Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  Chance grabbed the canvas bag away from Abner and threw in the last packet of bills, before swiftly wrapping a cord around the banker’s wrists and stuffing a handkerchief in his mouth. A pang of conscience still bothered him whenever he did this, but Chance told himself that it would be only minutes before the man was freed, and he couldn’t think how else to get away safely. He shoved his partner toward the door. “Out! Or are you waiting ’til the ladies’ benevolent society sets up a charity picnic in the lobby?”

  They jumped on their horses, but the small street was already coming to life. There was no chance they could get away without being spotted now, but Chance hoped none of the passersby would realize who they were or what they had done until he and his men were too far away to catch. His plan was for them to split up as soon as they got out of town so a posse would have a hard time finding them. No one could possibly know these hills as well as he and his partners did by now.

  As Chance wheeled Sally, he spotted a new poster slapped on the side wall of the saloon that caused him to slow just long enough to snatch it. The ink came off on his hand—the paper was still damp from the printer. He’d seen similar posters in a hundred other small towns, but this one was different.

  As the horse galloped away with the rest of the small band on his heels, he clutched in one hand the rough-sketched likeness, under three-inch-high black letters: Chance McInnes, AKA The Yellowbeard Bandit, Wanted for Murder, Dead or Alive. The words burned into his mind as he hunched low over Sally’s withers. Somehow that incident in Ohio had finally caught up with him. Never had he wanted so badly to curse.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Annabelle

  Cascade Mountains, Oregon

  Summer, 1866

  Annabelle hauled the basket of laundry to the pond in a deep silence broken only by the gurgle of the stream, a caw of a crow overhead, and wind rustling through the pines. How she longed for voices, for music, for the sound of carriage wheels rumbling by. The valley’s isolation, which had once seemed peaceful and protective, felt more oppressive every year.

  She scrubbed the clothes against the surface of the boulders that lined the edge of the stream, hands turning numb in the cold, clear water, then spread the damp clothes on rocks. While they dried, she had time to visit her parents’ grave. It would have mortified her for Richard to catch her talking aloud to Mother and Papa. He would think she’d gone crazy. Well, maybe she had.

  Stretching out face up on top of the boulder, she closed her eyes against the brightness of the late-afternoon sun, allowing the rock’s warmth to soak into her back and shoulders. Later there would be dinner to cook, clothes to mend, and all the thousand tasks necessary to maintain a life resembling the one they used to know, back in civilization. But right now, she needed her parents’ advice.

  “Please, Mother, Papa.” Annabelle could not vocalize the mixture of doubts and questions surging inside her. Ever since she’d left the mountains only to meet a pair of self-proclaimed bandits, she had been more conflicted than ever. She had never told Richard what had happened. Why worry him? All it had done was confirm that the world was as dangerous as she’d feared. Yet, oddly, meeting the tall fair-haired stranger had made Annabelle’s loneliness worse than ever, reminding her that there was a whole world out there she’d not yet experienced and might never know. Richard had accepted her return wordlessly, however, as if he’d known all along that she would be back soon. It was as if he weren’t interested in anything outside this small world they’d created together.

  Annabelle relived the moment she’d thought the fair-haired bandit was about to kiss her, and her cheeks grew hot. Now that she thought of it, what an odd thing he’d said: “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  How could an outlaw help me? she wondered. I despise outlaws! If I ever saw the one who killed our parents, I’d shoot him dead myself. But even as the thought passed through her mind, Annabelle could not help thinking that the tall young bandit did not seem much like the one who’d murdered her parents, although she was quite sure that despite his rather pleasant demeanor, he was perfectly capable of killing someone.

  Hoping to sense her parents’ response, Annabelle felt the breeze lift the hair at her temples and rustle the frayed hem of her dress against her ankles. It was just the wind, though, nothing more.

  These days it was harder than before to feel her parents’ presence. Disappointed, she opened her eyes and saw something flicker on the slope of the mountain across from where she lay, a movement just at the point where the sun touched the westernmost mountain peak.

  She remained still for another moment, staring, wondering if she imagined it. Then the gliding movement came again, and Annabelle jumped to her feet. It could have been anything, a bird taking flight, a deer or an elk coming down to graze in the meadow or drink from the stream, or a predator. Richard had found mountain lion prints near the stream a few days ago. Now Richard was gone hunting, and so was the shotgun.

  Annabelle threw the half-dried clothes into the basket and scurried toward the cabin, scanning the slopes again for the source of movement. Against the pattern of crags and brush, her eyes made out a vertical outline that would have blended into the shadows had she not been looking for it: a man.

  He must have realized she spotted him, for the form began to glide down the side of the mountain. Dropping the basket, she ran toward the cabin. From the corner of her eye, she made out fringed buckskins, and dark hair swinging. Never before had an Indian come down to the valley alone. Always they passed through single file, on horseback, without stopping.

  She found her voice. “Richard! RICHA-A-ARD!” The name echoed from the walls of the canyon.

  Her brother must have been closer than she thought and heard her frantic call, for he came running toward her at full speed. “Hurry, Annabelle! Into the cabin!” Richard reached the shelter and shoved her inside before whirling to train the shotgun at the approaching figure. “Halt!” The tall youth’s voice cracked with intensity. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Twenty yards away, the stranger stopped, dropping an object at his feet and slowly raising his hands. “Please, young man, don’t shoot me. I have no intention of harming anyone.” The crisp voice and perfect English diction did not fit the long black hair, brown face, and buckskins. Curious, Annabelle craned over her brother’s shoulder to see better.

  Now she could see that their visitor was not an Indian after all, despite his clothing, long hair, and sun-bronzed skin. He carried a bedroll over his shoulder and, slung from a holster around his hips, a pistol.

  The barrel of Richard’s shotgun did not waver from the stranger’s chest. “What do you want?”

  “I saw the smoke from your cabin and thought maybe I could share a meal.”

  “We only have enough for ourselves.”

  The man slowly crouched to pick up the objects he had dropped, a pair of fat jackrabbits with hind legs tied together by a rawhide thong, and held them out like an offering. “I brought my own food. It always tastes better with company, though.”

  Annabelle’s fear ebbed, although it still pulsed under the surface. What if this was another cutthroat invading their haven to rob them of the little they had? Even so, she was curious. The stranger might bring longed-for news of the outside world, news that she had not thought to ask the tall, fair-haired bandit she’d met last year.

  “Sorry, mister.” Richard cocked the trigger. “Find somewhere else to eat your supper.”

  “My name is Benjamin Marlowe.” The man’s voice was quiet and respectful. “The Indians on the other side of the mountains told me about you, and I thought I’d come by and see if you needed help. They said that except for you two, whites never come to this valley, which means a rescue party is unlikely to find you.”

  “We don’t need help. This is our home.”

  The man’s eyes moved to the cabin and the rows of spindly crops stretching beyond it. “I see.” Slow
ly, he reached into his waistband and set the revolver on the ground. “I don’t blame you folks for being careful. Ruffians are pouring into this area every day, who don’t care about law and order.” His expression did not change, but Annabelle detected anger edging the stranger’s tone. “A friend of mine was nearly murdered a few weeks ago for no reason except another man wanted his horse.”

  Sympathy replaced Annabelle’s fear. Something told her he was telling the truth.

  The dark-haired stranger raised his hands higher, as if to remind them he was now unarmed. “If you two ask your—er—mother and father, perhaps they wouldn’t mind if I stayed for supper.”

  “They … they’re gone,” Richard said. “They’ll be back any minute, though, and they’ll tell you to leave. Our parents don’t trust strangers.”

  The man didn’t give up easily. “Do you think there’s any chance they’d let me work here for a while as a hired hand? There’s always plenty to do on a farm, and it can’t be easy growing crops at this elevation.”

  “I said we don’t need help.” Richard’s knuckles whitened around the stock of the shotgun, and his forefinger tensed on the trigger. “Now go.”

  Surely Richard wouldn’t shoot a defenseless stranger, Annabelle thought, shocked at her brother’s hostility. “If this man meant us harm, he’d have done it already,” she whispered in Richard’s ear. “He had a clear shot from the ridge. Besides, you know that if Mother were here she’d want us to be hospitable.”

  Anger flared briefly in Richard’s eyes, but he lowered the weapon. “He can stay for dinner, but he leaves first thing in the morning.”

  The only sound was the scraping of forks against tin plates, the gurgle of the water jug pouring into glasses, and the sound of chewing. Annabelle was keenly aware of the crudeness of their one-room shelter. The chimney they had struggled so hard to build sent nearly as much smoke into the room as up the flue, and a film of black soot covered everything in spite of her constant attempts to keep things clean. She hoped the shadows hid most of it.

  Aghast, she watched Richard lick his fingers as if he’d never been taught table manners. The stranger refused Annabelle’s offering of a second helping and said nothing about the inadequacies of the cabin. He didn’t raise the subject of their parents again, either, and she was certain he knew Richard and she were on their own.

  She remembered her duties as hostess. “Er, Mr. Marlowe …” Annabelle tried to remember how her mother had conducted such conversations back in the old days. “What brings you to the mountains? Are you a … a trapper?”

  A sad smile creased the sides of the stranger’s face. “Not much market for that anymore, now that most of the beaver are gone. I’ve been living with a village of Nez Perce Indians, up by the Clearwater. Before that, I was in the war on the Union side.”

  She had nearly forgotten the conflict between the northern and southern states. Busy with preparations for the voyage west, her parents had spent little time discussing politics. “My father said a battle or two would be all that was needed to settle the Southern states.”

  His smile disappeared. “My, you have been cut off for a while, haven’t you? That war ended up dragging out over four long years. You have no idea how many men died on both sides, miss, some younger than your brother here. Good men, noble men. I suppose you haven’t heard that soon after the Southerners laid down their arms, President Lincoln was assassinated.”

  “What?” She listened in horror as their guest told them what had happened. In spite of Richard’s attempt to appear indifferent, her brother seemed as fascinated as she was by news of the outside world.

  “And more changes are happening every day, not all bad,” Ben continued. “At this very moment, railroad track is being laid to link the east and west coasts. In a couple of years, there will be no need for wagon trains or stagecoaches. Any ordinary family will be able to buy tickets and ride west easily, cheaply, and safely.”

  Annabelle turned and looked at Richard. If they could only have taken a train to Oregon, there would have been no broken wagon wheel, no need to seek a shortcut through the mountains where bandits could slaughter their parents.

  “That’s not all.” Their guest was still speaking. “Already, the telegraph has linked both coasts, and information is flying back and forth almost as fast as you and I are talking right now.”

  Annabelle shook her head, finding it difficult to process such wonders. “And what about you, Mr. Marlowe? You never told us what brought you to our valley.”

  “My name’s Ben. I’m just a wanderer, traveling where fancy takes me. For the past year that was with Indians on the other side of the mountains, and now it has brought me here.” Ben leaned back in the rocking chair, hands clasped behind his head as if he’d lived here forever.

  She tried to decide if that lifestyle sounded exciting or foolish. Certainly it would never suit her. Her dreams were to set down roots in a real home, with neighbors and shops nearby, and never move again.

  Richard pulled out a stick of wood and whittled silently while Annabelle cleared the dishes. Their guest hummed to himself. “Odd, seeing settlers this far up the mountain,” he said finally, “but it seems you’ve done pretty well for yourselves. I didn’t see any see any stock animals, though.”

  Neither she nor Richard responded. Their guest took a harmonica out of his pocket and began to play. Annabelle’s hands stilled in the dishwater at the sweet, familiar notes of “All the Pretty Horses.” Her mother used to sing the song when Annabelle was little, and she could almost feel her mother’s arms pulling up the blankets and soft lips kissing her goodnight, and could almost smell the sweet scent of rosewater.

  When he finished, she said wistfully. “I’ve missed having music.”

  Ben cocked an eyebrow at her. “This harmonica was a gift from a friend, a man I met during the war. Here’s a song he used to play.” As he started a lively rendition of “Turkey in the Straw,” Richard stood up, yawning rudely.

  “It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

  Annabelle shot her brother an angry look. It was clear Benjamin Marlowe meant them no harm, and her brother was ruining a pleasurable evening. But Ben put the harmonica in his pocket and stood up.

  “I’ll be on my way, then. Thank you for dinner.”

  She dried her hands. “You’ll have to sleep in the shed, Mr….Ben. We haven’t anything better.”

  “I’ll appreciate any sort of roof over my head, miss. I’ve been sleeping under the stars since leaving the Indians.”

  She handed him a blanket. “The straw in the lean-to is clean. We changed it after putting the cow to pasture.”

  “Thank you.” He took the blanket and met her eyes. “Especially considering the fright I gave you and your brother this afternoon.”

  After the door shut, Annabelle flew angrily at her brother. “How could you be so rude to our guest?”

  “Why did you invite him to stay?” he countered. “The man’s a stranger. He might kill us in our sleep.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She gestured at Ben’s pistol lying on the shelf. “If he wanted to, he would have killed us by now.”

  Richard tested the jackknife’s edge with his thumb. “Maybe he wanted to scout us out first, see if robbing us was worth his time.”

  “Well, now he knows it isn’t.” She waved her hand around the tiny cabin. “We don’t have anything worth stealing.”

  “Maybe it’s not just things he wants.” Richard set down the knife and met her eyes. “What if he decided to take the farm from us?”

  She didn’t believe it for one moment. The land might be worth something, especially now that they’d cleared the field and dammed the river, but the valley was small, hard to get to, and would never make a farmer rich. A high meadow with such a short growing season was better for grazing horses or cattle, and Ben had neither.

  “Just in case, I’ll stay up tonight,” Richard said, with a glance at the freshly oiled shotgun, now hanging in its
usual place over the doorway. His hand remained near the knife sticking out of the table. “You never know.”

  “Suit yourself,” Annabelle said, turning her back. “I think it’s a waste of—what’s that?”

  A rhythmic sound thudded outside, so unexpected that she did not identify it at once. Annabelle turned around and rushed for the door, followed closely by Richard.

  In the bright moonlight, she saw the silhouette of a man splitting firewood. The axe paused, and the figure straightened. “Thought I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s supply,” Ben explained to them both. “I couldn’t help noticing your log pile was getting low. I brought a bucket of water from the creek too. With the moon this bright, I figured I might as well make use of it.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said. “How very kind of you.”

  Annabelle shot a look of vindication at Richard as they stepped back into the cabin. She felt no need to explain to her brother that if the stranger meant to murder them tonight, he’d hardly volunteer to do their chores first.

  When Annabelle awoke the next morning, their guest had disappeared, but shortly later he returned bearing a pail of juicy, plump blackberries. After breakfast, he politely asked if he might please have his revolver back, to go hunting.

  Somewhat shamefacedly, Annabelle handed him the weapon and watched their guest set off across the meadow, fully expecting never to see him again. But early that afternoon he returned, bearing a plump wild pheasant across his back and a pouch of speckled quail eggs for dinner.

  In the face of a plentiful supply of meat, Richard’s animosity slightly lessened. Once more, that night they feasted, and their guest stayed a second night. A few days later, he was still there, and soon the siblings almost forgot that he hadn’t always been there.