Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  It no longer mattered if anyone knew what had happened in Iowa. Chance McInnes was now wanted for murder in Oregon.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ben

  Cascade Mountains

  Late Summer, 1866

  Ben thought it odd that Richard said nothing about his sister’s imminent departure, although he suspected the two had never been separated before. The youth’s silence did not indicate a lack of attachment, of that he was sure, because he knew the siblings cared deeply for each other. More likely, he thought, Richard simply felt self-conscious about articulating his feelings—even more than most boys his age. Annabelle had no such inhibitions. She threw her arms around her brother’s neck while Richard patted her awkwardly on the back, which, for him, was a strong display of affection.

  After a moment, Ben cleared his throat to signal it was time to go. He was wearing the loose-fitting buckskins, which he found more suited to traveling than the farmer’s clothes he’d worn all summer, and this time, Annabelle had not objected. Hefting the pack of provisions onto his shoulder, Ben held out his hand to Richard. As he’d fully expected, the youth hesitated, but then shook it firmly.

  “Are you ready?” Ben asked Annabelle, relieved that the boy hadn’t rebuffed him altogether. It was a mark of progress. He had done everything he could to earn Richard’s trust, and at times, he’d thought he’d almost succeeded. Maybe if he stayed longer, he could have eventually worn through the youth’s protective shell. Ben wondered if losing his father at such a young age had made Richard unwilling to trust another male. It was clear the event had been traumatic.

  Annabelle picked up her own smaller pack. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  As they made their way along the side of the creek that led down the mountain, toward civilization, she seemed distracted and anxious, perhaps feeling guilty about leaving her younger brother behind, all alone. Or maybe she was worrying about what lay ahead. Ben distracted her by pointing out colorful foliage and telling stories about his life with the Nez Perce. When a blue jay lifted off from almost under their feet, startling them, Annabelle laughed.

  Relieved, Ben reached in his pocket and pulled out Chance’s harmonica. “I wish you could meet the man who gave me this,” he told her, remembering his former traveling companion. “He was the best friend I ever had, and the most honest man I’ve ever met.”

  Chance McInnes would be a prosperous farmer now, happy, successful, well-liked by his many friends in Baker’s Crossing, and married to the beautiful girl who had waited for him. Chance deserved every bit of it, Ben thought, with a tinge of envy.

  What a contrast to his own life: born with a silver spoon in his mouth, now with no possessions except the clothes on his back and a threadbare bedroll over his shoulder. Yet Ben knew he would make the same choice in a heartbeat. He put the harmonica to his lips.

  Annabelle walked quietly, listening to the cheerful music, so out of place in the wilderness. Ben suspected she had not given up her goal to reconcile him with his parents, and the suspicion was confirmed when he put away the harmonica. Without preamble, she began to talk about filial love, forgiveness, and the importance of families, as intently as a preacher at a revival meeting.

  He listened without comment. It was only natural for an orphan to fantasize about idealized family life as featured in children’s books and popular women’s magazines. How was she to know that the Marlowes were like the famous Borgias, also known for their ambition and scheming? At least he couldn’t accuse his mother of murder.

  As they continued toward the mouth of the canyon, he sympathized with her brother’s refusal to leave. The mountains’ beauty was almost magical. The golden hues of the early poplar leaves had by now deepened to lush green, and the creek’s springtime rush of melting snow had died to a lazy gurgle, dark and cool, just deep enough to wade in without fear of being swept away.

  When they arrived at the wall of fallen rocks Annabelle had told him about, he helped her climb over the boulders hiding the entrance to the canyon. For some reason Ben did not release her hand. It felt natural to continue walking along that way. Companionable. Friendly. Perhaps more.

  Disquieted by the thought, Ben dropped her hand. He remembered seeing Annabelle in the dark red gown, and the hopeful expression in her eyes when she met his stunned gaze. The girl imagined herself in love with him. It was all his own fault …but he’d vowed never to let entanglements get in the way of his freedom. Nothing—no one—must hold him back. Not Shining Water, not even Annabelle. As with the Nez Perce, Ben had stayed too long, long enough to allow himself to care too much.

  Not far from the fallen rocks, by the faint remains of an old campfire, they stopped and drank from the stream and shared a loaf of bread. Ben noticed that Annabelle looked around at their surroundings as if they were familiar. She said nothing, however, and he refrained from asking. Again, he told himself it was not his business.

  Soon after resuming their journey, the pair saw their first wagon train. Ben spotted it more than two miles away, and almost immediately, Annabelle stood on her tiptoes, straining to see. “Look, Ben! Something’s moving on the horizon. Little dark spots. Do you think it’s a group of deer?”

  “Wagons,” he said grudgingly. “Twenty of them, it looks like.”

  “Oh!” She whirled. “Do you think they would let us travel with them? They’re going the same direction as us.”

  Ben was unable to think of a reason to say “no.” Nodding, he lengthened his stride, and Annabelle hurried to match his steps.

  That evening, they caught up with the slow-moving train when it stopped to pitch camp for the night. The wagon master, a barrel-chested man with a black beard and bow legs, looked up with surprise at the young couple approaching on foot.

  “Well now,” he said, after hearing their story. “You two are welcome to come along with us, for as far as you’d like. We can use extra hands, and I believe a couple of wagons have room for an extra passenger or two.” He spat in the dirt and glanced at Ben from under lowered brows. “Don’t care much for the fact that you’re escorting a young woman unchaperoned, though, mister. It ain’t seemly.”

  “I assure you that—” Ben began stiffly.

  “Yeah, yeah. Make sure your behavior don’t force me to change my mind, mister. If there’s any trouble, we’ll keep the young lady with us, and you can travel on to wherever you’re goin’ by yourself.”

  Ben wasn’t sure whether to chuckle or glower at the blustering wagon master. “There’ll be no trouble,” he promised, seeing Annabelle blushing next to him.

  A group of young men and women gathered around, and several of the young women darted curious looks at Ben. He muttered monosyllabic responses to their questions until they gave up and turned their attention to Annabelle, who hung back shyly at first, looking uncomfortable at so much attention. Gradually, however, she opened up as her initial shyness melted away.

  “You and your brother lived six years by yourselves in the mountains?” gasped a girl wearing an oversized poke bonnet and a gingham dress bleached almost white. Glancing incredulously over her shoulder at the foothills, the girl drew Annabelle away, peppering her with more questions, and the rest of the group straggled after them.

  Ben stood by himself, gazing at the chattering group in the distance, until the wagon master hollered, “Hey, you! Come make yourself useful, mister. The livestock need to be fed.”

  Ben glanced a last time at Annabelle and the circle of chattering young men and women as he went to help with the chores. She seemed to be enjoying the attention, he thought. Certainly she deserved it after all those years of loneliness. For some reason, however, her newfound popularity did not please him.

  When the wagon train broke camp the next morning, Ben watched Annabelle hop onto the back of one of the wagons, sitting between the girl in the gingham dress and one of the young men they had met last night. He had never seen her smile so much. At the cabin, there had been little time for jokes or horseplay, alth
ough he’d spent a good deal of time trying to provoke an occasional sign of amusement from her. How quickly things changed.

  He’d learned that the young man seated next to Annabelle was named Heber Grimshaw, an unmarried farmer. When Ben rode by them on a borrowed horse later in the day, he couldn’t help scowling at the laughing group, who scarcely seemed aware of his presence. At nightfall, he saw that Annabelle was still surrounded by young companions, and that she seemed to speak most often to Heber Grimshaw. That was good, Ben told himself. He needn’t worry about Annabelle once he left on his travels to the Orient. The girl obviously did not need him anymore. He’d see her to Salem, as promised, and be on his way.

  After a few days’ travel, the wagon train encountered an outlying farmhouse, a sign they were nearing the populated parts of the Willamette Valley. While the women cooked dinner over campfires, Ben saw Annabelle and Heber walk off together and engage in conversation, their faces looking serious for once. He went to join them, reasoning it was still his role to protect Annabelle. The girl was inexperienced, and who knew what the other man’s intentions were? The fact that his thoughts were contradictory did not stop him.

  A white-haired emigrant bent over a gelding gestured at him. “Hey there, young fella, you know anything ’bout lame horses?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.” Ben did not break stride.

  “Do me a favor anyway, wouldja? This hoof looks inflamed, and I’d sure like an opinion from a fellow with sharper eyes than mine.” The old man held up the hoof, while the big horse waited patiently. Ben heaved an irritated sigh and turned back. It was impossible to refuse without being rude.

  By the time Ben had provided his uninformed opinion that a day’s rest might solve the problem, another emigrant called him to help fix a wagon spoke. As one of the few members of the wagon train without elderly parents or young children to care for, Ben was expected to make himself useful.

  Chafing, Ben frowned at the silhouetted couple in the distance. By the time the wagon wheel was repaired, Annabelle and Heber were walking slowly back toward the main body of the camp.

  Ben intercepted her after she left Heber. “Annabelle.”

  She turned toward him with less than her usual warmth. “Why hello, Ben.”

  His jaw felt unnaturally tight. “Was that Grimshaw fellow trying to persuade you to continue on with the train tomorrow, instead of turning off for Salem?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “And you agreed?”

  She stood staring at him without answering.

  A wave of heat poured through Ben’s veins. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “What about Richard? Does it seem right to go off with some stranger and leave your brother alone in the mountains?”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “Of course not. How could you even think such a thing?”

  Ben couldn’t stop himself. “Then maybe you’re hoping I’ll go back and fetch your brother so that the two of you can go off with these emigrants.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know as well as I do that Richard’s set on homesteading our farm. He would never leave the mountains.”

  “It would be foolish to turn down Heber’s offer,” he pointed out contrarily. “He’s big, strong, ambitious, and would make a good husband. You’d be better off with him than living alone in a tiny cabin with no prospect for a better future.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I hardly know Heber. Besides, you’ve been acting strange ever since we joined this caravan, Ben. You’ve hardly even spoken to me or any of the others for the past few days, and when you do, you seem like someone I don’t know.”

  Ben wondered why Annabelle seemed angry at him. He wasn’t sure exactly what they were arguing about.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s up to you what you want to do.” He looked away in an effort to show disinterest.

  “Yes, it is up to me. If you must know, I told Heber I was going to Salem with you before returning to live with my brother. So you needn’t worry.” She shouldered past him, her tone making it clear the conversation was over.

  Later that night, as Ben wrapped himself in his blanket, he remembered Annabelle’s words. You needn’t worry. What did she mean? Worry about what? The girl was free to do whatever she wanted. So why did her comment nag at him?

  When they neared Salem, the two bade goodbye to their new companions. As the long train of wagons rumbled away, Ben noted there still seemed to be an undercurrent of tension beneath Annabelle’s air of calm. Was she doubting herself for turning down Heber’s offer after all?

  Suddenly irritable again, he turned, leaving her to follow. There would be a dozen Heber Grimshaws in Salem, and Annabelle could have her pick of them. Ben wasn’t sure why he’d objected to the nice, steady farmer as a suitor; Heber would have made a perfect husband for Annabelle: kind, hardworking, and respectable, just what she needed.

  His mood grew increasingly surly as they approached the outskirts of town. By contrast, the more shops and houses they passed, the more Annabelle exclaimed with delight. After a while, though, she grew quiet again and looked down at her dress with a frown. It was clear she was wishing she had a new dress. He couldn’t understand why. Perhaps the old brown dress showed more of her ankles than those of the other women they passed, but he hardly saw this as a defect.

  Already he missed the fresh mountain breezes and the open vista of boundless skies. The crowds on Salem’s boardwalks, not as thick as those of New York, but daunting nonetheless, oppressed him. The population must have reached nearly a thousand since his parents had moved here. With tall buildings displaying impressive storefronts, paved streets, and women wearing clothes that looked different, somehow, than he remembered from before the war, it was clear that Salem was definitely no frontier outpost. Constriction settled over him, as if bonds were already tightening around his wrists.

  “This town is so much bigger than I expected,” Annabelle said, looking around in wonder. “And look how the ladies’ dresses have changed! They’re all bunched up in the back.” A fashionable woman tottered by in a striped satin skirt just like Annabelle had described, flat in the front and full in the back.

  Ben nodded, trying to pretend interest in ladies’ clothing styles, then pulled her toward a building with a brass plaque that announced “Land Office.” Just then, Annabelle stopped short, staring wide-eyed at a wanted poster with an image of a bearded outlaw.

  Something about the hand-drawn image looked vaguely familiar, but Ben was in a hurry to get their business over with, and he hardly glanced at it. “It seems there are bandits everywhere these days,” he said, shaking his head. “You needn’t worry, though. No one will bother you in Salem.”

  He pulled her into the land office, where a big man in shirtsleeves and vest slumped behind a desk, looking like a sleepy walrus. The clerk glanced at their shabby clothes without interest. “Yes, folks?”

  “I’d like to file the paperwork for a homestead,” Annabelle said. The clerk’s eyes rested on her briefly before shifting to her companion. He shoved a couple of crumpled papers toward Ben. “No, I’m the one who is filing,” Annabelle said crossly.

  “Gotta be the head of the family who files, missus. Even if you know how to write, your husband’s gotta sign.”

  Annabelle blushed. “You misunderstand, sir. We’re not married.” The clerk gave them both a hard look, and her blush deepened, as it had when the wagon master questioned them. “My friend here merely showed me the way. I’m filing on behalf of myself and my younger brother.”

  The clerk glanced at Ben, who looked out the window, whistling under his breath. “All right, miss. We’ll put you down as the head of family as long as you’re twenty-one years old or older.”

  Annabelle stood as tall as she could. “I’m twenty-one.”

  The man looked skeptical, but shrugged. “That’ll be ten dollars, cash money.” The clerk held out a stubby hand.

  “Ten dollars!” Annabelle gasped.

  T
he man scratched his double chin. “It’s a bargain at that cost. You surely didn’t expect the government to hand land over for free, did you?”

  “Yes … no … I just hadn’t thought … it’s just that the man who murdered my parents took all our money.”

  A flash of sympathy crossed the man’s heavy features, but he didn’t budge. “Sorry, miss, but everybody’s got hardships. Can’t make exceptions. Not if you want everything clear and legal.”

  Ben watched her nod dumbly, face stricken. He had never seen her so dejected. Stupidly, he hadn’t thought of the filing fee either. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the few coins jingling there. Less than a dollar. There was a remedy, of course, but he’d hoped to avoid it.

  “Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Annabelle’s head jerked up, and her eyes questioned his. Without waiting for her to speak, he pushed his way out the door.

  When he returned. Annabelle was sitting on a bench, anxiously twisting her fingers. She jumped up when he came in and flung ten dollars in crisp new greenbacks on the desk.

  “Will that do?” Ben asked the land office clerk.

  The clerk glanced at the money and pushed the filing papers toward Annabelle. “Go ahead and sign, miss.”

  Annabelle looked at Ben again, a look of doubt and speculation on her features. “Thank you, but I can’t accept this.”

  “Payment for room and board over the past few months,” Ben said, winking. “A bargain, considering your delicious johnnycake and stews.”

  The edges of her eyes crinkled, and her mouth turned up. Annabelle hunched over the documents, reading every word. Ben amused himself by flicking small balls of paper into a wastebasket. Then he took the harmonica from his coat pocket and tried a few scales, until Annabelle turned and flashed him a warning look.