Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  Chance stared at the furious youth, then around at the street. A few wide eyes and noses pressed against the inside of several windows, but no one was coming to his help. The folks might be trying to decide who was in the right and who was in the wrong, and with no lawman in the vicinity, he couldn’t blame them for seeking shelter from whatever was going on. It was all for the best, he decided. This way, he and the boy could get away, and avoid a lot of difficult questions. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but it would do.

  “You can argue with me later,” Chance said shortly, “or thank me for saving your life. Take your pick.” He jumped on his horse and offered a hand down to the boy. “Well? You want a ride, or are you going to wait until one of the townspeople asks why you were lying in wait all evening with a rifle? I’ve learned that people in these parts often jump to the wrong conclusions.”

  “I don’t need a ride. I’ve got my own horse.”

  “Fine.” Chance wheeled and took off. A few moments later, he heard hoof beats clattering behind him.

  They stopped halfway to Salem. The dog lay panting by the boy’s feet. After his earlier outburst, the boy didn’t say another word, not even when Chance cut away his shirt and looked at the torn flesh in the gray morning light.

  “Gotta get this cleaned, before you lose your arm. Don’t look too bad,” he decided, after cleaning it with the water from his canteen. “It’ll be a fine-looking scar. You were lucky enough that the bullet didn’t nick your collarbone on its way into our late friend, Willy Ratzel.” He used the boy’s own shirt to bind up the wound. “Sorry I shot you,” he added, cinching the knot tight, “but if I’d spent any more time on my aim, Willy woulda done the job first. Now, boy, are you going to tell me who you are?”

  The boy’s teeth remained gritted.

  Chance was tired of waiting for an answer. He was hungry, and he hadn’t had the foresight to pack more food than he’d eaten for supper last night. It would be a long ride before breakfast—or, more likely, dinner.

  “Never mind,” he told the boy, who continued to scowl. “I know who you are. You’re Annabelle Bergman’s brother, aren’t you? She never did tell me your name.”

  “How do you know Annabelle?” The youth’s voice sounded sulky. He might be nearly a man, but the smooth skin and gangly build showed that he wasn’t fully grown yet. Chance thought that with his light-colored hair and deep tan, the boy didn’t look much like Annabelle, except for the straight nose and stubborn chin. And those gray eyes, of course. Come to think of it, maybe the resemblance was a bit stronger than he’d thought.

  “Well, the first time I met your sister—” Chance broke off, remembering how Walter had carried Annabelle, kicking, to camp, and how he had ended up wanting to kiss her. It was a pleasant memory, even though she’d slapped him so hard he’d had a loose tooth, and his jaw felt numb for an hour afterward. “Never mind. What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you ‘boy.’”

  The youth hesitated. “Richard.”

  “Richard. A fine name. Well, Richard, I’m assuming that you tracked down this Willy Ratzel for the same reason I did, to put a stop to his evil ways and seek some sort of justice. Can’t say I blame you, or that you didn’t have plenty of justification, but now you see that it wasn’t necessary. Murder isn’t an answer to your problems, Richard. If I hadn’t shot Willy, you would’ve carried that on your conscience for the rest of your life. So even with that hole in your shoulder, you should be grateful I came along.”

  “I don’t care. He deserved to die. What does it matter who killed him?” Richard’s chin set again.

  “Maybe you been up in the mountains too long to understand, but people can’t go around taking vengeance on their own. That’s why we got laws and such.”

  “You didn’t wait for the law.”

  Chance rubbed his beard and stood up, feeling uncomfortable. “That’s where you’re wrong, son. Not in this case. I was just bluffing back there. I never wanted to kill Willy myself—I was just hopin’ to get the fellow to confess so someone would call for a lawman to come and arrest him. No one would’ve believed me if I just said what he’d done. Yeah, I came prepared just in case, but take it from me, boy—I mean, Richard—there’s no peace in taking a man’s life, whether he deserves it or not. Someday soon this whole West will be civilized, and then things will take the proper course.” He took a deep sigh and crossed over to his horse. “You got no cause to believe me, but that don’t change the fact that it’s so.”

  He swung himself into his saddle. “My next stop is Salem. You plan to come with me, or are you going back to the mountains?”

  Richard hesitated. “Back to the mountains, for now.” His gray eyes, so uncannily like Annabelle’s, met Chance’s. “I’d rather she didn’t know I was mixed up in this. She’d be happier that way. You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “I figure that’s your story to tell, when and if you care to.”

  Richard nodded. “All right, and thanks.”

  Chance crouched low over his horse’s withers as wind whistled past his ears. Sally’s hooves galloped northward, in the direction of Salem, not back toward the sandstone cave where his money box lay buried.

  He thought of the stacks of bills with indifference. It was unlikely that he’d ever return to retrieve the box, but he didn’t care. The money wasn’t his anyway, and he had no more need for the hideout. Now he was heading toward the girl who was waiting to hear that her fiancé’s attempted murderer was dead.

  When Chance arrived in Salem, he saw with surprise that it had the makings of a decent city, with some impressive buildings rising around a new State Capitol that presided over the center. Thinking quickly, he turned his horse down a side street, knowing his long beard and ragged clothes would stand out in public. He’d deliver his message to Annabelle secretly and leave as soon as possible.

  Where he’d go next, Chance had no idea. First he had to find the small young woman he had had an impulse to kiss long ago, who had captured his heart, and apparently Ben’s as well. But it was Ben who had won her. He tried with difficulty to fight down a stab of jealousy.

  It made no sense to feel this way, not when his friend lay near death, but it seemed that Ben had always had all the breaks, at least until now: money, success, love. Chance didn’t begrudge his friend any of it, he told himself. No, what really bothered him was that for Benjamin Marlowe’s whole life, the lucky New Yorker had never seemed to appreciate anything he had.

  As for Chance, he wouldn’t have thrown any of it away. He’d have treasured those gifts, basked in them. He’d never have willingly left everything behind to become a rootless wanderer. No, that had been bad fortune on Chance’s part, not a deliberate choice like it had been for Ben.

  Fighting back a surge of the old bitterness, Chance found a saloon with relatively clean windows and a handful of patrons who were so engrossed in their game that they didn’t bother to look up from their card game when he sauntered in. Chance slid into a ladder-back chair and watched the game in silence.

  When the winner scooped in his chips, Chance finally spoke up. “Hey, boys, any of you know the Marlowe who owns a dry goods store here in Salem?”

  One of the men looked at him curiously. “Which one? There’s two of ’em.”

  Chance scratched his head. “Two Marlowes, or two dry goods stores?”

  “Both. There’s a rich old widow from back east, and her son, who just showed up in Salem a few months ago. They own a store in the middle of town and just finished building another one on the outskirts. A big, fancy one, where women with plenty of money can buy satin dresses, parasols, and hats with ostrich feathers, and their husbands can buy enameled spittoons and walking sticks with ivory heads.”

  Chance nodded. “Sounds like the family I’m talking about. I’m looking for a young lady who’s about to marry the rich widow’s son.” If Ben was still alive, that is. From what Annabelle had said, his old friend had been barely clinging to life a couple of weeks a
go. Chance regretted his earlier moment of jealousy.

  A big-eared youth wearing red suspenders dealt Chance into the game. He studied his cards carefully in order not to appear too interested in Ben’s fiancée. It wouldn’t be seemly, and it might bring unwanted suspicion upon Annabelle, considering Chance’s checkered background. Apparently, he didn’t do a good enough job of looking disinterested, because a middle-aged man with a paunch glanced at him. “Benjamin Marlowe’s pretty fiancée, huh? What’s your business with her?”

  Chance thought fast. “She’s a distant relation of mine. When I heard Cousin Annabelle was getting married, I thought I’d stop by to pay my respects.”

  “You’ll probably find her working at the Marlowes’ new store. On the corner of Main and Chapel Streets,” another man offered, slapping down one of his cards while a cigarillo bobbed in the corner of his mouth. “Been helping out there ever since her fiancé nearly cashed in his chips.” He removed the cigarillo and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “It seems a robber caught him carrying the bankroll.”

  “Nearly?” Chance’s heart leapt. “So Ben—er—her fiancé is still alive?”

  The man with the cigarillo peered at him curiously. “Still hangin’ on by a thread, from what I hear. The doc don’t give him long, though.”

  The balding man with the paunch broke in, grinning. “If you’re hopin’ to marry her, mister, you’ll have to wait in line. Plenty of men in Salem got their eyes on that pretty gal.”

  The others chuckled, and Chance forced himself to smile too. “Like I told you folks, I just came to pay my respects to my cousin. Sorry to hear her fiancé’s doing poorly.”

  Chance’s heart continued to beat faster, though. There was a big difference between almost dead and completely dead. With luck, he might have time to tell his old traveling companion goodbye. It was more than he had expected.

  He grunted and finished playing his hand, so as not to give away his excitement, forcing himself to gab about the recent hot spell, and gave the barmaid, who had been hovering near his shoulder, an affectionate squeeze so as not to hurt her feelings. When he finally left the saloon, his boots quickened on the boardwalk.

  Marlowe’s Dry Goods Emporium was stenciled in large, gold letters on the window of a new storefront near the outskirts of town. The fresh paint and gleaming multi-paned windows came as no surprise to Chance. He already knew Ben’s family had money, and he’d expected nothing less elegant.

  An old woman tripping down the street sent him a withering look and held aside her black bombazine skirts as she passed by, causing him to remember his dusty, overgrown hair and unwashed state. To avoid attracting more attention, he ducked down an alley next to the store, hoping to find a service entrance in the back. There was one. The door was locked with a chain. He put his big shoulder against it and easily forced it open.

  Foolish of Annabelle. He’d have to warn her to invest in a deadlock. You never knew when an outlaw would show up.

  Chuckling to himself, Chance slipped into a spacious storeroom with gleaming waxed floors and boxes stacked neatly on shelves. Through a wall drifted Annabelle’s pleasant voice, its cadences familiar from when they had spoken before.

  She was greeting a customer who had just come in, probably the suspicious crone he had passed on the street.

  “Haven’t you any black fabric?” The old woman’s voice was peevish. “You know widows must never wear color.”

  “I believe there is some in the back, madam.” Annabelle’s brisk footsteps grew louder until she appeared in the doorway. Instead of a wine-red outfit, she wore a simple checked gingham frock buttoned up to the neck, nothing that would raise anyone’s eyebrow. Still, he could not help noticing that it fit her slim curves and that the color set off the reddish-brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck.

  Hidden in the shadows, Chance watched Annabelle stand on tiptoe to reach for a bolt of cloth just out of grasp. If not for the customer in the other room, he would have spoken, but he did not want to risk alerting the other woman to his presence. There was a chance that the customer might recognize him from the wanted posters. Stepping up behind her, he slid his hand over her mouth. Annabelle’s body stiffened with shock. “Shh. It’s me, Chance McInnes,” he whispered. Carefully, he slid his hand off the lower half of her face, ready to clamp it back on again at the slightest provocation.

  To his relief, Annabelle made no sound, although her eyes were as big as silver dollars. Sensible, he thought, relieved. She’d shown such spirit the other times they’d met that he’d worried she’d struggle again and give him away.

  They remained frozen, so close they could hear each other breathe. In the other room, floorboards squeaked as the old woman moved around, poking at the merchandise and muttering to herself.

  Chance had no illusions as to how he must seem to Annabelle—appearing out of nowhere, towering over her small frame like a clumsy giant, hair and beard matted with dirt, shirt sweat-soaked and smelly from his long ride. Annabelle might believe he’d turned up to rob her, or worse. If only he could speak to reassure her, but he didn’t dare alert the old woman to his presence.

  A querulous voice floated in from the other room. “I must say, you’re certainly taking your time in there, miss. Well? Are you coming to help me, or aren’t you?”

  Chance plucked the bolt of black cotton fabric off the top shelf and placed it in Annabelle’s arms. Whirling wordlessly, she hurried into the other room, where another round of conversation followed, Annabelle’s responses low, the old harpy’s loud and dissatisfied. A few minutes later, Ben’s fiancée reappeared in the stockroom, face flushed.

  “What are you doing here?” Annabelle’s whisper was so low that her voice was barely audible. “Do you realize what danger you’re putting yourself into? Not to mention what your being here could do to my reputation?”

  He dropped his voice as low as hers. “I just came to tell you that that fellow Ratzel won’t be bothering you nor anyone else again.”

  It took her a moment to catch his meaning. “Willy Ratzel is dead? But I thought you said you wouldn’t …” Annabelle stopped, and several emotions flitted across her face, one after the other. “Er … well, I suppose I should thank you. I know it was a lot to ask, but I didn’t expect …” Her eyes searched his face for a moment, and then, blushing, she dropped her gaze. “Thank you,” Annabelle repeated softly.

  The old woman in the other room was growing volubly impatient again, and Chance didn’t have time to tell Annabelle the details of what had happened. Any moment, the biddy might poke her head around the corner to see what was taking Annabelle so long, and then there would be a lot of explaining to do.

  “I have more to tell you,” he murmured, “but I can’t stay in this storage room until the store closes.”

  “No.” Her agreement was immediate. “It’s far too dangerous.”

  “Where can we meet?”

  Annabelle face grew thoughtful. He suspected she wanted to tell him to go away and not come back, but instead she said, “This part of town is too busy. Meet me at the old store, on the west edge of town. It’s a two-story red-brick building with a green-and-white striped awning. I’ll be there soon after I lock up here.” She lifted up a bolt of black cloth that looked exactly like the first one and hurried into the other room.

  The original Marlowe store was where Annabelle had described it, in a quiet mercantile neighborhood bordered by large, gracious homes. Chance glanced through the storefront window and saw an old man busy refilling the shelves behind the counter. So much for talking with Annabelle alone. He was anxious to ask about Ben’s condition, though, and maybe share how Willy had met his end. Leaving Richard out of it, if possible.

  He cocked his head to gaze up at the second floor, which he guessed served as Ben’s living quarters. She’d said her fiancé was being cared for at his mother’s house, so that meant rooms would be empty. He considered a moment, then went behind the building, where he found a conve
nient elm tree. It took only moments to shimmy up and force the window.

  Once inside, Chance looked around the darkened rooms with an unexpected jab of emotion. So this was Ben’s home. The space looked comfortable and well furnished, and for a moment he was swept by a wave of nostalgia for his old bedroom in Iowa. Once again, the irony did not escape him that Ben Marlowe, who had never wanted a home, had found one here, whereas he …

  Jerking away his self-pitying thoughts, Chance slopped tepid water on his face from a china pitcher on the stand in a corner and toweled off. Then he kicked off his dirty boots and fell across the bed to wait. That was a mistake. His tired bones appreciated its softness, and without intending to, he fell almost instantly asleep.

  The sun was slanting low through the window when Chance heard the faint scratch of a key in a lock and opened his bleary eyes. Removing her bonnet, Annabelle appeared in the doorway and stopped, obviously stunned to see him.

  Chance propped himself up against the pillows, watching her drop her bonnet and reticule on a side table and march to the foot of the bed, putting her hands on her hips like a schoolmistress facing a misbehaving child. “Mr. McInnes! You were supposed to wait for me downstairs. Do you know what it would do to my reputation to be seen with you here?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “But this is where you said to meet.”

  “I meant in the store, obviously!” Her angry gaze went to the mud-encrusted boots sprawled across the floor, the holster slung across a chair, and the rumpled bedcover under his big form.

  He stretched, yawning. “I didn’t want the old man behind the counter wondering who I was.”

  Her lips tightened. “Just what did you want to talk to me about? If you’re here to collect the reward for Willy Ratzel’s death, I could have paid you when we met earlier.” She turned to search through one drawer, and it suddenly dawned on Chance that the young woman might be upset because he was lying on the bed.