit the ball out of the whole damn territory!”

Only later did I reflect that people then had never witnessed one of Bonds’s or McGwire’s mammoth shots. They’d never even seen golf balls driven prodigious distances. They’d never seen anything powered so far purely by human muscle.

It duly became legend, and Tim’s notion of the ball floating across boundaries was part of it: a man had hit a baseball clear out of the Territory of Nebraska.

At length I freed myself from exulting teammates and spectators.

Cait was gone.

Dyson was claiming loudly that they’d been cheated by Tim’s
illegal pitches and that their gold should be refunded. When he got no satisfaction from Umpire Rhodes, he confronted Tim and demanded to see his father.

Linc and I saw it and moved that way.

“I don’t have a father,” I heard Tim say.

“Then you’re a goddamn mick bastard!” Dyson grabbed his arm to keep him there. “You think we’re gonna let you take our gold?”

Tim told him to go to hell.

Dyson promptly backhanded him.

“I’ll be his father,” Linc said grimly. “Talk to me.”

Dyson looked up in surprise, then sneered. “No surprise he’s got a nig—”

We were on him then. Linc seized Dyson’s left forearm in a vise-like grip that froze the big man.

“I’m his dad, too,” I said, crushing the fingers of Dyson’s other hand as I pumped it in what looked like a good-sport handshake. “Glad you’re taking an interest in our boy.”

Together we walked Dyson off the field. Several of the Argonauts sensed that something was wrong and started for us.

“Don’t,” Dyson told them, his voice strained as we upped the pressure a notch. “Go on ahead.” We released him and watched until he was out of sight.

“Hope that’s the end of it,” I said.

“Doubt it,” Linc muttered, and moved off to ensure that the other Argonauts remained peaceful.

Tim still stood where Dyson had left him, a stricken look on his face. “He shouldn’t have said that about my father,” he told me softly as I put my arm around his shoulders.

“No, he shouldn’t.” I tried to talk him out of feeling so bad, arguing that Dyson was a monumental jerk, that it was a case of sour grapes over Tim having beaten him. The boy seemed to
cheer up a bit, but I couldn’t erase what had happened: In one of the great moments of his life, he’d been hurt.

At that evening’s banquet, lionized as “Captain Sam,” I tried to pass off credit to the whole team. Tip McKee recounted highlights to all who would listen. Linc was his usual taciturn self, as if nothing unusual had happened. John O’Neill positively glowed with good cheer until he informed me privately that he hadn’t told Cait of the wager until after the game. “She said it was reckless of me to risk the colony’s welfare that way.”

“But we won!”

“I think she resents your part in the victory,” he said with a shrug.

Well, some people you just can’t please.

Tim looked down in the dumps again. “Why the long face?” I asked. “Dyson?”

He shook his head. “I had a fight with Ma,” he said. “She says I can’t play ball again so long as I live here.”

My heart went out to him; his big day had become a mess. “I’m mostly the reason, Tim,” I said. “Once she stops being mad at me, she won’t take it out on you.”

He shook his head. “I’m leaving.”

I tried to think quickly. “Maybe we could do something besides baseball.”

“What?”

“You taught me about fishing,” I told him. “Maybe I could show you how to box.”

“You’d do that?” he said, brightening.

But he ate quickly and disappeared shortly afterward. I felt sorry for him. It’s not easy being fourteen. Especially with no dad.

After the meal there was a songfest at Grand Central, the
music supplied by fiddle, banjo and spoons. We all sang “Nebraska Land” and “Lottie Lee.” Then Tip McKee displayed a beautiful tenor on “An Irish Rebel’s Grave.”

A hush followed the final words. I glanced across the room at Cait, who looked both moved by the lyrics and distracted. Probably wondering why her son couldn’t commit to the cause of Erin instead of baseball.

“The next one is dedicated to Caitlin O’Neill,” Tip announced, his brogue more pronounced than ever. “It’s called ‘This Place Called County Cavan.’ ” Jealousy licked inside me as he sang,

Christ, how was I supposed to compete with this stuff?

My frustration intensified when McKee concluded the song and broke into a neat Irish jig. Finally he gave up the limelight and couples took the floor to dance to “Skip to My Lou” and “Dina Had a Wooden Leg.” Men far outnumbered women, so Cait and Kaija and the rest were kept busy. Most of the dancing was not hold-her-in-your-arms style (or “waist swinging,” as it was called; even waltzes were regarded with suspicion here) but
rather reels and square dances. When a sort of polka played and couples did dance in tandem, I figured it was time. I cut in on McKee, and suddenly Cait was in my arms.

“No, I—” she began, leaning back, resisting—I was holding her more closely than was customary—but then we were swirling around, and though she felt rigid to my guiding hand, she moved easily with me. Hitting the long homer had been glorious satisfying. But it couldn’t begin to touch this.

The song ended too soon.

“Thank you.” I held on to her hand as she started to say something, then stopped. Her fingers were trembling. Not meeting my eyes, she pulled away.

Then everything changed.

A muffled shout came from the doorway and I saw a congestion there. Suddenly Dyson barged inside, pushing Tim before him, half a dozen prospectors behind them. Dyson was yelling something, spit spraying from his mouth. I couldn’t hear his words—the fiddle and banjo were still going—but I doubted it was good news. One of his hands held Tim by the scruff of his neck. The other clutched a huge revolver.

Tim looked scared. What the hell was going on? I was at the far end of the room. The music sputtered to a halt and the place grew ominously still. Men were moving toward Dyson and he knew it, for he put the barrel of the gun to Tim’s head and roared for them to stay away. Cait made a shrill noise and started forward, but Kaija caught and held her. Everybody looked stunned, a normal reaction—but somebody had to do something. I moved surreptitiously, keeping behind others, aware of Linc doing the same along the far wall.

It didn’t work.

“Come ahead, Fowler!” Dyson brandished the pistol. “Got bullets here for you
and
the nigger!”