Buckskin, Bloomers, and Me

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Where in Breckenridge?” Buckskin asked.

  If that man was trying to remember, he took too long. If he was just stalling, he should’ve knowed better. Buckskin swung the bat again; the man cried out.

  “A … cave …” he said when he could catch his breathe again. “Or … a mine.”

  “Which one?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  Buckskin handed me my bat and took up his rifle, thumbing back the hammer and aiming the barrel at the man’s forehead. “You better answer me straight and quick,” Buckskin said. Then he began firing questions, which the man answered without hardly taking more than a second or two to think about each answer.

  * * * * *

  My Hawthorne bicycle that had carried Buckskin from the railroad tracks two miles out of Greeley all the way here wasn’t going to get us back to Greeley before dark. Besides, as cold as it was getting, the three brigands would freeze to death if they didn’t get out of the wind. Buckskin might have been considering riding their horses, but we didn’t have to, because Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom came roaring up in his Buffum Model G Greyhound Roadster. It was a miracle to me that he had made it all the way out to us. Don’t know how he did it.

  “Pile in, boys. The Platteville law’s on the way,” he told us.

  We quickly tied up the three injured men and left them where they could be easily found near the fire.

  I let Buckskin ride in the front seat, and I got into the rumble seat so I wouldn’t see how close Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom came to killing us all several times, and also so the maniac driver and Buckskin might block some of that numbing wind.

  Which turned out to be a good thing, ’cause when the roadster took a wild turn once we got back into Greeley, I happened to look up at the train depot. What— or should I say who —I saw made me madder than I’d ever been in my life.

  I grabbed Buckskin’s shoulder and yelled: “Stop this contraption!”

  * * * * *

  I had caught a glimpse of Judge Brett as he entered the train, then I caught of glimpse of him through the window as Buckskin and me raced toward the train. He must have passed through the coach I had seen him in, so we hurried into the next car, which wasn’t easy as passengers were standing in the aisle as they were getting settled in. The conductor was in this car, and he asked to see our tickets, but we just kept moving. Ahead, a fat man in a tweed coat and a woman in a shiny orange dress were calling out to the conductor as they were shoved aside by Brett as he moved through the car. Whilst they was complaining about the nerve of some folks, me and Buckskin hustled to the smoking car, and I pointed out Judge Kevin Brett to Buckskin.

  At the same time, Brett looked back, and, seeing us, he yelled out for help. At this, two men rose out of their seats.

  Buckskin and me didn’t stop walking till we stood in front of the three men, two of whom I thought might’ve been the Kelton brothers, but they weren’t.

  Believing he was protected, the judge grew in confidence, saying: “Boys, this is Buck Skinner. And the boy is a runaway. Wanted by his mother in Breckenridge.”

  The two men smiled at each other and turned to face Judge Brett.

  “We aren’t interested in them,” said the taller of the two. “It’s you and your friend, Amy DeFee, we’re after. We’re with the Pinkertons and we’ve …”

  I didn’t really hear the rest of what he said as relief washed through and over me.

  As for Brett, he fell to his knees, crying out for mercy and forgiveness. He blamed the widow for his crimes, promising he’d tell them everything she had done if they would be lenient with him.

  I smiled at Buckskin as we followed the two Pinkertons, who led Judge Kevin Brett off the train.

  * * * * *

  Buckskin tells me that I need to slow this next part down, so it don’t read like a cattle stampede but more like a baseball game, which he often likens to a chess match, which I ain’t never played, poker being the game of choice on train rides, while, during ball games, the guys preferred tobacco juice spitting, which my girl teammates and I found disgusting. I understand what Buckskin means, though, as some folks think that baseball ain’t much different than watching wheat grow, because they don’t understand the nuances—a word Buckskin just taught me—of the sport, and besides, sometimes baseball can seem like a cattle stampede, like what I witnessed in Breckenridge, Colorado, which I’ll tell you about directly. Well, you’d best take a deep breath and let it out slowly, before I commence to tell what all happened after Judge Brett got carted to jail.

  At the Greeley Police Station, Police Chief Perry Stokes listened to Buckskin and me, then telephoned the sheriff down in Platteville and listened to him, too, but I don’t reckon Chief Stokes cared much about nothing he’d just heard until the Pinkerton detectives told him what they knew.

  Those detectives, who prefer to be called operatives and who asked not to be identified by name in my narrative, the Sporting News, or Variety, explained all they had learned about the Widow Amy DeFee’s long history of crimes throughout the Midwest. Turns out the agency had been investigating that contemptible woman for better than fifteen months, but didn’t get enough evidence until the widow had hired these two Pinkertons, who were posing as cheap gunmen. The agency had been put on the widow’s trail after a longtime employee of the Romeo & Juliet Marriage Plan Company in Kansas City, Missouri, had suspicioned the widow’s entry for the 1907 yearbook—yes, the Widow Amy DeFee planned to continue her horrible sins—because it reminded him of an entry he recollected from the annual catalog of 1897, and because another operative recalled receiving a letter from an ice-plant worker in Medicine Lodge, Kansas, who thought something stank about how a friend had choked to death on an apple two months after he married a widow in 1895 whose information had been clipped out of a copy of the Romeo & Juliet Marriage Plan Company’s catalog from the previous year. And every single time, even in the forthcoming publication for next year, that vile, vain woman claimed to be twenty-nine years old. As I write this, by the way, the Romeo & Juliet Marriage Plan Company is deader than the Leadville Blues, but I sure hope that longtime worker who contacted the Pinkerton National Detective Agency soon finds gainful employment at a reputable mail-order bride service.

  While the two Pinkerton operatives showed Chief Stokes lots of notes and what they called affidavits, plus sketches and even fingerprints, Buckskin told the operatives: “You Pinkertons are to law enforcement what the Cincinnati Red Stockings of ’69 are to baseball.” Though I nodded, deep down I could not help but wonder that had those detectives acted quicker, Pa might still be alive. Nothing could bring Pa back, so I reminded Buckskin, Pinkertons, and Greeley’s peace officers: “Ruth and Carrie remain in grave danger.”

  That’s when Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom and some sheriff ’s deputies brung in the hired gunmen who’d been captured at the Fort Vasquez ruins, and while two couldn’t talk so good, they all pointed to the judge when asked if the man who had hired them “to commit this most heinous felony” was in the police station. All three ruffians got hauled down to the jail cells, though a deputy promised to send for a doctor, but that mustn’t have happened till after I left.

  Once the door closed, Chief Stokes slapped Judge Brett twice, which the Pinkertons pretended not to see. “You got ten seconds,” the chief said, “to start talking or choke on an apple.” Judge Brett argued that he deserved—but I don’t know what he thought he deserved, because the next slap shut the judge up for a little bit. “This is the West, by thunder,” Chief Stokes said, “and you’re down to five seconds.” For the next four minutes, Judge Brett told us all about the widow and her plans and, most importantly, the location of the old mine near Breckenridge where Ruth and Carrie were being held hostage.

  As the sobbing judge got drug to the stairs that led to the cells, one of the Pinkerton men used the telephone to call another operative in Greeley to ask him
to telegraph the law in Breckenridge. The curse told Buckskin and me that something was wrong.

  The Pinkerton operative said, “Wire’s dead.”

  Chief Stokes said: “Storm, most likely.”

  Buckskin said: “How can we get to Breckenridge?”

  Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom said: “My sister’s an engineer on a freight train that ought to be leaving in a jiffy.”

  The other Pinkerton operative said: “Your sister?”

  Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom said: “Don’t tell nobody.”

  “Keep trying to telegraph the Breckenridge law,” Buckskin ordered, and I followed him, with Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom and one of the Pinkerton operatives right behind us. Buckskin and me carried our baseball bags. Louis Friedman never quite figured why we’d carry baseball equipment to rescue two kidnapped girls, but he’s just a correspondent, not a professional athlete.

  * * * * *

  Upon hearing our story, Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom’s sister, who didn’t look at all like a woman, spit tobacco juice into the wind, and told the Pinkerton operative to uncouple everything except the tinder, and pulled me into the cab. Buckskin climbed in without assistance, while Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom helped the Pinkerton operative uncouple the freight cars. Another railroad man, holding a lantern, ran up to the edge of the tracks.

  “Phil,” he demanded, “what the Sam Hill’s going on?”

  “Roscoe,” Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom’s sister told the fireman, “charge.”

  The Baldwin pulled out of the yard, leaving boxcars behind—not to mention Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom, the Pinkerton operative, and the conductor (or whatever he was). The Pinkerton operative slipped on the slick ground, causing Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom and the angry railroad official to trip over him, else the Baldwin’s cab would’ve been really cramped all the way to Breckenridge. Yet as we picked up speed, another figure suddenly ran alongside the rails, his yells drowned out by the noise from the locomotive. After tossing his bag, the one holding bats and a Winchester, onto the metal floor, Buckskin leaned out. Likewise, I dropped by bat bag and grabbed hold of Buckskin’s waistband with my left hand while clinging as hard as I could to something cold and metal with my right. Laughing, Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom’s sister pushed the throttle, not caring one whit if the fellow running, Buckskin, and me all tumbled out to die gruesome deaths, which, coming from a railroad town, I’d seen more than I’d care to remember.

  Luckily, Buckskin pulled the man into the cab, and we all fell into a heap. I sat up, shook my aching head, and cussed the Pinkerton operative—but it wasn’t a Pinkerton man after all. It wasn’t Crazy Uncle Donnie Odom, either.

  It was Louis Friedman, who looked like he’d been rolling around in prairie grass and mud for days.

  Buckskin turned savage. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Breckenridge with the girls.”

  “I’m following the story.” Friedman’s dander was up, too. “And Ruth. And my best chances of finding both are by sticking with you two.” He jabbed a scraped finger at Buckskin and me.

  “Charge.” The engineer tooted the whistle long and loud. “Charge, boys, charge.”

  Charge is exactly what we did, into the night, into worsening weather.

  * * * * *

  As we rode the rails, I got to thinking about all the work it took to get to Breckenridge.

  “It takes a special train to stop at Breckenridge?” I yelled over the roar and wind at Buckskin.

  “On this line,” he answered.

  “Well then, how did the Widow Amy DeFee get Ruth and Carrie there so quick?” A contemptible woman like the Widow Amy DeFee would not splurge on a special train, secrecy being one of the keys to successful kidnapping and blackmailing.

  Before Buckskin could answer, the engineer chuckled. “She could take another outfit. The Denver, South Park, and Pacific started hauling folks back in ’82. Or take a Colorado and Southern people-carrier to Denver, then ride another line to Silverthorne or Dillon. Easy enough to rent a wagon, hack, or horses, or take the stage to Breckenridge. Cheaper, too.” He—I mean, she—spit tobacco juice out the window. “Or foot it by the ankle express, though that can be risky any time of the year.”

  I studied on that for a moment, before asking Buckskin: “Well, if that’s cheaper, how come you got a special train for the Bloomer Girls?”

  My brain must’ve still been addled, my question having nothing to do with the jeopardy Ruth and Carrie remained in at that moment.

  Buckskin gave me a look that said I was a dolt. “Because we’re baseball players,” he snapped.

  * * * * *

  If you haven’t been to Breckenridge, I should tell you that it is way high in the Rockies, better than nine thousand feet—double the altitude of Greeley.

  As our special train climbed toward the mining town where Ruth, Carrie, and the Widow Amy DeFee waited, the world turned stark white.

  “We can’t get through this, Phil,” the fireman hollered. “Not without a snowplow.”

  But Phil—short, I’m guessing, for Phyllis —Odom quoted Admiral Farragut from the battle of Mobile Bay in 1864, shouting: “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” At least that’s the way Louis Friedman recalled it in the Sporting News.

  * * * * *

  Snow came down even harder when the train stopped at Breckenridge. Two men wearing badges greeted us.

  “Which one of you plays for the Bloomers?” one asked.

  “I do,” Buckskin and I shouted at the same time.

  The lawman blinked. Crazy Aunt Phyllis Odom chuckled.

  Louis Friedman, Buckskin, and I leaped out of the cab, where the firebox had kept us warm, into bitterly cold air.

  “Have you found the hostages?” Friedman asked.

  “Yes,” the first lawman answered. “The telegraph from Greeley was received roughly two hours ago.”

  “Neither girl was harmed,” the second lawman said. “The kidnapper surrendered without resistance.”

  Relief swept over me. “Praise God, you’ve captured the Widow Amy DeFee.”

  “Widow?” the first lawman said. “No, it was Round Tree Russell holding the ladies. A local ruffian. We’re beating a better confession out of him now.”

  My heart broke like a cheap bat.

  “We have a hack,” the second lawman said.

  Thus, the two deputies, me, Buckskin, Friedman, and Crazy Aunt Phyllis Odom—who said she sure wanted to see this, thinking we were going to watch the game—piled into the hack. The hack, by the way, was a buckboard, with no cover, so we got snowed on all the way to the courthouse, where we learnt that Ruth and Carrie had been found in the abandoned mine, just where Judge Brett had said they would be. The villain watching the two had surrendered without any shooting and had been taken into custody. The girls insisted that they would play against Breckenridge. Two policemen had escorted the ballists to the park.

  “They’re playing baseball?” Louis Friedman said. “After all they’ve been through?”

  “They’re playing baseball?” Buckskin asked. “In this weather?”

  Only I kept my senses intact after the harrowing ride and freezing temperatures. “Where’s the Widow Amy DeFee?”

  “Federal, local, and county lawmen are searching for her,” the county sheriff said. “The judge will be here directly. And the Pinkertons are sending a special train from Denver after the storm passes.” The Pinkertons must have figured they was as good as baseball players and deserved special trains, too.

  In protest, I stamped my cold feet on the floor, thinking that after the storm passes could be days.

  “The widow will be at the ball park,” Buckskin announced.

  The sheriff, who had little experience in the wickedness of the Widow Amy DeFee, said: “In this weather?”

  We left him in his toasty office. The hack had vanished. B
ut Buckskin, knowing the location of the baseball park since he had arranged this game, ran through the cold, white wall. Louis Friedman, Crazy Aunt Phyllis Odom, and two deputies followed. I ran alongside Buckskin. I would’ve been ahead of him, but I didn’t know where the park was and couldn’t see nothing but snow.

  * * * * *

  A deputy’s badge got us into the park without paying two bits each, and we huddled together. We couldn’t let the Widow Amy DeFee recognize us or get suspicious, Buckskin told us, and explained how we would enter the stands by different entrances, find a place to sit, watch, and be inconspicuous. Buckskin relieved a shivering peanut salesman of his wares, pulled on the peanut vender’s cap, too, but gave one of the deputies the bag that secreted his Winchester. After wishing us all luck, he moved toward the third-baseline entrance. I kept my bag, though it didn’t hold no firearm, and when it was my turn to venture into the grandstands, I swapped hats with the ticket seller and went up the same way Buckskin had gone.

  The grandstands weren’t packed, not in this weather, but the game was still being played. Along the first-base entrance, I saw Friedman find a seat on the first row. One deputy huddled in the shadows near home plate. Didn’t see Crazy Aunt Phyllis Odom.

  When the other deputy appeared on the first-base side, Louis Friedman moved toward us, as nonchalantly as a body could do on such a miserable afternoon. He stopped to ask the man huddled underneath a snow-covered bearskin next to us if he knew the score. That’s a sports reporter for you, interested in the contest, not justice.

  The man answered in a frosty breath: “Breckenridge … four to one, bottom of the seventh inning. Bloomers won the toss and elected to be home.”

  “Peanuts!” Buckskin called out. “Peanuts!” He moved away from us, being, I reckon, inconspicuous. No one appeared hungry. When Buckskin walked back toward us, he said to me: “Where the heck is Amy DeFee?” I’ll let you decide if he said heck or something else. Both of us knew that that evil woman, expecting a $5,000 payoff to be delivered by Buckskin, had to be at the baseball park, since she had no idea that her plan had blown up.