Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  “Yes, I did. I’m terribly sorry, Chance. It must have been awful for you.” She fingered the folds of her skirt, bending her head in grief. “What a terrible shock to learn your mother passed away. And that she lost the farm too—well, none of us could possibly have expected it.”

  Relief rushed through Chance’s veins. Maybe she hadn’t yet learned about the banker’s death after all. That meant he could try to explain that it was all a terrible accident, that he hadn’t intended to take the man’s life. Taking a step toward her, he fought the urge to sweep Betty into his arms until after he’d told her everything. She had a right to know.

  “That’s not what I meant, Betty,” he blurted. “The fact is, I just killed the new banker.” As a horrified expression spread over her face, he plunged on. “I found the fellow nailing an eviction notice on my door, and then he pointed a pistol at me, and, well, it went off …” His voice trailed away at the stunned look on her face.

  “Hosea?” Betty’s face turned white. “He’s dead, you say?”

  Before he had time to wonder how she knew the banker’s first name, she swayed dangerously. Chance rushed toward Betty and caught her in his arms just before she collapsed. He laid her on the settee and patted her hands until her lashes fluttered open and her eyes stared vacantly into his face. Then suddenly she twisted free. Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks as she held out her left hand, and he saw a large diamond sparkle on the second-to-last finger.

  “How could you, Chance? I was nearly the wife of a rich man, but you had to go and kill him!” Tears spilled over her cheeks like liquid crystals. “I wish you’d never come back!”

  Chance stared at her, shocked. His thoughts cleared like mists evaporating after a summer rainstorm. He remembered how Betty had been dancing with Ralph Jameson the night of their engagement. There had been dozens of other such moments. He’d always taken for granted that other men flocked around her. Of course they would. But he’d been confident that their relationship was different, special. He’d loved her, but now, with a sickening feeling even stronger than what he’d felt when the banker had collapsed at his feet, he realized that Betty had never loved him the same way.

  The truth was now painfully clear. Betty had not been eagerly waiting for him all the time he’d been away at war. During those long years, while he’d dreamed of when he could see her again, Betty had gone on with life, enjoying the company of whatever presentable male was at hand. Chance could see now that the banker with polished shoes and black bowler hat must have seemed a better catch than a slow-tongued, young farmer who may well end up buried in Virginia soil.

  New emotions followed the moment of clarity: anger at Betty, and shame at his own blindness. An instinct for self-preservation reared itself as Chance realized that Betty would not protect him from arrest after all. In fact, judging from the hostile look in those blue eyes, she’d likely be the first to turn him in. Any moment now she might well recover her wits, open her pretty mouth, and …

  Betty drew in a deep breath to scream. Instinctively, he put his hand over her soft mouth to stop her. The action was as foreign to his nature as everything else he’d done today, but he saw no other course to take. Chance thought he should hate her for what she’d done, but all he felt was regret and bewilderment. Betty, Betty! Why couldn’t you wait for me?

  Her teeth bit into the flesh of his palm, but he didn’t dare release her. It might already be too late. A querulous voice came from upstairs. Gloria may have heard them talking. Hating every moment of what he did, Chance maneuvered his handkerchief out of his pocket and into Betty’s mouth. She tried spitting at him, and Chance looked down at her, heart breaking. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to do this. I hope you can forgive me someday.”

  She glared at him.

  It was all a lie, he thought. A load of weight inside his chest made it hard to move. In spite of everything, in spite of his mother’s death and losing the farm, he’d expected that at least he had Betty’s love to support him through the ordeal. Now he didn’t have even that. Probably, he never did. What he’d believed was a deep, lifetime love was, for her, a mere flirtation until someone with better prospects came along.

  With a calculation that surprised himself, he eyed the pantry. Locking her up would buy extra time until she could alert others that he’d been here, but Chance could not bring himself to do such a thing to the girl he still cared for in spite of everything. Instead, Chance pulled a length of twine from his pocket, wrapped it several times around her ankles and wrists, making sure it did not bite into her delicate skin. Despising himself more than ever, he reluctantly left her on the settee for Gloria or Betty’s brother to discover.

  Chance guided his horse toward the creek that led away from town, winding among the river rocks to erase his scent while trying to decide where to go. Mexico might bring the most safety, but it was far away and he didn’t speak a word of Spanish. He didn’t care for spicy food, nor did he have any desire to learn a foreign tongue.

  Then he remembered Benjamin Marlowe. His friend and that Indian couldn’t have traveled too far. Maybe it was not too late to catch up and take Ben up on his offer.

  Turning Sally toward the western river bank, he dug his heels into the horse’s sides and urged her into a gallop.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ben

  Montana

  Summer, 1865

  Yellow Wolf rode a small red-and-white pinto with one wild eye and a ragged white patch over its left wither. The Indian boasted that after gaining his freedom, he’d taken the pony from a band of Crow in order to travel home. Compared to Ben’s tall, elegant bay, the pony looked like the half-wild mustang it was, but as they journeyed, it showed a hardy endurance that put Ben’s blooded mount to shame.

  Ben had already learned a few phrases of Sioux and some sign language. Yellow Wolf was an unwilling tutor, but Ben persisted and quickly learned more about the West than a lifetime of reading eastern newspapers had taught him. When they passed one of the many mining towns that had recently cropped up, the Indian gave it a wide berth, and it was clear Yellow Wolf tolerated white men as individuals—especially if they had something he wanted—but didn’t trust them as a group. Perhaps with good reason, Ben mused. Never before had he considered things from the other perspective.

  The two men soon finished their supply of food, and Yellow Wolf stopped occasionally and pulled out his bow and arrows. Ben watched with interest as the scrawny Sioux silently moved through the long grass until he was nearly on his prey and dispatched the animal quickly with a single arrow, which he made sure to retrieve. Yellow Wolf always carefully wiped the blood off the shaft, which he prized far more than the small arrowhead at its tip.

  In this way, they ate fairly well, and Ben wondered why his traveling companion had taken the risk of joining him and Chance around their campfire. When he asked, Yellow Wolf shrugged. “Hunting bad that day. Hungry.”

  On the seventh day, his new friend gestured.

  Ben followed the other man’s gaze. At first, he saw nothing. Then, near the horizon, he noticed a haze that resolved itself into a group of about seven or eight riders heading toward them.

  “Hunting party. Looking for buffalo,” Yellow Wolf said. As the newcomers approached, he added, frowning, “Not Sioux. Nez Perce, maybe.”

  “Really? How can you tell?”

  “Their hair,” his companion explained. “Short in front. And good horses.” He ran his hand along his own small mount’s rough coat and came to a decision. “Tonight I steal. One, maybe more. My band happy if I bring good horses.”

  “Are you sure?” Ben had no wish for conflict with a strange band of Indians, especially well-mounted ones. “They outnumber us.”

  His companion didn’t answer. He was silently counting the distant horses, as if choosing which ones he wished to take.

  “Those horses do not belong to us,” Ben ventured, more firmly. “Stealing is wrong.”

  Yel
low Wolf gave him an exasperated look. “Taking horses an honor. Needs skill, courage.”

  Ben argued further but the Indian didn’t listen, and finally he gave up. It was not his place to tell the Sioux what to do, Ben thought, although he found the idea of horse-stealing repugnant, even if it was an Indian taking from another Indian. The practice went against the grain of everything he believed in, and was dangerous besides. His adventure may well be over before it began.

  The two men followed the Nez Perce band from a distance all day, doing their best to stay out of sight, and that evening they made camp by a low outcropping of rocks and ate cold beans and biscuits. “You come?” the Indian asked, after a sliver of pale moon rose in the sky. By now, the Nez Perce, camped a mile away, would likely be asleep. There was even a slim chance that they may have failed to mount a watch.

  The easterner shook his head. The Sioux shrugged, crouched, and silently glided away, blending quickly into the waist-high prairie grass. For a long time nothing happened. An hour passed. Finally, as Ben nearly nodded off, he heard a distant shot and his heart sank.

  When cold gray light crept above the horizon, his back and legs ached from sitting still so long, but he did not dare stand for fear of being seen, even though he was anxious to find out what had happened to Yellow Wolf. He had grown to like the former Indian slave, and he hoped the man was still alive. If not, Ben was determined to find his body and bury him. His Christian conscience and upbringing demanded it.

  After a while he realized that although the Nez Perce had mounted the big horses, they were not riding away. They were methodically combing through the grass as if they had guessed the horse thief hadn’t been alone. With growing alarm, he realized the outcropping by which he and Yellow Wolf had camped was too small to offer shelter much longer.

  He mentally ran over his list of options, none of them comforting. He could continue crouching in the grass, hoping they would pass him by, but that was unlikely to work since he couldn’t hide his horse; he could mount quickly and gallop away, trying to escape, but since the Indians were armed—the gunshot had proven that—he was not likely to get far. Last, he could stand his ground, fire his rifle, and try to kill as many of them as possible, but one man against a group of seasoned warriors was poor odds. Besides, he had no quarrel against these men. He wanted only to be left in peace.

  Desperately, he recalled the little he’d heard of the Nez Perce, which was virtually nothing. They were considered a fairly civilized tribe, he believed, and more importantly, they were said to have good relations with white men.

  At that, he made up his mind. Squaring his shoulders, he put on his army hat, mounted his horse, and rode toward them, leading Yellow Wolf’s pony.

  There were eight of them, tall, well made, broad-shouldered, their long black hair worn in styles that looked odd to him. Three of them sported odd fillips of short hair rising vertically over their brows or combed sideways. They wore deer or elk skins in the style of Plains Indians, skillfully ornamented with beadwork and quills. Proud and straight in wooden saddles, they stared at him expressionlessly from eyes as black as buttons, taking in his shabby uniform, the tarnished buttons, his broad-brimmed hat. So far, so good, he thought, relieved at finding himself still alive. They did not seem inclined to strike him down without giving him a chance to speak.

  Ben knew only a few words of broken Sioux. He crossed his fingers behind his back for luck. “I no take horse. I tell friend no take horse,” he said loudly, using words Yellow Wolf had taught him. His listeners’ bronzed faces did not alter expression. Desperately, he switched to English. “I told my friend to leave your horses alone. I had no wish to take your property. But my friend did not listen. Is he … er … alive?”

  The tallest one urged his palomino forward a pace or two. The animal was powerful and well proportioned, not the kind of half wild pony Ben expected an Indian to ride. Muscles moved smoothly under the animal’s glistening coat, and the thick tail nearly brushed the ground. Ben could understand why Yellow Wolf had coveted such horses enough to risk his life.

  “Your friend dead,” the stranger said in English. “Our guard see him, easy.”

  So Yellow Wolf had lost his gamble. After a moment, Ben said carefully, “May I bury him, please?”

  The Nez Perce discussed the request in low voices. Finally, their spokesman turned and swept an arm in the direction of the corpse, a tacit signal of permission.

  The task was arduous without the proper tools, but Ben managed to fashion a shallow grave and, sweating, tamped down the loose soil with his feet when finished. The Indians did not help but stayed on their horses, afar off, watching with apparent interest. Ben had buried men before on the battlefields of Virginia and Georgia, and he had felt the same tightness in his chest. Even though he had not known Yellow Wolf long, while they had ridden together they had become friends. He had hoped to see the man return to his wife and children, a desire that, Ben had learned, burned as strong in the Indian breast as in the white man’s. There was a lot more he had hoped to learn from Yellow Wolf, but it was too late now.

  When he was finished, he wiped his brow on his sleeve before remounting his bay. He glanced at the Nez Perces, who were conversing among themselves in their own language.

  He had to admit that they had treated him fairly. They’d accepted Ben’s explanation, even granted him a favor that they had no obligation to give. Although the ruthlessness with which they had dispatched Yellow Wolf made his blood run cold, he knew that white men would have done the same to a horse thief, with no more emotion. He rode to them and thanked them as eloquently as he could.

  The tall hunters nodded, turned their backs, and continued toward the horizon, taking Yellow Wolf’s horse with them. Ben’s gaze followed them. In spite of his revulsion at what they had done, he felt an unexpected desire to accompany them, for the same reason he’d been impelled to travel with Yellow Wolf. Just as he had with the Sioux, he wanted to learn about the Nez Perces’ traditions, their habits. His curiosity to know about other ways of life, rather than being satisfied by his adventures with the Sioux, had sharpened.

  Yellow Wolf would not think his urge disloyal, he thought. After all, Ben belonged to no tribe, and he could do as he wished. Spurring his bay, Ben cantered up to the Nez Perce, who looked neither surprised nor displeased to see him again. Their leader, Spotted Eagle, listened to Ben, and after another short discussion with each other, the riders agreed to his request.

  They could use more help with the hunt, reasoned the youngest member of the band, a tall, thin lad with two feathers in his greased hair, and Spotted Eagle agreed that buffalos had been scarce lately, and another pair of hands would be welcome.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chance

  Iowa

  Summer, 1865

  Chance found the remains of the camp where he had last seen Ben and the Sioux. He followed the tracks of Ben and the Sioux’s horses as far as possible before finally admitting to himself that he could follow them no further. By now he was heading west, and it seemed to make sense to keep going that direction. Why not? Ben said his parents had moved to Oregon, and that sounded as good a place as anywhere else to go. Maybe the other man had already given up his crazy idea of living with the Indians and had decided to listen to Chance’s counsel for once. Heck, Ben might be on his way to Salem right now. Maybe their paths would cross again.

  To the big farmer’s relief, the Indians left him alone during the long weeks as he crossed the plains, and he found enough game to feed himself until he finally spotted the white crest of the Rocky Mountains rising in the distance. By now, his neighbors in Baker’s Crossing would not have recognized him. He had grown lean and tanned, and his formerly smooth chin now sported a bushy beard several shades darker than his wheat-colored hair. The biggest change, however, was inside. Weeks of bitter resentment had turned Chance silent and reflective, as if he’d never been the jocular, sociable farmer who had returned to Iowa to take up the re
ins of his former life.

  As Chance rode into the foothills, the air grew thinner and the nights colder. After one day’s particularly steep climb, he dismounted and led the roan mare into the shade of an overhanging bluff to graze, where he collapsed to rest. Sally lowered her head to crop tufts of grass growing from cracks between the rocks while Chance thought. It was time to accept that his farm was gone forever. By now it would be sold, either to Abe Swenson or to one of the many new farmers who were moved into the area. Who wouldn’t be glad to snap up a prime piece of land at a bargain price, one already plowed, with no tree stumps to pull out or rocks in the fields? He felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

  Maybe his situation was not entirely hopeless, though, he thought as an ember of his old optimism flared briefly. If he could somehow come up with a thousand dollars, he could buy another farm and start over. It wouldn’t be the same, of course, but it would be a sight better than what he had now, which was nothing, except his horse, his saddle, and his gun.

  In fact—Chance allowed his hope to grow just slightly—maybe he could even clear his name of murder. Unlikely as the possibility seemed, he considered it, the way a dying man might fantasize about a miraculous remedy. He wondered if there was any way to convince others that his actions had been defensible. After all, he really hadn’t meant to kill the banker. Hosea Lott was the one who pulled the pistol on him. A good lawyer might convince a jury that what Chance did was justified. If he hadn’t panicked, he might well have stayed in Baker’s Crossing and fought the charges. That’s what his old friend Ben Marlowe would have told him to do. The Harvard-educated easterner might have had his head in the clouds most of the time, but there was no denying the fellow was smart as a whip. There was a reason the men of his company had voted Ben as their captain.