Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  The day was warm for spring, even with the sun low in the sky. Ben set off for the Wells Fargo only three blocks away, when a rough voice called from the alley by the store. “Hey, Mr. Marlowe, could you come here for a minute? Got somethin’ to ask you.”

  Turning, he fought down a feeling of impatience. “What is it? Can’t you ask someone else to help?”

  “Sorry, sir, it can’t wait.”

  Sighing, Ben headed into the alley, where he smelled a nasty whiff of dried sweat, alcohol, and some cheap brand of tobacco before a crushing blow came down on his head. All went black.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Annabelle

  Salem

  Spring, 1867

  Annabelle looked up at the clock for the third time in twenty minutes. A sense of unease fell over her soon after Ben left, and with every minute the feeling increased. The task should have taken no more than ten or fifteen minutes, she thought. The bank was only a few steps away.

  Chiding herself for her misgivings, Annabelle lowered the office window shade and pulled on her shawl to go see what was causing the delay. Outside, the darkening street was deserted and the gas lamps had just been lit. When she hammered on the bank door, it opened and the banker looked down at her. “Why, hello, Miss Bergman. We’re all closed up now, but I can open the safe again if you like.”

  She saw the locked green-and-gold-painted safe behind the counter. The rest of the room was empty. “Isn’t Ben here? I thought he must be chatting with you.”

  “Mr. Marlowe?” The banker blinked with surprise. “Why no, miss, can’t say I’ve seen him for several days. I expected him to come by soon, though, since it’s usually it’s not so long between visits.”

  She fought down a stab of alarm. “He must have been here today. Ben left the store nearly half an hour ago, and he told me he was coming straight here.”

  Mr. Goldman shook his bald head. “Sorry, miss. He hasn’t been in this bank this evening.”

  “You’re certain?”

  He looked at her as if noticing the fear in her eyes for the first time. “Yes, miss, I am certain.”

  For a moment, Annabelle wondered if Ben had said he was going somewhere else. Had he said he’d drop the money roll off in the morning? No, she was sure she had heard correctly. She had even seen him take the fat bank roll with him and head off in this direction.

  The bank roll.

  Forgetting to tell the banker goodbye, she spun and darted back toward the dry goods store, scanning anxiously up and down the street. Perhaps someone had glanced out a window and seen where Ben had gone, but all the drapes were already drawn closed for the evening.

  Annabelle told herself that when she got back to the store, she would find Jeremy and Zeke and question them, but before she could unlock the door under the green-striped awning of the Marlowe dry goods store, Annabelle thought she heard a faint sound. At first it sounded like the wind soughing through the alley next to the store. Then it came again, muffled, like a groan.

  Heart leaping in her chest, she investigated. At the back of the alley, in the dim light of the gas lamp, she saw a crumpled heap and black hair matted with blood. Annabelle screamed.

  “Mr. Marlowe is alive, barely.” The doctor straightened from examining the still body on the bed, his face grim. The small bedroom above the dry goods store felt crowded with its three occupants, one unconscious.

  “There must be something you can do for him.” Annabelle’s strained voice sounded unfamiliar to her own ears.

  “I’ve done all I can. The best we can do now is wait.” The doctor’s lined face softened with compassion as he looked down at her. “At least he’s in no pain. He is in a coma.”

  Annabelle’s eyes fastened on Ben’s bloodless face. He had been barely conscious when she knelt down by him in a puddle of his blood, but his lips had formed a word. She’d hardly heard it, but the sound was unmistakable. “Zeke.” It was no surprise. Old Jeremy had come running as fast as his arthritic limbs would bring him at the sound of her scream, but the burly hired hand was nowhere to be seen. Soon, they discovered one of their best horses was missing as well.

  After she and Jeremy made inquiries throughout that day and the next, it turned out that Zeke was not who he’d said he was. “A fellow down at the Red Dog Saloon says his real name is Willy Ratzel,” Jeremy told her, his old face gloomy. “Knew him in Lewiston. Said he was a small-time prospector, always in and out of trouble. I’m sorry, Mrs. Marlowe.”

  Something niggled at the back of Annabelle’s mind. A memory, faded but still there. Then, it popped into her head as sharp as a piece of broken glass, bringing a sick feeling. “What did you say his real name was?”

  Jeremy looked at her with surprise. “Willy, miss. Willy Ratzel.”

  As if in a daze, she heard again the words spoken by a stranger long ago, accompanied by the scrape of a match and the scent of sulfur: “Whatcha doin’, Willy?” And the response: “It’s a long ride to Lewiston.”

  It was her fault. Somewhere, deep in her brain, she had suspected. Something had struck her wrong about the big-shouldered stock clerk lurking in the back of the store. From the beginning she’d instinctively disliked the man, and now Annabelle cursed herself for not having listened to her intuition. True, it had been years ago, and she had only caught a glimpse of her parents’ murderer when hiding behind the wagon. The only memory that remained was that big curly red beard, like a mass of twisted copper wires, whereas Zeke Hart had been gray-haired and clean-shaven. Still, she should have remembered that distinctive, hoarse voice. She should have warned Ben.

  Annabelle looked down at Ben, motionless under the white sheet folded down over his chest. The doctor put a mirror to her fiancé’s mouth and his breath misted its surface. He was still alive, but she couldn’t see Ben’s chest rise or fall, and his face was as white as the bandage around his dark hair. Ben looked dead. Within a few hours or days, he would be.

  It was her own fault. She’d tied Ben down, insisted he abandon his dreams and come to Salem, and now he would never see the Orient or the rest of the world. At the thought, something steeled inside her. Somewhere his attacker, and the murderer of her parents, roamed free. Annabelle knew what she had to do.

  For a few more days, Annabelle stayed by Ben’s side, pouring drops of water between his dry lips or changing his bandages. Lavinia Marlowe had caused her son to be moved to the mansion where he could receive better care, and Annabelle agreed to the change. The small, close rooms above the store were no place for an invalid. She wanted to stay in the house close to Ben, but Lavinia told her that since she and Ben were not yet wed that it would be more seeming if she were to move into the rooms above the store instead.

  Annabelle did not have the energy to argue. She spent most of her days at the mansion at Ben’s side anyway, and found some comfort for a few hours at night sleeping in a room surrounded by his possessions.

  Lavinia proved to be a good nurse, rolling up her sleeves and helping care for Ben even when the older woman was obviously almost unable to keep her eyes open. Her aristocratic face had new lines of determination running from nose to mouth, and Annabelle found herself admiring the older woman’s strength of will. Together, the women willed him to stay alive.

  Occasionally, their eyes met over his head with new understanding. Annabelle knew that no longer would she and her mother-in-law sustain an armed truce. From now they would be allies, equals, because they both loved the same man.

  When Ben continued to cling to life, Annabelle decided she could wait no longer. She kissed his forehead. Justice for her fiancé, justice for her parents, had waited too long already.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chance

  Western Idaho

  Spring, 1867

  Chance had been in a bad mood for longer than he could remember, but today he was furious. He had finally gathered the price of his lost farm but learned the money would do him no good. The realization came with the power of a f
ence post whacking him across the head, leaving him dizzy and reeling.

  That morning, he’d seen a new poster bearing his likeness, with the reward increased to $1,000, and the words armed and dangerous added. The posters were likely plastered over three states, portraying him as a bloodthirsty murderer. He could never buy the farm he wanted, could never live in peace again. Chance was doomed to the life of an outlaw forever.

  He kicked the side of the cave as hard as he could, bruising his foot. He scarcely noticed the physical pain, which was nothing to the torment that raged inside. Ignoring his throbbing toes, he stared dully at the banknotes he was holding, then dropped them into the chest on top of the piles of others. He slammed the lid shut and turned the key in the lock.

  The sound of men quarreling outside rose, and Chance’s dwindling patience failed. He stomped to the opening of the cave that served as his headquarters. “Keep it down, you pack of vermin-infested hounds!”

  The bellow reverberated from the sandstone bluffs. The men turned to stare, slack-jawed, at his bulk looming in the opening of the cave, as if confronting a grizzly woken early from its winter’s sleep. Muting their oaths slightly, the men crouched back over their dice game.

  Chance turned his back on them. In the back of the cave, he dropped the wooden chest into the hole he’d dug earlier and kicked a generous covering of dirt over it so it blended in with the rest of the floor. The other members of the gang didn’t dare come into his quarters without permission, but there was no use taking chances. Even if one of them figured out he kept his share of the money hidden in the cave, it would be hard for them to find it buried in the cool dim recesses.

  He threw himself on his sleeping roll. Unlike his men, who blew their takings as soon as they got them, he’d safely hoarded every dollar he’d stolen the past few years, but he had never looked beyond the day when he would consider the bank’s debt paid in full. That day had arrived, and yet there was no satisfaction in it. How could he buy back his reputation? He could never go home to Baker’s Crossing, or resume his old life. The fact was, he’d have to stay holed out here in the middle of the desert the rest of his life, an exile from decent humanity.

  As Chance lay feeling sorry for himself, a roar arose from outside, and he heard the dull smack of fists on flesh, followed by grunts. “Go get ’im! That’s the way!” As so often happened, the game of dice had ended in fisticuffs.

  He rolled over onto his side, trying to ignore the fracas. He had positioned his sleeping area in the middle of the cave, where thick stone walls kept the temperature bearable even during the furnace-like August heat. A crate used as a table sat near the cave’s opening where he could take advantage of the natural light.

  An even louder howl of rage erupted outside, and Chance assumed that others had joined the fight. Wearily he closed his eyes. Last night he’d stayed up late rereading the green book of poems given to him by his old friend, Ben Marlowe, hoping to find the answers the black-haired easterner used to find there. Now he was discouraged and tired. If only the men outside would shut up long enough for him to take a nap.

  Chance knew his leadership of the group was less a tribute to his ingenuity and physical strength than to the others’ stupidity. Several more petty criminals had drifted into his gang, attracted by his ridiculously exaggerated reputation for fierceness and absolute disregard for the law. There were eight of them now, ornery and hard to control. They were questioning his authority even more lately, since the deaths of Abner and Vern. He wondered how much longer he could hold them back.

  Groaning, Chance threw his arm over his eyes until gradually he realized that the noise outside had died down. Moments later, Walter appeared at the door, his wide mouth working with surprise.

  “Uh … Chance? There’s a young female out here. Says she wants to talk to you.”

  He sat up, annoyed. To think they expected him to fall for such an obvious prank! But Walter hovered expectantly, and Chance got to his feet, resigned to whatever entertainment the men had planned for him.

  If it was a prank, they had gone to greater than usual effort. A prim young woman sat on a horse looking up at his cave. A real woman, not one of his men dressed up in skirts as a joke. Although her face was shaded by a straw sunbonnet, something about her told him she was pretty. Her red, flounced dress stood out like a flower against the drab desert landscape. Two of his men flanked her on mules, like ragged footmen accompanying a queen, except their rifles pointed at her. They looked sulky and out of sorts.

  Walter’s blue-jowled face wore a question mark. “This lady told Heber and Lance you was expecting her.”

  Chance raised his eyebrows. If that was what the female stranger had said, the joke was on his men, as well as on him. The rough sunburned faces were all staring at her, mouths hanging open.

  Now that Chance had studied her for a bit, he realized the woman’s red dress looked more like an old-fashioned ball gown than anything a sensible woman would wear riding. It had dark bands under the armpits, and her brown hair clung wetly to her neck. Under the brim of her bonnet, she defiantly met his gaze. A respectable woman, he thought, despite her boldness and the outrageous red frock, but an eccentric one. A foolish one. And, he thought with an unexpected stirring of admiration, also courageous. What woman would sit so calmly, surrounded by notorious murderers? She could hardly know their bloodthirsty reputation was largely undeserved.

  “Let her come up.” Chance did not move from his stance in the opening of the cave, legs apart, arms folded across his chest.

  Heber lowered his rifle, and the woman slipped off her horse. Her legs buckled, perhaps in fatigue from the long ride, but she quickly recovered and marched up the hill toward him, head high.

  Chance allowed her to precede him into the cave. Her skirts brushed against his legs as she passed through the narrow opening. She stopped and looked around at the rough furnishings, which consisted of the bedroll, the crate, and a three-legged stool he had fashioned from a tree stump.

  An odd expression flitted across her face—not disgust, but something else. Recognition? A memory? Without waiting to be asked, she sat on the stool and undid the ribbons of her straw bonnet. The young woman proved as pretty up close as he had thought she might be—not flashy looking despite the dress, but attractive and intelligent looking. Her chest rose and fell quickly, a sign that she was not as calm as she wanted him to believe.

  It took a moment before Chance realized he’d seen her before. “It’s you!”

  The girl in the brown dress and braids. She looked so different now that she could have been another person—all grown up, and far more self-confident. Life had been good to her, from the expensive bonnet and handsome horse that she rode, but there was a shadow of sadness in those large, gray eyes.

  “Yes, we meet again. I’ve seen the posters all over the state, and they indicate that you’ve been successful in your chosen career of banditry. It appears you’re just the person I need.” Her voice was educated and prim, just as he remembered it. He remembered how attracted he’d been to the pert youngster. She was even more attractive as a young woman.

  “How’d you do it?” he said, even more surprised. She’d come here on purpose? “Twenty posses have rode after me, and not one of ’em ever tracked me here. And now here you are.”

  The young woman gestured at her brightly colored dress and held up a velvet bag on a gold-tasseled cord, the kind women carried around with them to put things in like perfume or money. A reticule, he’d heard them called. “I didn’t find you. I just made sure your men would find me. I tried to make as big a spectacle of myself as possible, so they would bring me to you.”

  “Darned foolish idea, if you ask me.” Thoughts of what his men could have done to her flashed through his mind, and anger rushed through him that she had endangered herself that way.

  “On the contrary, I thought it was rather clever.” Her smile wavered a little, and her lashes fluttered to cover her eyes. “Although a bit risky, I
admit. I told them I wanted to see you, but they didn’t believe me. When I told them you were expecting me, they finally brought me here.”

  He noticed for the first time the top button of the dress was missing, leaving fraying threads. The shoulder seam of one sleeve was ripped as well. It was darned lucky for her the men were afraid of him, but he suspected the woman now realized how foolish her method of tracking him down had been. Still—it had worked. She was here and not too much the worse for wear.

  What did she want? Chance frowned, puzzled. Now that the woman knew his hideout, was she planning on revealing it for a reward? If so, he might as well turn her back over to his men, although he knew perfectly well he would never do so. Of course, she wouldn’t know that.

  Seeing his face darken, she straightened. “Don’t worry.” Her voice was crisp. “I’m not interested in any reward. I come … as a client.”

  A client? He stared at her. “Lady—just when I think there ain’t nothing you can say that will surprise me anymore, darned if you don’t come up with something. What kind of ‘business’ can you be thinking of?”

  Her tone lowered. “I want you to kill someone for me.”

  When the buzzing finally left his ears, he realized she was still speaking. Her gray eyes were earnest.

  “The authorities searched for him for a while, but eventually gave up. They said he had too much of a head start, and there weren’t enough resources to keep looking, even with Lavinia’s help. He’s been going by Zeke Hart lately, but his real name is Willy Ratzel. He killed my parents and my fiancé.” She gulped. “Well, my fiancé is not dead yet, at least he wasn’t when I left, but the doctor said it was only a matter of time. I suppose I should have stayed, but I … I had to seek justice. I just couldn’t bear the thought of that murderer going free again …” The young woman turned her face away for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice had hardened. “That coward attacked my fiancé in an alleyway, and left him to bleed to death. I’ll pay you three hundred dollars, in gold.” Misinterpreting his stunned expression, she added, “Don’t worry, I have the money. I brought half today, and I’ll pay the other half when the job is done.” The young woman began to fumble in her reticule.