Chance 11: Gold Fever

By Clay Tanner

When riverboat gambler, Chance Sharpe tracks his missing brother Wyatt to the wilds of West Texas, they stumble on an opportunity that’s just too “golden” to pass up. The key to a conquistador’s dream ... an ancient Indian treasure mountain! All that stands between them and the legendary loot is an Apache war party, a crazed prospector, and a treacherous underground maze which could lead to the glittering kingdom of gold ... or to Kingdom come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Dec 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463990858

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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The Home of Great Western Fiction!

When Chance tracks his missing brother Wyatt to the wilds of West Texas, they stumble on an opportunity that’s just too golden to pass up. The key to a conquistador’s dream … an ancient Indian treasure mountain! All that stands between them and the legendary loot is an Apache war party, a crazed prospector, and a treacherous underground maze which could lead to the glittering kingdom of gold ... or to Kingdom come.

CHANCE 11: GOLD FEVER

By Clay Tanner

First published by Avon Books in 1988

Copyright © 1988, 2019 by Clay Tanner

First Digital Edition: January 2020

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

In memory of Ray Files and a discussion of the Seven Cities of Cibola amid stacks of pulp magazines and superhero comics.

Chapter One

A rush of excitement shot through Chance Sharpe. His pulse increased its tempo, and exhilaration hastened the rhythm of his breathing.

The latter he kept under careful rein, aware of the six other men at the table watching him out of the corners of their eyes for any hint of what might be hidden in his hand. Outward appearances were at least half of the game he played. The name of that game: poker.

The exhilarating excitement he savored thoroughly as he glanced at the five cards fanned in his hand. His first taste of that sensation came at age fifteen, when the call of the gaming tables had drawn him to them. In the years that had passed, he had never grown complacent about that feeling. It was as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his veins; it had led him to a life as a professional gambler aboard the riverboats steaming the country’s waterways.

Kings and fives. Chance noted the two pair and the lone ace of diamonds in his hand. He had held stronger hands tonight, he considered as he pulled a slender black saber cigar from his coat’s inside pocket, lit it, inhaled deeply, and exhaled the smoke in a thin blue stream. He also had held weaker ones—and managed to win with both. He mentally ciphered the odds of drawing the needed king or five to bring the hand to a full house. Eleven to one.

The gambler’s cool blue eyes lifted from his hand and scanned the six men seated with him at the rough-hewn table. All studied the five cards they had been dealt. Chance’s gaze drifted idly around the El Paso cantina.

Dark almond-shaped eyes met his, lingered long enough to convey unspoken interest, then coyly darted away as though not wishing to speak of over eagerness. Those alluring deep brown eyes, as well as the pleased smile on those red lips, belonged to a curvaceous barmaid named Maria, whose last name Chance had yet to hear since entering the cantina three hours ago.

A smile of his own uplifted the corners of the gambler’s mouth while he watched the young, black-haired woman cross the cantina’s main room, balancing a round tray loaded with four mugs of beer and three glasses of mescal. His attention centered on the brief glimpses of well-turned calves revealed by the lively swish of her multicolored skirt and the bouncy sway of heavy breasts, which were barely contained by the low-dipping white peasant blouse she wore.

Maria’s eyes darted back to Chance for an instant; her smile widened, obviously delighted by the gambler’s gaze. Although neither Chance nor the barmaid had spoken in more than a perfunctory manner, their glances and gazes since he had walked into the cantina whispered promises that would have been cumbersome if given voice.

I’ll open for five. The clink of silver dollars hitting the table punctuated Billy Poole’s words.

Chance’s wandering gaze and thoughts returned to the table. Poole’s gaze lifted to the gambler in defiance. He pushed back the brim of a dust-caked, sweat-stained, round-crowned hat. This time I’ve got you, Sharpe.

Chance resisted the urge to shake his head. The ranch hand, no more than twenty-two by the gambler’s estimation, had no business in a poker game. He had no concept of the game’s odds, nor an understanding of the men who sat at the table. Worse, Poole took his losses as a personal affront, as though the cards were out to get him.

I’ll match that five, answered another cowboy at Poole’s left, who went by the name of Elmer Statton.

I will also see the bet. This from Juan Batista, a well-dressed middle-aged Mexican who had crossed the Rio Grande, or Rio Bravo as those south of the border called the river, in search of a bull to increase the strength of his ranchero’s breeding stock.

This garbage should be buried six feet under. I’m out. Delbert Cassidy, the border town’s telegrapher, tossed his cards face down on the table. He then turned and shouted over his shoulder, Maria, bring me a beer over here when you get a chance. If I can’t play cards, at least I can wet my whistle.

Pate Raymond and George Casort, El Paso merchants, tossed in their five dollars to remain in the game.

Weak hands all around. Chance reevaluated the strength of his own two pair. None of the players had raised Poole’s original bet, which indicated the best they were holding was a pair, hoping to draw cards to increase those pairs to three of a kind. Time to see who’s willing to pay for that privilege.

The gambler lifted five dollars from the money stacked before him on the table and dropped it into the pot. There’s Poole’s five. He counted an additional ten dollars. And I’ll raise another ten.

The bet was the simplest of strategies. He raised the opener to drive those with weak pairs out of the game before they had the chance to draw. Although he eliminated the possibility of a rich pot, the move also was designed to eliminate the possibility of someone drawing a third card to match a pair and ruining his own hand.

The maneuver succeeded; all but Poole and Batista folded. Both men requested three cards from the dealer, a certain signal that they bet on pairs of royalty. Chance discarded his solitary ace and asked for a single card.

Your beer, Mr. Cassidy. Maria’s voice intruded into Chance’s thoughts as he picked up the queen dealt him and slipped it into his hand. The woman’s dark eyes shifted to the gambler as she leaned over to place the telegrapher’s drink on the table. Your glass is empty. Would you like anything?

Chance’s mind wasn’t on a fresh drink as his gaze dipped to peruse the broad expanse of cinnamon-hued flesh revealed by Maria’s movement. The scent of rosewater wafted in the night breeze that entered through the cantina’s open door. He was certain Maria knew exactly what he would like; instead, however, he ordered, Another bourbon.

She smiled, her eyes lingering on him, then answered, I will bring it. With a teasing wink, she swirled around on the balls of her bare feet and hastened to the bartender, who stood behind a bar constructed of three wooden boards balanced atop two barrels.

You ordered your drink, Sharpe, Poole said, glaring at the gambler. You can look at the local sights later. We’ve still got a poker game here. It’s your bet.

Chance acknowledged the cowboy’s brusque reminder with a tilt of his head and once more examined his hand. Poole had to hold jacks or better since he opened the betting. The gambler’s own pair of kings and the ace and queen he had seen accounted for a fourth of the high cards in the deck. Which didn’t eliminate the possibility that Poole had drawn a third card to match his pair. The cowboy’s dark expression, however, did.

Another ten, Chance said, upping the price to stay in the game.

Your ten and ten more. Poole met the bet and bumped the pot.

It is too rich for me. Batista folded his hand.

Your bourbon. Maria returned and leaned across the table to hand the gambler his drink, once more giving Chance a tantalizing eyeful of her feminine charms. That coy little smile returned to her lips as she turned and walked away.

A low whistle escaped Chance’s own lips while his gaze followed the shapely woman across the woman. If Maria had made herself any more obvious, she would have ended up behind bars for indecent exposure.

The game, Sharpe, Poole demanded. It’s ten dollars to you. You gonna play, or gawk at that Meskin gal all night?

Your ten, Chance replied, matching the cowboy’s bet. Then he added in the hope of driving Poole away, And twenty of my own.

The ranch hand’s expression darkened as he stared at the pot at the center of the table and then at the cards clutched in his left hand. You ain’t runnin’ me off that easy. You’re bluffin’. He pushed his last twenty dollars into the pot. Let’s see what you’re holdin’.

Kings and fives. Chance spread the hand atop the wooden table.

Son of a bitch! The curse hissed between Poole’s clenched teeth. He threw his cards down—a pair of jacks and trash.

Chance smiled inwardly; he had read the cowboy’s hand perfectly. Across the room Maria glanced at him and smiled. He openly answered her with a smile of his own while he reached out to rake in the pot. Compared to the winnings he usually collected aboard Mississippi riverboats, the pot’s total wasn’t much, but for a border town like El Paso, it amounted to a small fortune.

I’d leave that money right there, if I was you. Chance’s eyes shifted to Poole, who was scowling at him. But then, you aren’t me.

The cowboy’s left hand slammed atop the pot to block the gambler’s arm. Silver dollars careened across the table and fell to the floor.

You ain’t puttin’ nothin’ over on nobody, tinhorn. Poole’s words came growling from his throat. What’d’ya take us for? Fools? We all seen you and that Meskin bitch all night. She’s been passin’ you signals. Ain’t no other way you could have won all them hands you been winnin’!

Signals? Poole’s outrageous accusation caught the gambler off guard. What had been innocent flirtation, the cowboy twisted into an insidious lie to cover his lack of skill at cards. Better to cry Cheat than to admit incompetence. Damned right, signals! You think I’m stupid? I seen the bitch winkin’ and smilin’ at you—tellin’ you what’s been in our hands!

Poole balled his left hand into a fist and hammered it on the table again. Chance wasn’t taken off guard this time, as Poole’s right hand dropped to the pistol holstered at his hip. Although the gambler carried a sawed-off .44 Colt as a belly-gun beneath his vest and a .22 derringer in a vest pocket, there wasn’t time to go for either before the cowboy freed his six-gun.

In a single fluid motion, Chance leaped from his chair, grasped the edge of the table, and yanked upward. Cards, money, and glasses flying through the air, the heavy table overturned, toppling onto Poole. The cowboy, pistol still snug in leather, went down with a surprised curse spitting from his lips.

The gambler pushed around the upended table while the other players scrabbled out of his path. Poole rolled from beneath the weight that pinned him to the floor. As he flopped to his back, his hand tugged the revolver from the holster.

Chance’s right foot lashed out as the pistol’s barrel snapped up. The toe of his boot smashed squarely into the cowboy’s gun hand.

Poole yowled in pain as his six-shooter flew from his grasp and sailed across the room. But the fight was far from out of him. He pushed himself upward, hate ablaze in his eyes.

Chance didn’t allow him to rise. Instead, he stooped slightly and directed a well-placed blow upon the cowboy’s chin. Poole’s head jerked back, slamming into the floor. His eyes rolled for an instant and then closed as his body went limp.

Giving Poole one glance to make certain he wasn’t feigning unconsciousness, Chance pivoted to face the other players. His right hand rose, ready to free the belly-gun.

Ain’t no need to take on any of us. Elmer Statton stood with both hands extended palms out to the gambler. You ain’t got no fight here.

Chance glanced at the four other men who looked at Poole and then at him. Each nodded to affirm Statton’s words.

Billy gets a might hot under the collar sometimes when he’s been drinkin’, Statton said. If you ain’t got no complaints, I’ll just be takin’ him back to the ranch now while he’s out. Come mornin’ he’ll be ashamed of what he done. He ain’t a bad one, not at heart.

Chance merely nodded in answer. When Statton grabbed his fellow cowboy’s arms and began dragging him toward the door, the gambler glanced over at the remaining players. They simply tilted their heads in a silent good-night and followed Statton from the cantina.

The gambler’s gaze then traveled around the cantina’s main room. The remaining patrons turned from him, giving their undivided attention to the drinks they nursed, willing to treat the incident as something better forgotten. Bending down, Chance gathered his scattered winnings from the floor and stuffed them into a pocket.

When he rose, his gaze searched for Maria. The tantalizing barmaid was nowhere to be found. He shook his head as he stepped toward the door. The woman had sensed danger and fled. Not only had Poole ruined a profitable poker game, but he had ended what had promised to be a pleasurable night before it had ever begun.

What about the broken glasses? the bartender called out behind the gambler. Who’s gonna pay for them?

At the threshold, Chance turned back, reached into his pocket, found three silver dollars, and flipped them to the man. That should more than cover the cost of a few broken glasses.

The bartender didn’t argue as the gambler walked into the warm summer night.

Chapter Two

A night breeze