Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  Chance realized that the young woman, half-crazed with grief, must have seen one of his wanted posters and figured that an outlaw would be the perfect person to seek revenge for her. “In spite of what you think, I’m not a hired gun, miss. I might rob banks, but I don’t kill.”

  “I don’t know any other professional who might be willing to do the … er … job. I hoped an adequate incentive would persuade you.” She held up a gold coin that sparkled in the sun. “Four hundred? Five? I can come up with more if necessary.”

  He stood up. “The answer is no, at any price. Put that money away. Now, before one of my men out there sees it and decides to take it from you.”

  “But …”

  His expression must have convinced her, because her eyes filled with tears and she got to her feet. “All right. I’d hoped …”

  At the look on her face, Chance softened his voice. “Killing won’t bring your fiancé back, you know. It won’t bring any of them back. Trust me, you wouldn’t feel any better after it was over.”

  He pictured the dead banker, Hugh Lott, lying at his feet. Despite his anger at his mother’s death and the unjust loss of his farm, Chance killing Lott had failed to bring any sense of justice or peace. No, it had brought just the opposite: years of bitterness and loss.

  She stood and paced around the cave, just as he had done so often. Finally, a trembling sigh poured out of the small frame. “You’re right. I never thought I had it in me to want someone dead. Maybe that makes me an evil person. I’m sorry for troubling you, Mr. McInnes.” The young woman stood and held out her hand. “Thank you for stopping me from making a terrible mistake.”

  As he gripped her hand, Chance felt an unexpected stab of jealousy toward her unknown fiancé, whoever the man was. How would it feel to be loved so much that a presumably law-abiding wife would lose her head and go to such extremes to seek justice for his murder?

  If Chance was killed someday, which was not unlikely, given how many lawmen would personally like to do the honors, he couldn’t think of a single person who would regret his passing. Not one.

  Abruptly he asked, “Pardon me, miss, but do you mind telling me your fiancé’s name?”

  The young woman had already taken several steps toward the cave’s entrance. Now she looked back at him, wet-eyed. “Benjamin Marlowe. He owns a pair of dry goods stores in Salem. Not that it matters…. You wouldn’t have heard of him.”

  She walked out, leaving Chance frozen, hands hanging at his sides. He walked to the cave’s entrance, vaguely aware of his men’s catcalls while watching Benjamin Marlowe’s fiancée mount her dappled gray horse and ride away, a splash of red against the dun-colored cliffs.

  Chapter Forty

  Richard

  Salem

  Spring, 1867

  Although traveling to Salem for supplies was no longer a strange experience for Richard, it was always a relief when he could return to his home in the mountains. This time, when he arrived at the mansion, he was surprised when Gretchen, the serving girl, told him Annabelle had moved out of the mansion and into Ben’s rooms above the store. It seemed she was about to say more, but Richard was already walking back the path toward his horse. Women seemed to like to chat endlessly, he’d discovered, and usually about inconsequential things. Richard was painfully aware that he was no conversationalist and always tried to put a stop to social interactions as quickly as possible.

  He left his horse tied to the hitching post in front of the Marlowe store and mounted the stairs, knocking on the door at the top. It opened, and Richard was shocked to see his usually composed sister standing with a damp handkerchief in her hands, eyes red and swollen. “Richard! How did you know I was here?”

  “Gretchen told me you moved into the apartment over the store.”

  His sister beckoned him in. “Sit down, Richard. I do wish you hadn’t seen me like this.”

  “What’s wrong?” He remained standing by the doorway, hat in hand.

  She made a gesture of helplessness. “Ben was viciously attacked a week ago, and we think it was by one of our employees. The doctor doesn’t think he will live. It’s a miracle he’s still holding on. He’s being cared for at his mother’s house, where the doctor can watch over him. I moved in here so I could run the store and … well … be out from underfoot, since the doctor thought Ben would rest better if I weren’t there all the time. I should have sent someone up to tell you what happened, Richard, but I’ve been so overwhelmed that I can’t think straight.”

  Annabele wiped her eyes and gave him a wavering smile. “It’s odd, Richard, but I … I actually feel closer to Ben now that I’m living in his rooms. It’s easier to think about our happy times together, and harder to think about the possibility of him … dying.”

  Richard absorbed the news with a mix of emotions. He had felt Ben was an enemy for so long that he had to remind himself of the man’s many kindnesses, helping clear the fields for no reason except it needed to be done and generously sending up supplies from time to time, to make his life in the mountains easier. Most of all, Ben had made his sister happy. “Why?”

  “Why? Oh, you mean why was Ben attacked?” She dried her eyes. “We hadn’t had time to take the store’s moneybag to the bank for several days, and I suppose the employee just couldn’t resist the temptation.” Annabelle blew her nose into the handkerchief. “And Richard, you will never guess who the attacker was.”

  Richard waited, muscles tensed.

  “It was Willy Ratzel.” When Richard gave no sign of recognition, she shook her head. “I shouldn’t expect you to remember the name. I didn’t myself, not at first. That’s the name of the red-bearded miner from the trading post, the one who told Papa to take the Indian trail through the mountains. The man who murdered our parents. Back then, I heard one of the other bandits say his real name, although these days he goes by Zeke Hart.”

  The light from the window illuminated his sister’s pale face as she spoke, shining off the tears in her eyes. Memories transported Richard back in time: rough voices swearing while he dug his face into the dirt, trying with all his might to remain motionless. Once again, he heard his father’s frantic yell and the double report of two rifles, and smelled the wagon smoldering.

  “I’m so ashamed of myself,” Annabelle was saying. “Can you believe, Richard, I actually tried to hire a gunman to track him down. I thought that would bring justice. When it came down to it, though, I just couldn’t do it. That is …” She frowned suddenly. “Strange as it sounds, the outlaw actually talked me out of it. He told me that it wouldn’t bring Ben back, and that I’d only feel worse afterward. I knew he was right.”

  He listened impassively. “Why not send the sheriff after this … Willy Ratzel?”

  She sighed. “We did, but the posse came back empty-handed. Oh, Richard, if Ben dies, I don’t know what I will do!” The wet handkerchief was useless against the fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Richard knew he should do something to comfort his sister. Walking forward, he put his arms around her shoulders and stood close. The gesture felt awkward to him, but it succeeded. The tears stopped flowing, and she gave him a shaky smile. “I didn’t even ask what brought you to town, Richard. Supplies?”

  He nodded.

  “Please come to dinner at my mother-in-law’s house tonight. She’ll be happy to welcome you, and I don’t see you nearly enough.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No?” Annabelle’s face filled with disappointment, but he was too focused on what he intended to do to notice.

  “Do you happen to have anything that belonged to this Willy Ratzel?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You could check with Jeremy. That’s the old gentleman who works behind the counter. He might know if Willy left anything behind. Why?”

  “Never mind.” Richard bent over and kissed his sister’s cheek, an act he had only done a few times in his life. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait, Richard! Where
are you going?”

  He galloped down the stairs without answering.

  Richard had never tracked a human being before, but he had tracked plenty of wild animals. Doing so took persistence and patience, and over the past few years he had developed plenty of both.

  The old man behind the counter downstairs was helpful, providing a description of the man’s clothes and appearance, and even handing over an unwashed rag that Zeke Hart had often used to wipe his forehead and nose. Beau sniffed the cloth and yelped excitedly, his tail whipping back and forth like a flag in a thunderstorm.

  The dog led Richard to the alley that had been the site of the attack. After that, all Richard had to do was to ride his horse behind Beau, who rarely lost the trail and always found it again.

  Richard learned that Willy Ratzel changed names frequently, but his raspy voice and boxer’s build were enough to make people remember him.

  Richard had often imagined what he would do if ever he faced the man who had killed his parents. His hands tightened on the stock of his shotgun. Could he do it? Could he kill a man? In his imagination he had, many times, but this was different. This was real. Would blood on his hands make him like the man he was hunting?

  The thought troubled him as he rode on, following Beau. This would be different, he told himself. The man had killed two innocent emigrants for gain, while Richard was only pursuing justice. Still, he wouldn’t be sure until the moment came.

  After several days of searching, Beau stopped suddenly. He sniffed excitedly and growled between bared teeth. Richard looked around with renewed alertness, the hair on the back of his own neck prickling. It was evening, outside a rundown saloon in Boise. The shadows were lengthening.

  Richard’s heart quickened when he spotted Willy Ratzel through the saloon’s bright window, sitting at a poker table with several other men. He’d seen the older man stocking shelves in the Marlowe store, but now Richard studied him as if seeing him for the first time. Willy looked different from the bearded miner Richard had glimpsed so briefly years before in the trading post. Now the beard was gone and the hair was thinner, graying, but the square face was still ruddy, the shoulders burly.

  His finger tightened on the shotgun. Would he be able to do it? Richard thought of Annabelle’s grief, of the graves in the shadow of the giant boulder in the valley, and his jaw set. He settled down to watch the boisterous card game inside the gas-lit saloon, waiting patiently for the man to emerge.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chance

  Western Idaho

  Spring, 1867

  It took Chance several days to track Willy Ratzel to a ramshackle saloon in Boise. Chance stood with his back against the bar, arms folded across his chest, and studied the table across the room where a vigorous poker game was going on. Several men slouched over their cards, hats pushed back or down over their faces, but he had eyes only for the man in the middle, whom the barmaid had pointed out to him.

  So this was the man who tried to kill Ben, he thought, surveying the heavy features and thick, graying hair. The thug at the table was nothing more than a low-down criminal, worse than the men in his own gang because no one had been there to hold back Willy’s love for violence.

  It might be worth forgetting Chance’s “no kill” policy to shoot the scumbag in the back, which was more than the mangy dog deserved, but Ben, the former divinity scholar, wouldn’t agree.

  No, he’d have to bluff.

  Draining his glass, Chance watched Ratzel steadily lose at poker, the sunburned face growing deeper and deeper red with each hand. There was no guarantee his half-formed plan would succeed, but the least Chance could do was try.

  He crossed the smoke-filled room and dropped into an empty seat. “Looks like it’s time for you to call it quits,” he observed quietly into Willy’s ear. “Been watchin’ you for a while, and it looks you done lost nearly all your stake.”

  “Who asked you?”

  Chance leaned casually back in his chair. “Just some friendly advice from a stranger.”

  “I don’t need your dad-burned advice.” Ratzel looked at his next hand, swore, and threw Chance a hostile look. He flung down the cards, scraped back his chair, and stalked out of the saloon.

  Good. Chance’s plan looked like it just might work. He followed Willy out the swinging doors to the street, keeping his hand close to his gun belt. There were a few passersby, even though it was dark. That was good too. He wanted witnesses.

  “Willy Ratzel? That’s your name, isn’t it? I’d sure like a word with you.”

  The gray-haired man stopped and swung around. No one with a guilty conscience ever liked people he didn’t know calling him by name.

  “How’d you know me? You law or something?”

  “Or something.” Chance paused. “I’m a friend of Benjamin Marlowe.”

  The man’s muddy eyes flickered with recognition, but his gravely voice sounded bored. “Yeah? Who’s he?”

  “Owns a dry goods store in Salem, Oregon,” Chance reminded him. “I hear you used to work there. That is till someone hit Marlowe over the head in an alley when he was taking the week’s takings to the bank.”

  A few of the passersby were starting to look at them. A few stopped to listen. That was all part of the plan. He wanted to rile up Willy until he made a mistake, said something that would tie him to the attempted murder. With luck, someone would call a lawman, if there was one in these parts. If a sheriff focused on Willy, Chance could slip away.

  Or, if there was no lawman and Willy decided to do something foolish, the killing would be self-defense, not just murder. Not that it would make a difference to anyone else, Chance thought, but it would make a big difference to himself.

  Chance kept a nervous look on Willy’s gun hand. It was just possible that the fellow was fool enough to lose his temper and shoot before Chance got him to confess.

  Willy’s sludge-green eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you tryin’ to say mister?”

  Chance raised his voice loud and clear, so everyone within a block could hear. “I’m saying that I know you did it. You tried to kill my best friend, Ben Marlowe. That wasn’t the only time, either. You killed an emigrant couple up in the Cascades near on six years ago. Thought no one would ever find out, but you left witnesses. That couple had two children in the wagon who saw everything you did.”

  He was trying to goad Willy into attacking. A fellow who spent all day loading and unloading heavy crates was bound to be no weakling, but Willy was fifteen to twenty years older than Chance, and every muscle in Chance’s body was on high alert, watching for any quick motion from his opponent.

  The few pedestrians were fading away. Chance was slightly worried that no one seemed to have summoned a sheriff. That might mean the town didn’t have one, which meant his bluff wouldn’t work. He might have to kill the lousy son of a gun himself after all. Or, if he was lucky enough to wrestle Willy to the ground and pin him, he could tie Willy up and sling him over the back of his horse to carry him to the nearest town with a jail.

  Whatever happened, Chance had made peace with the fact that he would likely get arrested. He’d promised himself to help Annabelle and Ben find justice, and no matter what, he was determined to do just that. At least, he hoped, the act might make up in part for the bad he’d done the last couple of years. For his ma’s sake, Chance sincerely hoped so.

  All this passed through his mind in a fraction of a moment. Chance’s taunts seemed to have an effect. Willy’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. The next moment a commotion erupted that Chance never could sort out. A rifle going off, a dog barking, Willy whirling. A tall figure hurled out of the dark and landed on Willy, knocking him flat on the ground.

  Without taking time to assess what was happening, Chance threw himself forward, but it was too late. The assailant, whoever it was, was no match for Willy’s bulk. In seconds, the older man recovered, pulled himself out of the other’s grasp, and knocked the other person down with a wel
l-aimed punch. Without pausing, he yanked the form off the ground and hoisted it front of himself like a shield, facing Chance again.

  It’s just a boy, Chance thought with surprise. A tall, gangling, light-haired boy, whose face in the uncertain light cast by the saloon’s windows was contorted by hatred. Who was this youth, and why had he attacked Willy?

  Before Chance could think more, he saw Willy hold a gun to the boy’s head. “So, I left witnesses, eh? I’ll wager this is one of those two kids in the wagon. I been wondering about you, boy, ever since your sister sent me up with a wagon to fetch you out of the mountains, in a place no one knew of but me and those emigrants who wasted my time. I reckon today there’ll be a couple less witnesses. After I’m done with you, I figure I’ll double back and get rid of Miss Annabelle too.” Willy glared at Chance and clicked the safety off his revolver, which was pressed next to Richard’s head. “That is, after I take care of you, mister, whoever you are.”

  Chance was no professional gunman, but he wasn’t a bad shot either. For once, he had a loaded gun, and he didn’t wait for Willy to finish threatening. His attention was focused on the beefy hand, and when the finger started to tense on the trigger he was ready.

  In the light of the moon and the saloon’s gas lamps, the bullet found its target. A dark splotch appeared on the man’s forehead, and with a surprised look he collapsed. Two running steps and Chance was at the boy’s side. He scooped him up, but the boy twisted out of his grip, holding his left shoulder.

  “You shot us both,” Richard said. It’s your fault. I would have got him with that first round if you hadn’t made him move just at the wrong moment.”