Chance 2: Riverboat Rampage (A Chance Sharpe Western)

By Clay Tanner

Riverboat owner, gambler and ladies' man Chance Sharpe gets word of strange goings-on up on the Mississippi by Craddock's Bend. Several boats have disappeared behind mysterious fogs ... spirits are haunting the riverbanks. it all seems like hogwash to Chance-until his own boat, Wild Card, falls victim. Chance means to get to the bottom of this phantom foolery...with an able and wiling Cajun spitfire by the name of Karin at his side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Jul 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463044643

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

Book preview

Chance Sharpe gets words of strange goings on up on the Mississippi River by Craddock’s Bend. Several boats have disappeared behind mysterious fogs … ghostly spirits are haunting the riverbanks.

It all seems like hogwash to Chance—until his own boat, the Wild Card falls victim. Chance means to get to the bottom of this phantom foolery … ably assisted by a Cajun spitfire named Karin at his side.

CHANCE 2: RIVERBOAT RAMPAGE

By Clay Tanner

First published by Avon Books in 1986

Copyright © 1986, 2018 by Clay Tanner

First Edition: July 2018

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovane

Series Editor: Mike Stotter

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with Lana B. Proctor

This one’s for Mary, Hap, Barbara and Tom—siblings all.

Chapter One

Ghosts haunted New Orleans. Dark things rising from man’s superstitious past clawed from graves of slime and mud. Specters of tormented souls flew above the surface of the meandering waters of the Mississippi River. Vicious Phantasmas descended upon the delta to dine on the flesh and blood of the living.

At least in the imaginations of the residents of the Crescent City.

A shuddery shiver worked its way up and down the spine of riverboat gambler Chance Sharpe. Fear lay at the core of that sensation, but not of imagined phantoms swimming from watery graves at the river’s bottom. His fright stemmed from the ease with which civilized men and women shed their cloaks of rationality to court madness.

Beneath skeptically arched eyebrows, his cool blue eyes surveyed the crowd that gathered on New Orleans’s wharves. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finest they might be; however, Chance sensed an undercurrent of insanity moving through man and woman, uniting them in near mass hysteria.

Craddock’s Bend is where they all occurred, he heard a passing man in a stovepipe hat say to a companion.

The same undeniable hint of terror he detected in the man’s voice he also found dwelling in the tone of a stern faced matron who waggled a finger at the two young beauties at her side: Ghosts of river pirates are what some say. Horrible demons seeking revenge against those who still travel the Mississippi. No one is safe even if...

... and my uncle’s business partner was aboard the first riverboat that sank, a young man in his early twenties explained to a bright-cheeked, wide-eyed girl of no more than eighteen years. He said that he saw things floating in the fog. He heard their bloodthirsty cries as they attacked the...

Everywhere the gambler turned, ghosts dominated the conversation of those gathered on the wharves. The madness wasn’t simply infectious; the citizens of New Orleans threw open their arms and embraced it!

A dry chuckle came from beside Chance, and an amused smile spread over the lips of New Orleans attorney Philip Duwayne. The young lawyer’s brown eyes lifted to the gambler. I knew accepting you as a client would add a bit of spice to my life, Chance, but I never expected anything like this! I thought that we came here to see the finish of a riverboat race. Now I find that it’s ‘haints’ that truly occupy everyone’s mind.

I did come to see the race! Chance grunted with a decided lack of enthusiasm for the topic of conversation. He had five thousand dollars riding on this race!

Letting his friend follow as best he could, the gambler wove through the crowd toward the end of the wharf, where a gentleman with a goatee, dressed in a white linen suit, leaned on a gold-headed cane and puffed a long black cigar.

Chance smiled; this was Walter R. Milan, owner of one of the two competing paddlewheelers, the Virginia Promise. The two of them had a hefty wager on the conclusion of the St. Louis-New Orleans race between Milan’s sidewheeler and the stern-wheeler, the Beeman’s Rose.

Ghosts, riverboats, and Craddock’s Bend? Philip huffed in short breaths behind the gambler. What’s all this about, Chance?

Hocum. It’s all hocum to amuse the feebleminded, Philip, he answered without glancing back at the young lawyer. You don’t fit that category, do you?

Just an interested citizen, the attorney said with a laugh.

Chance paid him no heed, only tipping his wide-brimmed hat in greeting when he reached Milan, a man who stood but an inch under the gambler’s own six-foot height. Good morning, Walt. It’s good to see that you remembered our appointment.

Milan exhaled a thin stream of blue cigar smoke, then opened his coat slightly to reveal a bulging envelope within his breast pocket. He smiled when Chance touched a similar lumpy bulge beneath his coat – an envelope stuffed with five thousand dollars!

A weighty matter you’re carrying around, Chance, Milan said. A burden that I will be only too happy to relieve you of before the morning’s over.

Before Chance could reply, Milan glanced at the still chuckling attorney. Confusion clouded the riverboat owner’s features. The gambler quickly made the introductions.

After a round of handshakes, Milan grinned and said: "It’s good to have a man knowledgeable of the law to witness our transaction this morning. Hate to have Chance claiming I robbed him when my Virginia Promise comes steaming across the line first! Sometimes it’s hard for a fellow riverboat owner to understand how they’ve been beaten in a fair and honest race!"

Fellow riverboat owner... Milan’s phrase echoed through Chance Sharpe’s brain, his own thoughts stumbling for an instant. He was that – a riverboat owner – he had to remind himself. The title still felt new and slightly awkward.

Recently, Chance had found himself seated across a poker table from one of the slickest card sharps he had ever encountered, riverboat owner Tate Browder. After nights of losing to the man, Chance had discovered that Browder deftly manipulated the deck by marking his decks with an ink only visible through the blue-tinted spectacles he wore.

Faced with the reality of there being no honest way to beat the man, Chance had taken the only avenue open to him: he had defeated Browder at his own game with a palmed hand. A victory that had brought him the ownership of the luxurious side-wheeler the Wild Card.

In spite of the fact that he had had to repeatedly fend off attacks on the paddlesteamer and himself before finally defeating Browder, Chance still found it hard to believe that he actually owned the boat. After all, he was, above all else, still a man courting a life-long love affair with lady luck!

... hard to believe? The concern in Walt Milan’s voice brought Chance from his reflections. The riverboat owner’s head turned from Philip Duwayne to stare at the gambler with his right eyebrow arched. I find nothing hard to believe about the sinking of three steamers at Craddock’s Bend during the past month.

It’s not the sinkings I don’t believe, Chance answered, picking up the string of the conversation. It’s the reports that the three boats were attacked by ghosts that I can’t swallow. I’m not a child to be frightened by tales of the boogeyman.

Nor am I. Milan nodded and stroked his beard thoughtfully. And the same can be said of Tom Greene, the pilot who was at the sticks of the Florabelle when she went down at Craddock’s Bend. Yet, I heard with my own ears Tom swear that it was haints that took his boat. Phantoms that rose out of the water and fog to set his boat afire.

More likely the pilot’s blood was afire with whiskey,

Chance mused, but kept his thoughts to himself. He was here for a riverboat race, not to debate the possible existence of supernatural beings.

"This from the pilot at the Florabell’s wheel?" Philip questioned with an interest that surprised the gambler.

As I said, Tom Greene was working the sticks, Milan repeated. "And I’ve talked with crew members and passengers who were aboard the Lanatia and the L. S. Shiner. All said the same thing..."

Chance looked to the river in an attempt to ignore the nonsensical recountings. But neither the Virginia Promise nor the Beeman’s Rose was in sight: Milan’s words refused to be ignored.

... skeletons walking the main deck, eyeless skulls flying through the air – and more! Milan continued eagerly. "A friend of a friend said that he was trying to abandon the L. S. Shiner when a bony hand grasped his shoulder – there was nothing attached to that hand!"

And all these sinkings have taken place upriver at Craddock’s Bend? This from the young attorney.

Philip – Chance made no attempt to contain the exasperation in his tone – don’t tell me that you believe these fairy tales meant to frighten children? Ghosts, walking skeletons, a disembodied hand – it’s ridic—

Philip waved him to silence, and Milan sternly glared at the gambler in reprimand. Chance shrugged, rolled his eyes in disgust, then pulled off his hat and ran fingers through the strands of his raven black hair. Grown men with rational minds simply didn’t stand around talking about phantoms!

Always at Craddock’s Bend during the night – and when the fog cloaks the river, Milan began again. It’s always the same. Things move out of the mists and the paddlewheeler’s suddenly ablaze. Warning whistles scream out to mingle with the unholy cries of the attacking demons, and the boat’s abandoned.

Chance tugged the hat back on his head and impatiently glanced up the river. When a man had five thousand dollars

riding on a single race, he didn’t want to listen to nonsense.

Has anyone died in these sinkings? Philip continued, cross-examining the riverboat owner.

Milan nodded gravely. Ten people is the count to date. All drowned, pulled under by the river’s ghosts. Some say that those lost souls have joined the ranks of—

The wail of steam whistles cut Milan short. The white-suited riverboat owner’s head jerked up, and his gaze homed on a bend in the river. Again the blasting whistles blared, a high-pitched steam fanfare to announce the approach of the two paddlewheelers. Craddock’s Bend and its haints momentarily forgotten, the crowd gathered on the dock turned its attention to the dark clouds of smoke visible above the trees lining the riverbank.

Chance’s mood had changed radically by the third wail of the steam whistles. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, setting his temples pounding. This moment of rushing excitement was what had set his feet on the path of a gambler’s life, what kept him at the poker tables and roulette wheels. Money placed on a wager was merely the marker a man used to tally his fortune – or misfortune. The risk of winning or losing was the sensation that he savored!

There she is! Milan shouted. His right arm stabbed a finger upriver. Kiss your five thousand good-bye, Chance!

Chance’s heart doubled its pace. Milan’s Virginia Promise nosed around the bend with her smokestacks billowing a thunderstorm of black clouds. The steamer’s pair of paddlewheels mounted midship to each of her sides churned the Mississippi’s muddy water into a frothy white.

Is it over so easily? Chance’s stomach sank. A sternwheeler was usually no match for a side-wheeler, but Captain Bertram Rooker and Pilot Henri Tuojacque, both of Chance’s own Wild Card, had assured him the smaller boat would give the Virginia Promise a run for her money. Where’s the Beeman’s Rose?

Wordless, Chance watched the white form of the Virginia Promise round the bend. The boat’s steam whistle screamed steadily now as the ship raced toward the finish line two miles ahead of her prow.

Still the Beeman’s Rose was nowhere in sight!

Chance swallowed a curse before he could utter it. There, cutting through the wake of the larger craft, came the sternwheeler on which he had wagered a small fortune.

Henri Tuojacque’s prediction echoed in Chance’s mind: The Rose’s pilot’s a sly one. Not by power; but by wits, he’ll take the Virginia Promise.

A cloud of swirling black smoke poured from the Beeman’s Rose’s two smokestacks in a sudden gust. The smaller steamer’s single stern wheel appeared to triple its churning. Abruptly, the smaller craft swung out and edged beside the side-wheeler.

In the space of seven heartbeats it shot ahead!

The crowd came alive! Shouts and cries of excited delight filled the air, nearly drowning the blare of the river-boats’ whistles.

Wits! The hollowness in Chance’s stomach evaporated. The pilot at the wheel of the sternwheeler had lulled his opponent in the pilothouse of the Virginia Promise into believing the Rose incapable of greater speed. With a mile separating it from the finish line, the small vessel had gained a full length on the more powerful steamer.

Walt Milan’s face drooped. Shock robbed his features of color. The impossible was occurring. A sternwheeler was going to beat his majestic Virginia Promise!

Or was it?

Chance’s temples pounded with renewed vigor. Had the Beeman’s Rose made its homestretch move too soon?

As though giving birth to a hurricane, greasy, black smoke poured from the