Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  Chance contemplated his new companions for a moment, then turned his attention back to the drink, although his thoughts were whirring like the gears of a well-greased steam engine. It was clear the bank cashier had been getting more creative with each retelling of the story. So much for his efforts to blend in. The fact that these two men had found him so easily was a bad sign. Had they recognized him from the poster?

  “Afraid you got the wrong fellow,” he mumbled. “Sorry to waste your time, folks, but I ain’t a bank robber, just a prospector low on my luck.” He politely tugged the brim of his hat. “Good luck finding whoever you’re looking for, gentlemen.”

  The skinny newcomers ignored his attempt to get rid of them. Instead, they drained their glasses, and ordered another round. They didn’t appear to intend to leave any time soon, and Chance suspected if he tried to leave they’d just follow him. Sighing, he resigned himself to a long afternoon.

  The two weren’t twins, after all, but cousins from Tennessee, former rebels who had drifted west after the war to seek their fortune in California. When they heard about the Idaho gold, they changed plans and turned north. The thinner, taller cousin, Abner, was struck by the flamboyance of Chance’s first robbery and wanted to hear his version of the story. “Cashier said you waltzed out with a thousand, casual as you please,” he repeated with admiration, if incorrectly. “Musta been easy as takin’ a Sunday walk in the park, bein’ as handy with guns as you are.”

  “Yup. Fellow said you was cool as could be, with a hunnert men gallopin’ after you on their fastest horses,” added Vern, the other cousin. “You even blew a kiss to a pretty lady while ridin’ by.”

  Chance wasn’t flattered at the men’s interest in his career. The two former rebels kept coming back to the fact that they wanted to join him, and the excited glint in their light-green eyes made him suspect that it wasn’t just money or adventure that appealed to them, it was the potential for violence—which was exactly what he wanted to avoid.

  “Don’t know why you keep takin’ me for that fellow,” he said. “I told you, I’m just a—”

  “Yeah, a down-on-your luck prospector.” The cousins looked at each other, grinning. “If that’s so, where’s your mine?”

  “Out in the Albion Mountains.” He named a location as far away from his hideout as he could think of.

  “Funny,” Abner said, “we been there for the last six months and never saw hide nor hair of you. What’s more, those mines been played out a while. We two was the last two to pack up and leave.”

  Vern stepped in. “Lissen, I was in the crowd that saw you ridin’ away from the bank that got knocked over in Moose City, as clear as I see you now! We ain’t leavin’ until we’re part of your outfit. Otherwise, we just might try our hand at being bounty hunters.” His hand drifted toward his gun belt. “A three-hunnert-dollar reward ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at.” His left lid dropped in a slow wink.

  Chance’s heart sank. “Wouldn’t you do better knocking over a few banks on your own?” he asked. He swallowed the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Less people to split the loot, that way.”

  The two others shared another knowing look. “Yup, we thought about it,” Abner admitted. “Tried it once or twice, but the last time, some idiot bank clerk got shot, accidental like, and we ended up in the hoosegow. Some townspeople got impatient waitin’ for a judge and decided to go ahead on their own.”

  Vern rubbed his neck as if remembering the scrape of rope against his skin. “Good thing a rattler scared them and we escaped,” he mumbled. “Way we figure, you’ve got the smarts to get the bucks and get clear away with it too. We’ll just come along and help.”

  So the cousins were incompetent as well as trigger-happy, Chance thought. Not to mention woefully misinformed about his supposed aptitude for crime. But the cousins continued to hover like horseflies, although Chance spent an hour trying everything he could think of to brush them off. In a way, he thought, it was flattering they believed him to be some kind of criminal genius. Even his own ma, bless her soul, had never called him anything other than average.

  “Fact is, I don’t hold with killing,” he finally said, figuring the truth was the only way to cause them to lose interest. “If you ride with me, we take the money and that’s it. No bloodshed—and that’s final.”

  Abner’s face sagged with disbelief. “You never dropped a man? But the newspaper said—”

  Chance rolled his eyes at the man’s disappointment. “Killing’s messy, pointless, and it’ll put a posse on our tail faster than making off with a bankroll.” The simple thought of hellfire made him shudder too. The good Lord might forgive a few bank robberies, but “thou shalt not kill” was not a commandment a man could easily justify breaking, even to himself.

  “I guess I can go along with that,” said Vern, but he too sounded disappointed. “What d’you say, Abner?”

  Abner scowled and scratched his pimply chin. “If we get equal splits, I say it’s a deal.”

  Chance drew a heavy sigh. It looked as if, like it or not, he had acquired two new partners. It was either that or be turned in to the law for the reward. Or, even more likely, face a shootout—a shootout he would likely lose, and which would at best attract the unwelcome attention of the local sheriff, who would certainly be interested in the incriminating wanted poster stuffed in Chance’s breast pocket.

  He thought hopefully that maybe the men weren’t as dumb or violent as they seemed. With patience, maybe he could even teach them a thing or two. The jobs would go faster with more hands, even if it meant splitting the proceeds four ways. Besides, there was safety in numbers, wasn’t there?

  “All right,” he said at last, and he winced when each cousin seized his hand in turn and pumped it vigorously.

  What would his ma have thought? he wondered. His mouth twisted wryly as he wiped his hand on the side of his trousers. Chance McInnes, leader of a gang of outlaws! This was a might worse sin than peppery language, or even Sabbath breaking. He’d have plenty of explaining to do if he ever made it to heaven, a prospect that no longer looked likely. His soul seemed to be galloping full speed in the opposite direction.

  Walter ambled over from where he’d been steadily losing at the poker table to see why Chance was talking to a pair of strangers. Predictably, he was pleased as punch to hear that they had a real gang now. When the four men walked out of the saloon together, Chance secretly crossed his fingers, hoping the bartender hadn’t heard all that disturbing talk about bank robbing and murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ben

  Western Idaho

  Summer, 1866

  Before making the trip to Lewiston, Ben dressed in his old army uniform. The clothes felt tight after the loose, soft buckskins he’d grown used to, and the stiff boots weighted his feet like rocks. He glanced regretfully at the supple moccasins lying in the corner of the teepee. He was glad that the bullet had passed cleanly through Two Feathers’s torso, missing his heart and lungs. After that first night when it appeared Two Feathers would die, the youth’s previously good health and splendid physical condition helped him cling to life. With luck, Two Feathers might recover. The fact in no way lessened Ben’s determination to seek justice for his young friend.

  As the prospector had promised, Ben soon learned no one in Lewiston cared about the near death of an Indian youth. The sheriff listened with half-closed eyes, hands propped on his barrel chest. His shining pink pate contrasted with a pair of sideburns as bushy as a pair of raccoon’s tails, nearly meeting under his square jaw. He propped his feet up on the desk as Ben told his story, a toothpick jiggling from his lower lip whenever when he turned his head to spit into the cuspidor.

  “Sounds like the young fellow brought it on himself,” he said when Ben finished. “Insolent rascal. Refused to give up the horse when he was clearly told to.”

  “But it was the boy’s own horse! The would-be murderer was trespassing on Indian land.�
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  The sheriff took out a cigar. A match scraped, followed by the acrid smell of sulfur. “So what? No one’s ever followed those old treaties. ’Smatter of fact, this whole town is built on Indian land.”

  When Ben glared, speechless with fury, the man sighed and spat again, this time missing the cuspidor. “Tell you what,” he offered good-naturedly, taking his boots off the desk and leaning forward. “Happens to be a lawyer across the street at the High Hat Saloon. An old friend of mine, name of Justin Davis. You might take it up with him if you’re so doggone set on making something of this.”

  Ben slammed out the door and headed across the street. Davis was at the saloon, all right. He had taken root at a poker table like one of the potted plants in the corner, a panama hat pushed far back on his head and a jaunty red scarf encircling his neck. Without interrupting his game, he listened as Ben pulled up a chair, introduced himself, and stated his case. The lawyer shook his head and slapped down a card.

  “No way could I win a case like that, even if I cared to,” he said, inspecting his new hand before tossing in a couple more chips with an economical flick of his wrist. “An Indian boy versus a white man? No-sir-ree. A judge would kick the case out of court before I finished my opening statement. If it were the other way around, now …” He looked up, and his pale blue eyes ran over Ben’s worn army uniform. His thick lips curled derisively. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I can see you’ve got no cash.”

  “I’ve got this.” Ben placed the Colt onto the green baize, where its polished curves gleamed as brightly in the gaslights as the crown jewels of England.

  The lawyer picked it up respectfully and inspected it from all angles. “It’s a nice piece, all right,” he assented. “You could probably sell it for forty, fifty bucks. I might even be persuaded to buy it myself. But that doesn’t change my answer. You asked my professional opinion, and I’ll give it. Prosecuting that red-bearded fellow would be a waste of time.”

  The other men snickered, and Ben slowly got to his feet, feeling foolish yet resentful. Wordlessly, he holstered the pistol and looked around at all the faces around the table. Some were young, some were old, but each was equally indifferent. The attempted murder of an Indian youth was of vastly less interest to them than the dog-eared playing cards lying on the table.

  Stalking outside, he jammed his hat on his head, fuming and exasperated. What was left to do now? Go back to the tribe and admit defeat? Unsure what to do, he stood for a moment, looking at hastily built structures that had not existed a year before. The unpaved street was a rutted mess of mud, trash, and manure.

  A sense of inevitability and hopelessness tied his innards in knots. Once, this land had been wilderness, studded with sweet-scented pines and clean streams. Now that white men had carved their presence into it, things would never be the same. Gold, land … there would always be something they wanted. Funny, how he no longer felt a part of his own people.

  Grizzly Robe’s band was desperately trying to cling to its old ways, but now Ben knew they could not hold on much longer. This incident was only one more of a long list of the Indians’ troubles, and there would be more, far worse than this one.

  Ben mounted his horse and returned to the Indian village, where he solemnly told Grizzly Robe of his failure to secure justice for Two Feathers. He could tell from the faces of those gathered around that they expected no other outcome. None believed in the treaties anymore. None believed the law would protect them.

  Nor did they blame Ben for what had happened, but when they turned their backs and talked together quietly, he realized that things had changed between them, subtly but permanently.

  This was especially true of Shining Water, who showed new impatience when he still hesitated to set up a teepee with her. Her black eyes sparking with anger, she snapped in Nez Perce, “Indian men make better husbands. They do not talk, talk, talk, like white men, and then do nothing. Our men protect us and bring us food. They are not ashamed of their women.”

  “I am not ashamed of you,” Ben protested. “That’s not the reason why—”

  Shining Water talked over him as if he hadn’t said a word. “You are two years older than Spotted Eagle but you act like a child. Why do you still not have a wife, children, a home of your own?”

  While Ben tried to come up with a response, she marched away toward her family’s lodge, her long braids swinging from side to side. He wondered if Shining Water blamed him for her brother’s near death, and for his failure to find justice in Lewiston. Usually she expressed her displeasure with shouts or slaps, not cold silence.

  Allowing what he felt was a sufficient time for her to cool down, Ben walked into the lodge, where she was tending the fire. Her eyes were red-rimmed, perhaps from the smoke. She thrust a twig into the flames without looking up. “What do you want, Boston?”

  “Is there something you haven’t told me, Shining Water?” Something had changed. There was an invisible barrier between them, which had not been there before.

  She shrugged. “My father wants me to bear children. Since you have not spoken for me, he has promised me to Spotted Eagle.”

  “Spotted Eagle?” For a moment he could not speak. “But I thought—”

  “I had chosen you? I did, and my father consented. But he is tired of waiting, and so am I.” Shining Water’s eyes flashed with fury. “Spotted Eagle is a good man, a fine warrior, and a great hunter. I am glad my father will give me to him. You have the appearance of a man, Ben Marlowe, but you are a spirit, a pale ghost that drifts forever and cannot find its home.”

  “You blame me because Two Feathers nearly died.” A wave of helplessness swept over him, the same feeling he’d had looking at the Indian youth’s body after the shooting and at the mocking faces of the men in Lewiston.

  She shook her head, suddenly looking tired. “I do not blame you for anything, even that you do not wish to become one of us.” Shining Water fed the fire with more sticks, refusing to look at him. Ben waited a moment longer, then left.

  Leading his horse, he walked out of the Indian village, more confused than ever. Two Feathers’s near murder reminded Ben that he was not really one of the tribe, as the girl had pointed out. The boy’s shooting was only one of many injustices they had experienced, and Ben the same race as the perpetrators. How could he possibly understand?

  Ben knew he was not like those men in Lewiston, either. Where did he belong? Why had he bothered to come west anyway? What had he hoped to find here? Climbing a nearby hill, he gazed down at the circle of nearly forty dwellings, the teepees’ covers glowing white like lanterns in the dark. In the largest lodge, Shining Water’s father was sitting with Spotted Eagle, the chief’s future son-in-law. Ben thought of the young Indian woman’s bright eyes, her laughter that was as quick as her anger, and the shimmering blue-black hair that fell like a waterfall to her knees when she unbound her braids.

  A ghost, she’d called him, wafting from place to place without a purpose or home. Shining Water was right, Ben thought dully, it was time for him to drift on.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chance

  Western Idaho

  Summer, 1866

  The catch of the handgun slid back with a loud click, and the bank manager, plump face slick with perspiration, jumped at the sound. He renewed his concentration on the gleaming dial of the safe, fingers flying over the numbers as if his life depended on opening the large metal container quickly—which, for all he knew, it did.

  Chance waited, uncomfortably aware of Abner’s eyes rolling like dice in their sockets from impatience. Chance had taken the precaution of unloading his new partner’s handgun lest he pull the trigger against orders, but the banker couldn’t know that. Even if the banker was safe from a bullet, Chance didn’t want the poor fellow to collapse of a heart attack, especially before opening the safe.

  After thirteen robberies over the past year, he was close to having taken back enough money to buy his farm. The goal had taken longer t
han expected because of having to split the take with three other men, but Chance was learning patience. Life didn’t always bring you what you wanted when you wanted it to, but if you waited long enough, there was a fair chance of getting at least part of it. At least, that’s what he told himself when he felt optimistic.

  Abner’s impatience got the best of the lanky bandit. “Hurry up, you overfed son of a porcupine!” He shoved the muzzle of his Colt .45 against the perspiring man’s jowl, hard enough to dent the doughy flesh. The man’s sweating fingers slipped on the dial. Muttering a frantic apology under his breath, he spun the dial again as Abner’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  This time, the manager got it right. The safe’s door swung silently open on freshly oiled hinges, revealing banknotes stacked like bricks. Abner noisily sucked in his breath. He stuck his handgun in his belt, and gleefully squatted, scooping the greenbacks into the canvas bag that Chance held open for him.

  It was early morning, before the bank opened, and the small red-brick building was empty except for the three of them. Walter and Vern were waiting outside with the horses. But the bank manager had taken longer to get the safe open than Chance had counted on, and their margin of safety was running out as quickly as sand in a broken hourglass. Chance glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall. If a customer came early, they could not leave without being seen, yet anonymity was essential to their escape.

  Of course, they could have just barged in with bandanas over their faces like some more famous bank robbers were known to do, but Chance thought this way was safer. By posing as regular citizens until they got away, there was less chance of anyone getting hurt. Simple and neat. He prided himself that none of his robberies had resulted in injury to anyone.

  Abner, of course, always argued strongly in favor of a quick in and out, guns blazing—suicidal as that tactic would likely be. That was why Chance still secretly emptied the handguns the night before a robbery, a precaution against anyone getting carried away. Beads of sweat popped out on his own brow as he thought that if the sheriff were to come along right now a loaded gun would be to their distinct advantage.