Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  “Sorry, Chance.” The hired hand cringed. “I needed work after your ma died, see, and this Mr. Lott here—”

  Chance whirled on Lott without releasing his grip on Sam. “So that’s your name, is it? Get off my property this minute, you prissified varmint, before I kick you out on your worthless rump!”

  Mr. Lott looked up at Chance disapprovingly. “So you’re Hecuba McInnes’s son, are you. Then it’s time to realize that this is not your property, Mr. McInnes, and that you are the one who is trespassing. If you do not leave at once, I shall have you arrested.”

  A wave of hot blood rose behind Chance’s eyes, nearly blinding him. “And just who’s going to arrest me? The sheriff? Artie Wilson wouldn’t lay a finger on me. We used to hunt polliwogs together when we was kids.”

  The man drew a derringer from a waistcoat pocket and aimed it at Chance. “They warned me you might react this way.” His clipped, emotionless voice was like the tapping of a telegraph machine. “Release my employee, Mr. McInnes. At once.”

  Chance would rather have gulped down burned beans doused with a double portion of Mexican fire sauce than comply, but when he heard the click of the safety, he realized Sam was directly in the line of fire. He gave the younger man a shove that sent him sprawling into the dirt.

  “Put that away,” he snarled. “In Baker’s Crossing we don’t go around pointing pistols at each other, even toys like that one. This town is civilized.”

  “You can prove that by leaving these premises. “Lott’s precise voice grew colder. “I have a bidder for this land, one with cash in hand. I don’t need you complicating matters.”

  Sam quietly hitched himself up on hands and knees and sprinted in the direction of town.

  Ignoring his former employee, Chance took three long strides toward the well-dressed smaller man, who grew slightly paler and stepped backward. However, the muzzle of the tiny pistol didn’t waver from the center of Chance’s chest.

  “Well, Mr. McInnes?”

  “I said, get off my land,” Chance repeated through gritted teeth, and reached for the derringer. He heard an explosion, and something sharp sliced along his arm, like a bee sting. A jumble of disbelief, anger, and fear flooded through him. The man had shot him on the threshold of his own home!

  Chance’s big hand kept moving forward and enveloped the other man’s, squeezing hard. Lott gasped, but just when Chance thought he had won, the banker’s fingers twisted like sausages slipping from their casings, and the derringer fell into the dirt.

  Chance bent to snatch up the weapon, and the other man pounced on him and tried to wrestle the pistol away. A second explosion went off, nearly deafening him. Time slowed down. The little banker’s body went limp and slid to the ground like syrup gliding off a pile of flapjacks, and a spot of red appeared at the corner of his mouth, while the ice-gray eyes glared at Chance in a frozen stare of accusation.

  Chance stared down at the well-dressed man, trying to absorb what had happened. He’d seen enough death to recognize it, had killed plenty of men over the past few years. Nevertheless, the scene felt unreal, as if he had stumbled into a bad dream. He’d left war and hatred behind him, intending to live out the remainder of his life at home, in harmony with his fellow man. Now … this?

  Dust blew around the banker’s suit coat and over the polished shoes. A ring of white powder marked a neat hole in the black vest directly over the heart.

  Eventually, Chance realized his hand was still gripping the derringer with its curved, mother-of-pearl handle and decorative curlicues engraved along the barrel. Such a fancy plaything had no business killing anyone, he thought. The shot had been a lucky one—no, an unlucky one.

  He stared at his blood-spattered hands. There was a world of difference between shooting an enemy soldier on a field of battle and killing a short, plump businessman in a three-piece suit, spats, and a bowler hat.

  He looked up and met the astonished eyes of Samuel, who had stopped a few dozen yards away. “I was just trying to disarm him,” Chance began, but he found himself addressing his employee’s back as Samuel took off toward town, his legs a blur.

  Standing over the banker’s body, Chance tried to gather his thoughts. So much for any chance of getting the farm back. He wanted to persuade himself that it wasn’t his fault the man had died, that he’d only been taking the gun away from an intruder who had tried to kill him—and not just any intruder, but a swindler responsible for his mother’s death, a man who had ordered him off his own family’s property.

  The niggle of guilt wouldn’t go away, though. The banker had the law on his side, and a jury would likely convict Chance of murder even if the moral right was his. His friends would stand behind him, of course, but even with his brain fogged by shock, Chance reasoned that the bank would be sure to demand a trial in another town, where he was not known.

  Chance’s thoughts cleared slightly. When he saw the notice fluttering on his door, the thing to do would have been to find a lawyer. Maybe he could have challenged the fraudulent contract his mother had signed, even if it came down to his word against the bank’s—at least he would have had a chance.

  Chance eyed his neighbor’s house in the distance. What if his earlier suspicions of Abe Swenson were right? What if the other townspeople didn’t come rushing to Chance’s support? Hecuba McInnes had made enemies in Baker’s Crossing with her acid tongue and abolitionist views. And the citizens of Baker’s Crossing prided themselves on law and order. They would not take lightly to a shooting, even by one of their own.

  It occurred to him to wonder how Betty Cuthbert would react when she heard the news. Unbelievably, he had forgotten her until now, overwhelmed as he had been by the news of his mother’s death and the loss of his property. She, at least, would hide him until the heat died down, he thought. Poor Betty! When she heard the news, she’d be so worried for his safety that she’d cry on his shoulder and he’d have to comfort her. Already, he could hear her choked voice: “Chance darling, what will we do?”

  Clutching the image like a protective charm, Chance went to saddle Sally. The horse turned her neck as if to say, “Haven’t I worked enough today?” But ignoring her accusing stare, he mounted the mare and galloped toward town.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Annabelle

  Cascade Mountains, Oregon

  Summer, 1865

  For the next four years, each winter grew slightly easier as Annabelle and Richard learned to fend for themselves, but they were always grateful when spring came and the rocky soil warmed enough to plant potatoes, corn, and pumpkins. Hoping the crops would mature quickly during the short growing season, the youngsters, now aged sixteen and thirteen, spent dawn to dusk hoeing the dirt and depositing the precious seeds salvaged from the previous year’s harvest, tamping them down carefully before moving on to the next row.

  Despite the hard work, Annabelle enjoyed breathing the fresh air and moving about after being cramped for long months in the cabin, though their new home was more comfortable than the tiny beaver dam that first terrible winter when they had nearly starved. Trout swam in the creek, and later there would be salmon. Richard fashioned nets out of twine, and the pair had become fairly proficient fishermen. Occasionally, he went hunting and dragged home a deer carcass on which they could feast.

  The crops grew quickly in the rich, well-watered soil. The tomatoes ripened first, bursting with juice, and in a few more weeks the small green pumpkins would fatten and lighten to yellow. When the potatoes were ready to dig, it would be time to start laying up for the coming winter.

  In spite of the winter’s privations, Richard shot up several inches, his wrists sprouting from his cuffs like pole beans climbing a trellis. His big hands and feet reminded Annabelle of the paws of an overgrown puppy. For most of their lives the two had been nearly the same size. Now her “little” brother towered above her.

  Annabelle had been growing up too, although less dramatically. Her mother’s brown dress now replaced the wo
rn-out pinafore and bloomers, although the calico fabric fell loosely across her thinner frame. Although she was old enough to pin up her hair, she still wore it in braids out of habit. Thick and pecan-colored, they fell to the small of her back.

  At first Richard had resisted replacing his patched rags. To Annabelle’s surprise, when she suggested wearing his father’s clothes, he shook his head. Finally, when despite his best efforts he could no longer wrestle on his old shoes even after cutting out the toes, he reluctantly went to the old trunk at the rear of the cabin and pulled out their father’s boots, which fit perfectly. They both knew crossing rock-strewn, rattler-infested fields without protection was foolish.

  An oversized cotton shirt flapped from Richard’s bony shoulders, while a length of twine prevented his trousers from slipping down his slim hips. His blond hair had darkened to the color of a field of hay when a cloud passes over the sun. It grew longer than he used to wear it, although with her mother’s sewing scissors, Annabelle did her best to keep the wavy locks trimmed.

  At first his skin had burned, but it had finally learned to tan, and the angles of his face were losing their round-cheeked boyish look. With sisterly dispassion, Annabelle thought that when he grew up, Richard would likely break women’s hearts—if he ever met any.

  Since arriving in the valley, they had not seen another living soul except for an occasional small band of Indians silently crossing the meadow and disappearing beyond the mountains surrounding the valley. Annabelle had wanted to be isolated, safely away from others. It was more secure here, where there were no bandits, no greedy, cruel men who murdered peaceful farmers in order to steal their few possessions. Lately though, she wasn’t so sure that it was worth living their lives in such extreme solitude, just the two of them up here in the mountains, where only a few Indians knew they existed.

  Finishing the mending, Annabelle chopped more vegetables for dinner and hung the kettle over the fire. Then, hurrying to complete the afternoon chores, she threw open the cabin’s door to let in fresh pine-scented air, and swept the dirt floor with a twig broom Richard had made. Glancing at the sun, she saw there was an hour or two left before her brother returned from the field.

  Grabbing her bonnet, she headed for the boulder on the side of the meadow where her parents were buried, passing blue, yellow, and white spring wildflowers that speckled the valley floor like portents of the Resurrection. Again she wondered if staying in the valley was the right thing to do. Although Annabelle couldn’t imagine leaving her buried parents behind, all alone under the mountain grass and snow, that ever-present loneliness was burrowing deeper and deeper into her bones.

  She thought that Richard was growing up as wild as one of the deer or elk that trekked across the valley floor or one of the Indians that occasionally moved up the trail, herding their horses into the higher mountains. He should be in school like other boys his age, learning a trade or preparing for university.

  Annabelle climbed on top of the rough boulder and lay back, feeling its solid strength creep through her bones. “Will we have enough food for next winter?” she whispered. “Were we right to stay here instead of continuing on to the Willamette Valley?”

  Sometimes she thought she could hear her mother’s voice answer in the wind rustling through the tops of the trees, or her father’s in the deeper rush of the river. Today Annabelle strained to hear their message. To her disappointment, just before the words formed, the sounds dissolved into meaninglessness.

  When her eyes opened, the sun was slipping over the highest peak on the west. Scrambling to her feet, she berated herself for losing track of time. Richard would be home soon. One of these days she must ask her brother to consider leaving the mountain valley, Annabelle thought as she returned to the little cabin near the creek. She had not forgotten the crack of rifles, the red-bearded man’s rough laughter, or the sound of horses’ hooves clattering away. But they could not spend the rest of their lives here.

  She wondered what Richard would say when she brought the subject up.

  Annabelle and Richard sometimes broke the monotony by picnicking on a rocky outcropping overlooking the valley, where the sun warmed their shoulders while white, blue and yellow wildflowers and tall grasses swayed below. Hiking up with a basket of food, they looked down over their small cabin, the pond, and the creek, and the ragged rows of corn, potatoes, carrots, and cabbages they’d managed to grow. It looked like a real farm, Annabelle thought, feeling pride at what they’d accomplished.

  Next to her, Richard had finished eating his cornpone and was nibbling on the tender white end of a long piece of grass. His lids shuttered his eyes and, as usual, his thoughts. Annabelle thought this might be a good time to open the topic that was weighing more and more heavily on her.

  “Richard,” she began. “Do you realize we’ve been in this valley for more than four years now? Maybe it’s time to consider—”

  “No.” His eyes remained closed, but his jaw jutted out with a stubborn look she was growing to recognize. As he started to grow into manhood, Richard was becoming more strong willed, less like the compliant child he’d once been.

  Annabelle waited a moment and tried again. “I know it was my idea to stay here, but maybe that was a mistake. We can’t spend the rest of our lives alone.”

  Opening his eyes, Richard focused on the large boulder below. “They’re not leaving.”

  They’d had this conversation a few times before. The meadow had seemed a refuge at first, the last place the bandits were likely to return having decided there was nothing for them here. The world below was full of strangers who lied, and stole … and killed. Here, no one knew the children existed. They were safe. Besides, as Richard always pointed out, this valley was their parents’ final resting place. How could they leave them behind?

  At first it had been Annabelle who did not want to leave. Lately, it was her brother. He’d come to love the valley, the mountains, and the animal trails that led in all directions. Despite his affection for their father’s books, Richard revered nature equally. He was proud that they could provide for their needs, that they needed no one outside themselves.

  “Besides,” he told her now, “we’re not alone. We have each other.”

  She wondered how to explain in a way Richard could understand that as much as she loved him, his company wasn’t like being around other young men and women her age, with music, friendships, flirtations, and the prospect of perhaps something more.

  Sighing, Annabelle packed up the basket with the remains of their meal, readying for their hike back down to the cabin. The topic of leaving would wait for another day. Surely, someday Richard would feel the same as she did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chance

  Iowa

  Summer, 1865

  Chance took a circuitous route to Betty Cuthbert’s house. No one would expect him to head toward town, he reasoned. His heart beat faster with anticipation of seeing Betty again, even with everything else that had happened.

  Each gnarled tree and craggy boulder was as familiar to him as an old friend. Normally, he would have greeted each landmark with cheerful recognition. Instead, he kept his head low, hat pulled over his eyes. Fortunately, he heard and saw no living soul on the way, not even Sam. When Chance drew up behind the blue-painted clapboard house with white trim, however, he hesitated.

  Betty Cuthbert lived with her older, married brother, Harris. Their parents had died of whooping cough fifteen years earlier. Steady, hardworking Harris Cuthbert had always disapproved of his younger sister dallying with Chance, whom he considered an uneducated farmer with few prospects. Harris would be busy at work in his successful dry goods store at this time of day, and his wife, Gloria, an invalid, would be confined to bed upstairs.

  Chance tied Sally to a hazelnut tree and peered through a window. The parlor appeared empty. He rapped on the glass, but no one responded. Just his luck, Chance thought. Betty might not be home, or, if Sam had warned the townspeople, Harr
is might have ordered her not to open the door. Betty was always dutifully obedient to her brother.

  Normally, he would have knocked on the front door, but Gloria had sharp ears, and he didn’t dare alert her. After a moment of indecision, he tested the door knob. Unsurprisingly, it was unlocked. No one in town bothered locking their doors. Why should they? Everyone around here knew each other, trusted each other. That was about to change, he thought, stomach roiling, as soon as his crime was discovered.

  He stepped inside and looked around for Betty. The empty parlor was stuffed with ornate, uncomfortable-looking furniture and fussy knickknacks: blue-and-white porcelain vases, framed daguerreotypes, and stiff horsehair loveseats. Persian rugs were layered two or three deep, and the air held the sharp, spicy aroma of dried flowers.

  Belatedly, he saw something that hadn’t been there before, an enormous gilded birdcage nearly as tall as he was. Inside preened a handsome parrot with green-and-gold feathers. As Chance registered its existence, the bird opened its curved beak and emitted a screech as loud as a train whistle.

  At the sound, Betty materialized in the doorway, all golden curls and sky-blue ruffles, and hurried to the bird cage. “Hush, you silly thing!” she scolded the parrot. “You’ll wake up Gloria.” Then she turned and saw Chance. Her mouth fell open.

  Chance thought she was more beautiful than ever. Her upswept blonde hair revealed a long white neck and sloping shoulders, and her eyes were as clear as the aquamarines that dangled from her ears. “Lord have mercy! Chance McInnes!” she exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  He couldn’t identify the tone in her voice but could tell it wasn’t pleasure. “I-I’m sorry, Betty,” he stammered. “You must have already heard what happened …”