Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  “No, no, that’s all right. You’re sure he won’t return soon?”

  “Quite sure. Might I be of service, sir?”

  Chance put his hand in his pocket as if fishing for money. “Like to change a twenty,” he said in the casual tone he’d rehearsed.

  “Certainly.” The young fellow opened a metal cash box, licked his forefinger, and began to briskly count out ones.

  This was the part Chance hadn’t looked forward to, but there was no way around it. He pulled his pistol from his holster. “Please step back from the box.”

  The clerk looked up, and his eyes grew round. Chance swiftly stepped through the swinging door that led to the back and pressed the revolver against the side of the young man’s head. Last night, he had taken out the bullets, not wanting to risk any accidental discharge. He knew all too well the consequences of such a disaster, and did not want more innocent blood on his hands.

  The young man was not aware of that. His hands splayed over the bills as motionless as a pair of dead starfish. The pressure of the pistol’s muzzle against the banker’s temple could hardly have been reassuring.

  To compensate for frightening the young man, Chance made his voice as pleasant as possible. “Would you mind opening the safe, please?” With his free hand, he was busy stuffing the bills from the cashbox into his pocket. The small cash was hardly worth his time, compared to what he anticipated was coming, but still …

  “Why … er, why, yes sir.” The young man rose very slowly and made his way toward the back of the room, while Chance accompanied him in an ungainly dance that brought a memory of a two-step he’d once performed with Betty at a church social. The thought reminded Chance of what had brought him here, and he dug the revolver deeper into the clerk’s temple.

  The safe was in the back. The march seemed to last as long as General Sherman’s sweep through Georgia, their backs presented to the open doorway the entire time. Chance glanced back over his shoulder, hoping Walter was watching. All he needed was for some high-strung woman to come in, glimpse the pistol, and scream her fool head off.

  The cashier spun the dial, and the door swung open on oiled hinges. The young man’s fear had lessened, for some reason, and his eyes were bright with excitement as if he had stumbled into an adventure straight out of the novel he had been reading.

  With anticipation, Chance craned his neck forward and saw … a few bank notes littering the bottom of the safe.

  “But …” Forgetting himself in dismay, he almost lowered the pistol. “I saw the Wells Fargo wagon here this morning.”

  “The delivery was scheduled,” the cashier explained apologetically. “But bandits had robbed it in Preston, so the coach arrived without its payload. Two thousand dollars in payroll, all gone.”

  The banker noted Chance’s crestfallen face. “Since the gold fields opened, there’s been all sorts of crime in these here parts. It’s not the first time we’ve been cleaned out. I guess you just come along too late, sir.”

  Chance fought down his chagrin. Sometimes things just happened, he told himself, and one had to make the best of it. Holding the pistol with one hand, he awkwardly bent and scooped up as many of the few banknotes as he could, scooping them into the gunny sack he’d brought. The bills lay limp and lonely at the bottom.

  Crimson-faced, he backed out of the building, holding the pistol at waist level to discourage the young man from suddenly remembering a weapon hidden behind the counter.

  Outside, he saw Walter had forgotten his duties after all. The other man was watching a buxom woman mince down the boardwalk on the other side of the street, artificial lilies and forget-me-nots bobbing on her bonnet. Walter’s eyes bulged slightly, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. As the woman approached, he politely removed his floppy hat and flattened it against his chest.

  Chance hopped onto Sally. “Walter! Let’s go!”

  Walter recovered himself and jumped on his horse, while Chance wheeled Sally toward their escape route. Later he’d give Walter a tongue-lashing for being distracted, but there was no time for that now.

  As soon as they were out of sight of town, he kicked Sally into a gallop, and his partner followed suit, yelling out loud. “We did it! We’re rich!”

  Chance crouched low over his horse’s withers as they made for the distant cliffs. Rich? In spite of all his careful planning, that was hardly the case. With luck, they’d barely made enough to pay their expenses. There’d be time enough to tell Walter the bad news later, when they were safe.

  Chance tossed and turned, his mind unsettled by the events of the previous day. Usually, he shrugged off whatever went wrong and worked twice as hard to make up for it, but this was different. Was the robbery’s failure a sign from God that the life of a criminal was not for him, a man who had always tried to do right by his neighbors?

  Guilt ripped through him. Despite all his rationalizing, Chance had not robbed his old enemy, Hosea Lott, but all the innocent people of Moose City who had put their hard-earned money in the bank for safety. People just like his mother. On the other hand, he reasoned, the bank would be obliged to return to its clients what had been lost.

  He wriggled around to find a more comfortable position on the earthen floor, more confused than ever. Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out. He could return the money, all forty-three dollars of it, to the bank in Moose City, and find another way to replace his farm. Digging for silver in one of the new mines, maybe, or hiring out as a laborer for a few years. He’d have to wait though. After the new sheriff arrived, returning the loot would be a sight more complicated than taking it had been.

  By the time rising sun penetrated the cave with its rays, Chance had given up on sleep. He opened the book Ben gave him to pass the long hours. Reading took him back to those pleasant days right after the war and the birth of a warm friendship he missed more than ever. He could never look up to Walter Higgins the way he’d looked up to Ben Marlowe.

  Chance reread the words that had once seemed strange, pulled in by poems that had confused him but now made sense.

  Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,

  Healthy, free, the world before me,

  The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

  Chance set down the book. Why, that could be me, he thought. I’m just like the man in the poem, wandering down a long path toward … who knows where? It wasn’t a path he had chosen, not at first, but he was well down that road now. From here on, he could go wherever he wanted. It was all up to him. The gears in his head began whirring in a way they never had before, and Chance picked up the book again.

  Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune;

  Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

  Strong and content, I travel the open road.

  He reread the phrases. There was something encouraging about those words. Here he’d been sitting, feeling sorry for himself, yet the poem stirred his soul.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be traveling into unfamiliar territory, Chance thought. Maybe he would have eventually found life dull in Baker’s Crossing. Even Betty might have grown tiresome. The truth was, although he had been infatuated by her blue eyes and yellow hair, the couple had never had much to talk about. Now Chance remembered that Betty had always been vain and gossipy. Why hadn’t he noticed sooner?

  He set the small green book on the floor and stared up at the uneven, arched ceiling of the cave, which was fractured with long cracks and bounded by dark, cool shadows. An evening breeze crept through the opening, sieving his hair and bringing the musky scent of sage and campfire smoke to his nostrils.

  Despite all his groaning and complaining about his bad luck, Chance thought, maybe he’d been fortunate not to get tied down with Betty. By joining forces with Walter, he had found a way to fight back against all the Hosea Lotts in the world. Right or wrong, he’d set his foot on a path, and Chance would see it through. He’d face the consequen
ces straight on, like a man. Against all the odds, he would carve a place for himself in the world.

  “Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune.” Chance quoted the words aloud, marveling at their truth. His future did lie in his own calloused hands. Maybe Benjamin Marlowe had given him the book because he hoped Chance would discover a lesson within its pages.

  Sipping from his chipped enamel mug, Chance thought bemusedly that he might finally be starting to understand the fellow who’d saved his life—a man who’d always seemed his opposite in every way.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ben

  Western Idaho

  Summer, 1866

  Kissing was a white man’s custom Shining Water had shown eagerness to learn, but before Ben’s lips met hers, a shrill cry interrupted them.

  Muttering under his breath, Ben released the girl and turned around. Every time they found time alone, it seemed they were disturbed by a curious brother, uncle, or aunt. This time, it was Broken Pot, the loudest of the children, who followed Ben everywhere like the cloud of flies that surrounded Two Feather’s prized appaloosa.

  “Our father wants to see you,” the boy told Shining Water, but he aimed his gap-toothed grin at Ben.

  “Can’t you see we’re busy?” After a year with the tribe, Ben was hardly conscious of translating his words into Nez Perce.

  Shining Water slapped Ben across the cheek with enough force to sting. “Have respect for your elders. If my father wishes to speak to me, I must go.” She slipped away, leaving Ben staring after her. He knew her pose of obedience to her father was just that: a pose. Although Indian women were expected to do what they were told, Shining Water never did anything she didn’t want to do.

  Her little brother skipped away from the clod of dirt Ben launched in his direction, and, still grumbling, Ben followed the two toward the village. He suspected Shining Water was paying him back for not picking up on her frequent hints over the past winter that they set up their own lodge. It wasn’t that Ben hadn’t been tempted to marry her. However, he’d heard it wasn’t uncommon for white men to “marry” Indian wives without benefit of clergy, only to desert them when they moved to a town or found a white woman to legally marry. Such stories repulsed Ben. He knew others might find him prudish, but as a former divinity student, he believed marriage was “until death do you part,” no matter the bride’s race, and was therefore not a step to take lightly.

  The idea of marrying Shining Water was a pleasant one, Ben thought, watching the swing of her slim hips under the fringed doeskin dress. With her straight posture and shimmering hair, Shining Water was far more desirable than the dough-faced, simpering debutantes he’d danced with in New York: daughters of bankers, senators, and businessmen, interchangeable and as dull as dishwater. He wondered what was causing him to hold back.

  The Nez Perce girl’s independent spirit, even her quick tongue, appealed to him. Like Two Feathers, she was a prankster, always keeping him off balance. Some days she smiled at him, other days she turned her back and ignored him. That uncertainty fascinated him, although at times like this Ben found it irritating as well.

  He was astonished at how easily she and the other members of the band had accepted him, considering their rocky history with white men. Consumed with his studies and the war, he’d never thought much about the Indians until now, but what he learned appalled him.

  Spotted Eagle told him some of the elders had been baptized Christians by missionaries many years earlier, but being whipped for minor infractions and witnessing overt acts of hypocrisy sent them back to traditional ways. Shining Water and Broken Pot’s mother was a half breed from the mission who spoke English nearly as well as he did. While at the mission, a few Nez Perces had even learned to read and write before returning to their old life, where they tossed books aside for more lively pursuits such as gambling or racing horses.

  After nearly a year in the village, Ben was surprised at how well he had adjusted to a new way of life, although he’d never be as skilled with a bow as Lame Bear nor ride bareback as swiftly as Two Feathers, who still teased him about losing the precious Colt revolver. Spotted Eagle had taught him to fish, leading him on horseback down the center of a sparkling creek until they saw a fat, silver-sided salmon gliding over the smooth rocks. The Indian slashed the spear downward, then triumphantly raised the wriggling fish high into the air. “Nets are good, but this is quicker,” Spotted Eagle explained, admiring his catch, its wet scales flashing in the sunlight. “This will make a good dinner.”

  Ben nodded. After many bungled tries, he had finally grown almost as proficient at spearing salmon as Spotted Eagle. He still envied their skill with horses, though, and admired their desire to live peacefully despite continuing provocation from encroaching whites. But he knew from their swift dispatch of Yellow Wolf, the skinny Sioux horse thief, that when necessary, they were willing to fight. So far, their battles had been only against other Indian tribes. Grizzly Robe told him they had managed to keep peace with white men—although lately, in spite of treaties guaranteeing them their own land, the US government had been trying to move the Nez Perce to a reservation.

  Other nearby tribes had not been so patient. Occasionally, the Cayuse, Yakima, and Paiutes rode down from the mountains to attack wagon trains in a vain attempt to turn back the inexorable flow of emigrants. But Grizzly Robe told Ben the Nez Perce prided themselves on the fact that they had never killed a white man.

  “Why not?” Ben wanted to know.

  Drawing in the smoke from a small pipe carved of stone, the older man measured his words. “Long before the white men came to the Rocky Mountains, a Nez Perce child was captured and taken to live in Canada, where she lived several years among the newcomers. They treated her kindly. Later, when she returned to the Nez Perce homelands, the young woman recounted her adventures to her relatives and urged them to treat white men well. The Nez Perce honored her request. When the first white travelers trickled into their lands,” Grizzly Robe told Ben, “we helped their sick and injured, showed them the best routes to the coast, and fed them when they were hungry. We dealt justly with the newcomers, even when they began pouring into our lands by the hundreds, then the thousands.”

  The carved planes of Grizzly Robe’s face lengthened. “We have not been treated the same. For twenty years, agents have pressured our people to sign treaties and move onto reservations for our ‘protection.’ When trespassing prospectors found gold on the lands of other Nez Perces like us, it grew even worse.” He shook his head. “More come every day and build their towns, push our people aside, ruin us with liquor. Our buffalo are disappearing under their rifles. So far, my band has been protected because no gold has been found close to where we live, and our hunting grounds are too remote to be of interest to farmers. Nor have any of my band signed treaties or accepted gifts from whites. I warned my fellows that doing so would endanger our band’s freedom to govern ourselves.

  “Then it is good that here there are none of my people for many miles from here,” Ben told him in his nearly fluent Nez Perce, sobered by what he had heard. He was not used to thinking of his own people as the enemy.

  Grizzly Robe studied him a moment before nodding. “You are right. There are none so far,” he agreed, “except you and the ones in the valley just below ours. You, Ben Marlowe, are our guest, and you respect our ways, while the others leave us alone and do not seek more than what they grow on their small farm.”

  “Others like me?” Ben was puzzled. “Where exactly do they live?”

  “The valley where they live is a small one near here, hardly more than a pass we use to take our horses to better grass in the summer. They hide from us whenever we come through.” The old man’s expression became nearly a smile. “They mistake us for Blackfeet or Gros Ventre, who would surely slaughter them on first sight.”

  “Other than myself and these, er, people in the valley, there are no whites in this area?”

  “On the othe
r side of the mountains there are many white villages, and more newcomers arriving every day, but none have come into the mountains near us, not yet.” That was why, the low-pitched voice explained, his band was able to live the old way, in their high, narrow valley near the Palouse and Snake Rivers, with meadows to pasture the horses that represented the tribe’s wealth. Every spring, the band still sent groups of men across the Bitterroot Mountains to hunt buffalo like the one Ben had encountered. Grizzly Robe said gravely that, if he and his fellows listened to the counsel of their wyakins, perhaps his people could continue to do so forever. But as he touched the rawhide medicine bag that hung about his wrinkled neck, his face looked worried.

  Ben knew Grizzly Robe was telling him all this for a reason. Although he hadn’t spoken it aloud, the older man made clear he found the newcomer acceptable as a son-in-law. Ben should know about his adopted people if he chose to become one of them. If he stayed and took Shining Water to wife. Would he?

  As Ben followed the young woman and her brother toward the village, he knew the answer reflected poorly on him. He liked Shining Water, maybe even loved her in his way. But he had never given up his dream to crisscross the continent, visit San Francisco, travel down to Mexico, maybe sail all the way to the Sandwich Islands and China. He wanted to observe as many peoples and lifestyles as he could.

  Much as he had enjoyed staying with the Nez Perce, this was only the beginning of his explorations. The words from the green-covered book returned: However shelter’d this port, and however calm these waters, we must not anchor here; However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we are permitted to receive it but a little while. He was only a visitor here. Soon the urge to wander would return.

  Ben neared the circle of lodges, mentally lashing at himself for not giving Shining Water and Grizzly Robe the answer they wanted. He envied his old friend Chance McInnes, who never had trouble making up his mind or questioned his path. By now the amiable former infantryman would be married, a successful farmer, perhaps a proud father. Did he ever open Whitman’s book of poetry searching for answers as Ben had done? Probably not. Blessed with iron-clad certainty about his course in life, Chance never asked those sorts of questions. Even the wild-haired poet, Walt Whitman, could not answer this one, however. Only Ben Marlowe could determine where his future lay.