Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  Annabelle clambered inside, grateful to lie down. Of all their setbacks, this felt the worst, maybe because it was clearly no accident. The burly miner with his crinkly red beard and sunburned face had deliberately sent them this way. Why? She fell asleep puzzling over the question as the exhausted oxen laboriously retraced their footsteps.

  A buzzing bee startled Annabelle awake. She looked at Richard lying next to her, a lump under their shared patchwork quilt. She was about to call out to ask her parents why the wagon had stopped when a harsh voice outside stopped the words in her throat. “Well, looky here! Small world, ain’t it? Don’t worry, folks, I won’t delay you long.”

  Annabelle lifted the canvas flap and peered outside. Mother’s blue calico dress blocked her view, and Papa’s arm was wrapped protectively around her waist. Although Annabelle could not see the speaker, she immediately recognized his rough voice.

  “So you folks decided the pass was too narrow for your wagon after all, eh? I was a bit worried about that, so me and my friends come along to see how you folks was getting along.”

  Annabelle let the canvas flap silently fall back into place. Papa will handle it, she thought. Papa will make him go away.

  “You promised we would have no trouble.” Her father’s German accent was thicker than usual.

  “Don’t you worry, mister. I’ll be glad to help you folks out again,” the prospector said cheerfully. “Me and my buddies will start by lightening your load. What you got inside that wagon?”

  Annabelle’s mother spoke up quickly. “Nothing you’d want.”

  The stranger chuckled. “The missus is right, fellas. Why waste time with a mess of moldy seeds and a few shovels when we got us a pretty lady to sport with, eh?” Coarse laughter erupted, and, heart pounding in her chest, Annabelle shook Richard’s arm. When his sleepy eyes opened, she laid her hand over his mouth, communicating their danger by shaking her head vigorously. Richard’s eyes widened as she gestured toward the back of the wagon. Obediently, he pushed back the quilt and followed her.

  A rocky outcropping blocked the back of the wagon from view. Annabelle helped her brother down, then pushed him into a hollow in the ground, flattening herself next to him. Richard’s eyes grew rounder, but glory be, he remained silent. For once she was glad that Richard was quieter and more serious than most boys his age. Another nine-year-old might have argued at being awoken and forced to climb out of the wagon without explanation.

  Peering over blades of tall grass, she saw three men confronting her parents. Two of them—tall, scrawny strangers—jumped off dust-covered ponies, while the third, the red-bearded miner from the trading post, stood next to an appaloosa horse, pointing a sawed-off shotgun at her parents.

  “We’ll save the fun and games for last, ma’am.” He winked. “First, that ring.”

  With a jerky movement, her mother pulled off the gold wedding band and dropped it on a steadily growing pile of treasures that the two other men were already amassing as they pried trunks and barrels off the sides of the wagon and hacked them open with axes. One of them shouted with excitement when he found the emerald earbobs that had belonged to Annabelle’s grandmother and should have been hers one day, while the other man tossed a silver teapot on top of a heap of clothing. Next, he buried an axe into a flour barrel, hacking it apart and strewing the ground with the contents. Chuckling, he bent over and picked up a small stack of bank notes her father had hidden at the bottom.

  “Smart, mister. But not near smart enough.”

  They pulled down the rest of the wooden boxes lashed to the wagon’s sides and hacked them open as well. Soon the contents strewed the ground along with the flour: dried beans, shovels, pickaxes, blankets, cooking pots. Annabelle fought down a surge of anger. How dare they? Her father had spent everything he had on supplies for this trip, which were meant to give them a fresh start in the West. Now everything was ruined!

  One of the men straightened. “Okay, what else you folks got?”

  Her father raised his palms. “That’s all.”

  “Nope, not all.” The red-bearded man crossed to her mother and with a grubby, big-knuckled hand stroked a golden tress that had escaped her bonnet. He called over his shoulder. “Nate, you watch the mister while I take the pretty lady in the wagon for a little while.”

  Without warning, her father snarled and leaped toward the bandit. At the same moment, her mother screamed. There was a blur of movement and an explosion so loud it rattled Annabelle’s eardrums. The rifle went off again and the canyon walls reverberated with sound, followed by a long, still silence.

  Annabelle pressed her body downward, trying to blend in with the earth. Richard lay motionless next to her. With part of her brain, she was glad that the miner hadn’t seen her and Richard at the trading post, hidden as they’d been behind the candy counter. At least, she hoped he hadn’t. If she and her brother remained silent, maybe the bandits wouldn’t even know they were there.

  The quiet was broken by loud swearing. “Abner, you fleabitten dog, whaddaya go and do that for?”

  “Didn’t you see his face, Willy? That fellow woulda killed you with his bare hands if I hadn’t stopped him.”

  “You shoulda just fired on the mister, imbecile!” The red-bearded bandit cursed until he ran out of obscenities. “Well, nothin’ we can do about it now. Go see what else they got.” The valley echoed with the sound of scraping boxes and ripping canvas, followed by a final angry kick that shook the side of the wagon.

  “Just some worthless furniture and worn-out blankets,” the red-bearded man grumbled. “That cash from the flour barrel can’t be more than forty greenbacks. Hardly worth the trouble, if you ask me. Come on, boys, let’s load up and get out of here.”

  Grunting ensued, followed by the oxen lowing with confusion as they were driven off with yells and kicks. A match scraped, and the tang of sulfur reached Annabelle’s nostrils. One of the men spoke up. “Hey, Willy—watcha doin?”

  “It’s a long ride to Lewiston, and I ain’t carrying no blasted plow. We’ll take the jewelry and the cash, burn the rest.”

  “Lewiston? Why are we goin’ to Lewiston?”

  “Why not?” Willy’s rough voice dripped with disgust. “While we been wasting time here, some lucky devils are picking nuggets out of the Snake River, less than a hundred miles away. Guess maybe we shoulda stuck to mining all along.”

  “But you said we’d make a lot more money this way. Said there was bound to be treasure in this here wagon.”

  “So I was wrong. Maybe if you ain’t been so quick with that trigger, Abner, this trip up here wouldn’t a been such a waste of time.” Smoke from the burning wagon filled the cool mountain air as hoof beats trotted off, carrying away the rough, bickering voices.

  Annabelle lay still. So the red-bearded man didn’t know about her and Richard. If he had, the bandit certainly wouldn’t have ridden away without searching for them, making sure no witnesses remained to tell what happened.

  The late-afternoon air was rapidly cooling and the shadows were closing in from the mountain walls, but beads of perspiration rolled down her forehead and stung her eyes. She risked a glance at Richard. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and his thin cheek was pressed against the ground. Mother would take out her handkerchief and wipe Richard’s face clean if she saw him so dirty, Annabelle thought hazily.

  Pushing herself to her knees, she saw heaps of garments scattered across the ground. Red stains were spreading across a blue calico dress and, next to it, a checked shirt and pair of striped trousers. Annabelle’s heart skipped a beat. “Mother! Papa!”

  She sprinted toward the bodies, stumbling in her haste. Her mother’s blue eyes stared glassily upward, while her father lay by her, his arm flung out to protect his wife. Desperately, Annabelle shook their shoulders and patted their cheeks. “Wake up! Please, wake up!” She searched for any signs of life, but there were none. Finally, she leaned backward in disbelief, her breath coming in small gasps.

>   From behind, her brother’s footsteps approached. “Annabelle? What’s wrong?” After a moment, his young, uncertain voice said, “Mama? Papa?” and a small, cold hand crept into hers.

  Chapter Three

  Chance

  Iowa

  Late Fall, 1860

  The screech of fiddles mixed with the stomping of feet in the old schoolhouse that had been converted into a dance hall. Elderly townspeople sat at plank tables lining the sides of the room, enjoying lemonade and seed cake and reminiscing about when they, like the young folk, had energy to dance for hours after working in the fields all day. Red, white, and blue swags festooned the walls, giving the space a festive air.

  Chance McInnes felt anything but festive. Standing by the refreshment table, he folded his arms over his chest while watching Betty Cuthbert link arms with the butcher’s son, gingham skirts flying and petticoats flashing. “Why’s she dancing with Ralph Jameson?” he grumbled to his companion. “Everyone knows Betty’s my girl.”

  “You can’t expect Betty to miss out on the fun just because you don’t feel like dancing.” Bill Mueller punched him jokingly on the shoulder. “Go ahead and sulk. I’m going to ask Priscilla to come on the floor with me.”

  Just then, Betty caught Chance’s eye and waved over Ralph’s shoulder. Somewhat mollified, Chance strolled closer to the spinning couples. Bill’s right, he told himself, shaking off the uncharacteristic fit of jealousy. It was just a dance. The small black velvet box burning in his pocket was making him foolish. Nerves, that’s all it was.

  The music stopped and Betty ran up to him, out of breath and beaming, yellow curls bouncing. Chance felt even more ashamed of his reaction. “Come outside,” he said. “I want to talk to you alone.”

  Ralph Jameson, wearing a brand new waistcoat, with hair slicked back over his ears, shot him a hostile look when Betty laughingly tucked her hand through the crook of Chance’s arm, but Chance didn’t care what the butcher’s son thought. He and Betty were a couple, and nothing could come between them.

  Ever since his short time as a schoolboy, Chance had known Betty was the girl for him. That first day, when he’d dipped the end of Betty’s braid in the ink well just to see what she would do, instead of slapping him like another girl might have done, she smiled at him with those pretty blue eyes sparkling, just like they did now. Only a week later, his father had been killed in a farm accident. Chance left the classroom before having mastered his ABCs, but he had been head-over-heels in love with Betty Cuthbert ever since.

  “Whatever you have to say had better be pretty darned important since you’re making me miss the next dance,” she said, pouting, but her dimples belied any anger.

  “It’s important.” He led her away from the smoky oil lamps and the squawking fiddles. Usually, Chance had no trouble with words, but now they stuck in his throat. Swallowing, he forced them out. “I’m eighteen, Betty. That’s old enough for a man to think about the future.” The pressure of her hand resting on his forearm made a rash of sweat break out on his forehead, and he swallowed again. “I been working my pa’s farm since I was barely old enough to see over the plow, and I done a good job of it. There’s not a farm around Baker’s Crossing that’s more productive than mine.”

  “Everyone knows that.” The teasing smile was gone, and she seemed to be hanging on every word.

  He gulped. “Well, there’s been a lot of talk about a war between the states coming. It might or it might not, but it’s made me realize I’m done putting off the future. I want you for my wife, Betty Cuthbert.” The words came faster now, and he stumbled to get them out. “Will you marry me?” He thrust out the tiny black box. The ring inside it was narrow, but it was real gold.

  Betty gasped, staring at it. “Do you mean it?”

  “You’re my girl, ain’t you?”

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him. A surge of warmth exploded through his body, and Chance blissfully thought no one could be happier than he was at this moment. “Of course I’ll marry you, Chance McInnes! Just as soon as you build a proper house in town for us to live in.”

  The statement caught him off guard. His family had lived in the house that his grandfather built for three generations, and he’d figured on living in it for the rest of his life. A new house? In town? Then Chance felt ashamed of himself. Of course a fancy town girl like Betty deserved better than that sprawling old farmhouse on the outskirts of Baker’s Crossing.

  “All right,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. “I’ll work twice as hard as ever this next year. When it’s done, we’ll be married and you’ll have your house.” A whole year to wait! But Betty deserved nothing but the best. It would be worth it.

  “Oh, Chance, I love you!” Betty tightened her arms around his neck.

  When they returned to the party, Betty showed the ring to her friends, who clustered around her and giggled behind their hands, turning to look at Chance. He beamed.

  The feeling of pleasure dimmed slightly at the sight of his mother arguing with a group of women her age on the other side of the room.

  Ma had never liked Betty much, maybe because Betty’s father sided with the southern states on the issue of slavery and Ma was an outspoken, full-fledged abolitionist. The ladies were, like their husbands, debating the upcoming election, the recent pouring of both southerners and northerners into nearby Kansas, and the warlike mood that had taken over South Carolina. None of it mattered much to Chance. All he wanted was to marry Betty Cuthbert and till his pa’s farm the rest of his days. As far as he was concerned, all the southern states could go hang themselves.

  Soon Betty was at his side again. “Are you sure you won’t dance, Chance? I’d much rather dance with you than that silly old Ralph Jameson.”

  Chance looked doubtfully at his big feet in their clumsy boots. “All right. I’ll do my best not to trample all over your pretty slippers.”

  Glancing across the room, he saw his mother still arguing with her friends, and a chill of premonition made his smile waver. What were they talking about now? The evils of slavery? The looming rumors of war? Shoving the feeling aside, he led Betty toward the dance floor. Nothing that happened in the outside world could affect them here in Iowa, Chance told himself, and in his clumsy attempts to master the steps of the Virginia Reel, he soon forgot talk of an upcoming war.

  Chapter Four

  Ben

  New York

  Winter, 1860

  “War.” Samuel Marlowe pounded his fist on the mahogany desk, the sound making his twenty-year-old son, Ben, jump. “It’s inevitable, Benjamin. South Carolina vowed to secede if Lincoln won the election, and the rest of the southern states will surely follow. Soon we shall hear the clash of arms.”

  Ben had heard such predictions before, both from his classmates and his professors at Harvard, many of whom had already vowed to join the US army when the conflict came. “Yes, Father.” He tried not to fidget in his seat. “But why did you call me to Manhattan just to tell me so? Wouldn’t a letter have sufficed?”

  Samuel glanced at his wife, who stood at his side, uncharacteristically silent so far. The aristocratic Lavinia Sandborne Marlowe, eldest daughter of Senator Eustace Sandborne, nodded at Samuel to continue. Sighing, he turned back to face Ben. “I sent for you, son, because Lincoln’s victory caused me to lose the election for governor of New York. As a result—”

  Lavinia was unable to hold back any longer. “The election was stolen! That ugly monkey Lincoln and his despicable fellow Republicans snatched away votes that were rightfully your father’s by distracting everyone with all that tiresome talk of slavery. No one listened to your father’s brilliant economic platform, which was far more important than what goes on in the South! Who cares what a bunch of ill-educated cotton growers choose to do?”

  “Thank you, my dear,” Samuel began, patting her hand. “I appreciate your loyalty, but …”

  Ben looked out the window onto the bustling sidewalks of Washington Square.
Sometimes his parents forgot his presence long enough for Ben to daydream about one of the many topics that interested him, like poetry or history or anthropology. Politics was not one of them.

  “But the Republicans did win the election, fair and square.” Samuel Marlowe patted his wife’s hand before turning back to his son. Ben quickly sat up straight and assumed an alert expression. “That is why we called you here, Benjamin. I wanted to tell you in person—”

  “—That we have decided to move to Oregon!” interrupted his wife before her husband could finish his sentence. “It will be far away from any nasty war that might break out, and especially from those horrible Republicans. Oregon is a state now, you know, and the people there need experienced leadership.”

  Samuel Marlowe nodded. “In the west, we’ll reap the benefits of the national expansion that is sure to explode after the war. The signs of opportunity are apparent for anyone who bothers to look for them.”

  Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The idea was undoubtedly his mother’s. She was obviously far more disappointed in the results of the gubernatorial election than his father. Samuel Marlowe was still at heart the successful merchant who had made his fortune in dry goods twenty years ago. It was she who had pushed her reluctant but compliant husband into politics as Ben well knew, having overheard so many of their arguments over the years.

  “That’s fine, Father,” Ben said, stretching out his legs, “but I don’t see what your move to Oregon has to do with me.”

  Samuel took a deep breath. “We want you to leave college and come with us.”

  “If your father is to establish political connections in Oregon,” Lavinia added, “he cannot tie himself down establishing a new chain of stores. That will be your job, Benjamin.”