“Just didn’t want him, that’s all,” said Chet. “But I notice that our nine has got licked in almost every game they’ve played. And it’s particularly weak in the pitching—Say! look at that one, will you?”
“E-i! e-i! e-i!”
“Yee-ee-yip! Yee-ee-yip!”
The crowd went wild. A boy had stepped up to the plate and tried to hit the ball. John Peep’s curve seemed fairly to dodge the bat as the boy swung at it.
Old Scarface—as serious as a deacon—slammed the ball back to his grandson and squatted for the next one. The old Indian took the matter as seriously as he took everything else in life. Nobody ever saw the ancient Cheyenne “crack a smile,” as Dig expressed it.
Two more balls followed the first in quick succession, and the batter tossed away his stick in disgust. He had only fanned.
Then John saw the two boys on horseback, and he tossed the ball to another boy. Scarface stepped out of the catcher’s place and stood with folded arms beside the field. It was beneath his dignity to play ball save when his grandson wanted to pitch. Nobody in Hardpan but Scarface could “hold” the young Cheyenne’s delivery.
The Indian lad ran over to the horsepath and asked Chet:
“You going to take trail?”
“Yes,” said Chet. “We’re hiking for Grub Stake.”