Chance 1: Chance (A Chance Sharpe Western)

By Clay Tanner

Riverboat owner Tate Browder is one of the slimiest varmints to cruise down the Mississippi. On his boat, the New Moon, he’s fleeced many a sucker in poker games that have made his fortune. But Chance Sharpe is on to Browder and his cheating ways ... and soon he’s won the New Moon with a trick of his own that leaves Browder boiling for revenge ...and Chance fighting to stay afloat. Along the way he meets up with Marilee, a luscious blonde who wants to down Chance ... any way she can get him!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Apr 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370395873

Clay Tanner

Clay Tanner is the name used by George Proctor to write CHANCE. A western series featuring a riverboat gambler, that appeared between November 1986 and July 1988. He also writes under THE TEXICANS western series under the name of Zack Wyatt

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Table of Contents

About the Book

Dedication Page

About the Author

Copyright Page

The Publisher

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

CHANCE

Riverboat owner Tate Browder is one of the slimiest varmints to cruise down the Mississippi. On his boat, the New Moon, he’s fleeced many a sucker in poker games that have made his fortune. But Chance Sharpe is on to Browder and his cheating ways … and soon he’s won the New Moon with a trick of his own that leaves Browder boiling for revenge ...and Chance fighting to stay afloat. Along the way he meets up with Marilee, a luscious blonde who wants to down Chance … any way she can get him!

For Lana – Thank you for being.

One

Electric excitement sparked across Chance Sharpe’s fingertips when he lifted the five cards from the green felt-covered table. Tingling energy sizzled through his hands and up his arms in a dizzy race to his brain.

A pair of kings... a deuce... Chance fanned the cards open in his right hand... a pair of kings.

Another jolt of adrenaline-stirring electricity shot from the cards to the gambler’s brain. Four kings—four of a kind.

I’ll open for fifty. The rustle of crisp, clean, new bank notes accompanied the voice beside Chance at the table.

Without so much as a facial twitch to betray the excitement pounding in his heart and temples, Chance Sharpe closed his hand and placed the cards in a tidy stack in front of him on the table. His cool blue eyes lifted to the voice’s owner.

Willard Carr clutched his fanned hand between pudgy fingers. Dark eyes that might have belonged to a plump beetle shifted among the other six men seated at the round table. Carr’s mouth parted slightly to reveal the pinkness of a tongue that nervously bothered chapped lips.

Decent cards, but no courage to back them, Chance silently conjectured while his own gaze briefly left Carr to wander around the St. Louis hotel room in which he sat.

Cigar smoke hung in the air like layered fog that swirled in tiny eddies whenever one of the poker players moved. Hidden in the overpowering odor of stale smoke, an occasional heady whiff of sour mash whiskey assailed Chance’s nostrils. Beneath all was the smell of seven men locked within the confines of a hotel room for ten hours, their total attention riveted to the shuffle and deal of fifty-two pieces of cardboard.

Chance brushed aside a bothersome strand of raven black hair that fell across his forehead as his gaze and thoughts returned to the man beside him. Time and again this night the gambler had observed the glint of excitement dance in Carr’s bulged eyes when he picked his cards from the table. The munitions dealer’s expectant elation transformed to stark terror the instant the betting edged over three hundred dollars. The sheen of sweat a-glint on his upper lip, Carr would shrug and fold his hand with a sigh of defeat.

The predictable conclusion to Carr’s participation in this hand evoked a twinge of regret in Chance’s breast. The gambler would have truly enjoyed separating the munitions dealer from the stack of crisp bills piled in front of him on the table. Chance held little love for men who had grown fat and rich by peddling the materials of death to a nation torn by a war that pitted brother against brother.

I’ll just add another fifty to your fifty, Willard, said Tom Hardin, a rail-thin land speculator seated to Carr’s left. Hardin’s twangy voice continued, Might as well put a little honey in the pot to see if it attracts any flies.

Chance ignored Hardin’s words and self-pleased chuckle. The man wasn’t here to play poker, but to rub elbows with some of St. Louis’s most influential financial movers. Such as Calvin Woodriff, who dropped five twenty-dollar gold pieces into the pot in reply to Hardin’s raise.

Poker face was a term invented for Woodriff’s expression as well as for that of Woodriff’s fellow banker, Samuel Jonson, who saw the hundred and raised another twenty five dollars. Each man’s conservative nature governed his playing as it did his business transactions. Their betting would quickly dwindle if their hands offered little opportunity of quick, easy returns.

Count me out. Jack Coulton, a St. Louis merchant, tossed in his cards with a disgusted grimace. That wasn’t a hand. It was a foot!

A hundred and twenty-five dollars, James Talkington said as he tossed in the bills needed to stay in the game. The railroad man’s brown eyes rolled to Chance.

With four kings securely nestled in a hand, those of lesser experience might have eagerly matched the bet and raised once again. Not so with Chance Sharpe, whose livelihood flowed from the spin of a wheel, the toss of ivory dice, or the deal of shuffled cards.

For the past ten hours he had watched and scrutinized the six men seated at the table with him. The slightest hint of the royalty contained in his hand would send them running. The situation required quiet dramatics and not a raise.

Chance lifted his cards from the table and fanned them wide once again. For several seconds he studied those crowned faces, as though uncertain of what course to take. He then rubbed a hand across the rugged features of his face.

When his eyes lifted, they moved over the faces of his fellow players. Only when he paused to study his hand again did he take a hundred and twenty-five dollars from the money before him. He handled the bills as though their weight equaled their value as he placed them in the pot.

Willard Carr matched the bet, as did the others whose original bets were short of the wager.

Seven hundred and fifty dollars. Chance mentally tallied the amount already in the pot. His fellow players were obviously intent on making this last hand interesting.

Cards, gentlemen? Jack Coulton lifted the deck from the table. Having folded, the merchant was relegated to the sole role of dealer for the hand.

Carr took two cards, as did Hardin. Chance assessed their hands as simple pairs or three of a kind, at best.

Calvin Woodriff requested a single card. Woodriff might be possible trouble, Chance thought, realizing he would have to rely on the banker’s conservative streak to drive him from the betting if the man didn’t draw the card he sought.

In turn, both Samuel Jonson and James Talkington called for two cards. Chance mentally evaluated the men’s hands at no better than three of a kind while he tossed away his own useless deuce and lifted the single card Coulton dealt him—an ace of diamonds.

Woodriff’s cold gray eyes contained the hungry leer of a wolf as the banker watched Chance once again close his hand and place it on the table.

He drew the card he wanted. Chance recognized the killer gleam in Woodriff’s eyes. The gambler also realized that his own hand eliminated the possibility of Woodriff holding a royal flush. Only a straight flush could beat the four kings.

Would Woodriff pay a hundred twenty-five dollars to draw to a straight flush? the gambler puzzled.

Another race of excitement coursed along Chance’s spine. This exhilaration—not the money involved—was what brought him to the gaming tables. To win or to lose, the sweet seduction of that delicious uncertainty provided a heightened sense of life the gambler found unequaled in any mortal sensation—with the exception of the passion shared by a man and a woman.

Far too many years had passed since he last savored the tantalization of a high-stakes wager. A senseless war that threatened to destroy a nation had kept him from his chosen profession, from his long love affair with lady luck.

An opening door to the left dissolved Chance’s silent revelry. Two waiters dressed in red coats and black trousers maneuvered a small cart topped with a silver coffeepot and cups into the smoke-filled hotel room.

The coffee and sweetcakes you requested for breakfast, Mr. Woodriff, said the older of the two, a narrow-faced man with graying temples.

You may serve us when we finish this hand, Charles, the banker answered. Woodriff then tilted his head toward Chance. All of us deserve a final opportunity to win back a portion of the money we’ve lost to Captain Sharpe this night.

The waiter nodded his acceptance of the delay and glanced at his younger companion, a muscular youth of no more than twenty years, with a mop of curly blond hair that was overdue for an appointment with a barber’s scissors. Edward, I will remain and serve these gentlemen. There are other duties to which you should attend.

Edward’s gaze nervously darted over the table, lingering for a moment on Chance and the winnings piled before him. Then the young waiter hastily retreated from the room, an expression of relief washing over his face.

While Charles closed the door behind his companion, Chance’s attention returned to the business at hand. Samuel Jonson reopened the betting with an additional twenty-five dollars. Again Chance merely saw the wager when the betting moved around the table to him.

Not so with Calvin Woodriff. The banker met the twenty five and raised another fifty. His eyes locked to Chance’s as he placed five ten-dollar bills atop the growing island of money at the center of a sea of green felt.

Jonson saw the raise, but James Talkington folded and tossed in his cards. When the betting progressed around the table to him, Chance bumped Woodriff’s raise another fifty, bringing the pot to a total of eleven hundred dollars, the richest hand of the night-long poker game.

Both Willard Carr and Tom Hardin threw in their hands. However, Woodriff refused to back away from the increasing stakes. He matched the fifty and sweetened the pot with an additional hundred, a move that drove Jonson from the game.

It seems only you and I remain, Captain Sharpe, Woodriff said, the hint of a sly smile at the corners of his mouth. What will be your pleasure, Chance?

The time for feigning past, Chance drew five twenty dollar bills from the stack before him on the table and tossed them into the pot. I see your hundred... Again his hand went to the neatly arranged pile of bills, ... and raise you five hundred.

The corners of Woodriff’s uplifted mouth drooped; his Adam’s apple bobbed with decided doubt.

Chance’s pulse doubled its tempo. Should he have played out a bit more line before trying to sink the hook?

Five hundred, Woodriff repeated with a slight quaver in his voice.

The banker’s gaze dipped to his own money pile. He then stared at his hand as if to make certain the cards had not somehow transformed since the betting had resumed. Slowly, his left hand reached forward and counted the needed five hundred. I’ll call you, Captain Sharpe.

In a single fluid motion, Chance’s right hand reached out, scooped up his cards, and spread them face up on the table. Four kings and an ace stared up at the banker.

Woodriff’s body sagged for a moment. Then the banker straightened himself and tossed down his own hand. A jack and four queens, the mates to Chance’s kings, smiled at the gambler, declaring him the winner of the two thousand three hundred and fifty dollars piled in the center of the table.

A well-played hand, Chance, Woodriff said with no hint of malice in his voice as he waved to Charles, who still stood by the door. I hope you’ll give us the opportunity of a rematch in the near future.

Perhaps in a month or two I’ll oblige you. Chance pulled in the pot and quickly calculated his winnings for the evening—five thousand dollars—a small fortune in the post-Civil War United States. But, for now, I’d like to get back to the business of just living.

Any plans for the future, Captain Sharpe? This from the railroad executive James Talkington.

Only two at the moment, Chance replied while accepting a cup of coffee and a honeyed roll from the waiter. "The first is to never hear ‘Captain’ used in front of my name again. The second is to catch the riverboat New Moon, which departs for New Orleans at ten this morning."

Forget that you were a captain in the glorious Union Army? Willard Carr questioned. Surely, you’re proud of your army service. You and other brave men prevented the Southern riffraff from tearing our country apart. I’d think that you’d be honored to carry ‘Captain’ before your name.

To quell the disgust he held for the munitions dealer, Chance drained half the coffee from the silver cup, placed it on the table, pushed his six-foot frame from the table, and rose. When he spoke, his words came clear and calm: "I did what I thought was the right thing, Mr. Carr. But I’m not proud of it. What man could find pride in the things he’s required to do in war? And as for the Southern riffraff, I’m Kentucky bred and raised."

A flush of crimson touched Carr’s cheeks. The overweight man’s mouth opened, but whatever words he intended to say were left unspoken, lost in a hard swallow.

Gentlemen, the hour is late, and I have a business meeting to attend in the space of a few hours. Samuel Jonson spoke to break the heavy silence that settled over the hotel room. Cap—Chance, I wish you luck on whatever business endeavor you may undertake, and look forward to our next meeting across a poker table.

Chance shook the banker’s extended hand, then turned to the remainder of his evening’s companions. And I must also say my farewells. With luck, I’ll be able to catch a few hours of sleep before my boat leaves this morning. With a round of handshakes and well-wishing from the rest of the players, Chance turned and left. A long flight of curving stairs at the end of the hall outside the room brought him to the hotel’s ornate lobby. Last evening when he entered, the lobby had been a-bustle with the gentlemen and ladies of St. Louis dressed in their finest. Now, a single clerk dozed in his chair behind the registration desk.

That was as it should be, Chance thought as he stepped from the hotel onto the empty city streets. The only light other than the stars and moon above was the yellow glow of an occasional whale-oil street lamp. Last evening belonged to another day now, consigned to the past for five hours.

Five thousand dollars! His night’s earnings once again pushed into Chance’s mind while he paused to study the pale gray of predawn on the eastern horizon. The amount was more than he had expected to amass