Chance City Beginnings: Part One
Robin Deeter
Chance City Beginnings
Part One
Robin Deeter
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Other books by Robin Deeter
Chance City Beginnings
(Prequels to Chance City Series)
Part One
Part Two
Chance City Series
Mail Order Mystery
Mail Order Mystery Audio Book
Mail Order Mystery Print Book
On the Fence
Crossroads
Gray Justice
When the Thunder Rolls
And the Lightning Strikes
The Paha Sapa Saga
Sacrifice and Reward
Sacrifice and Reward Audio Book
Sacrifice and Reward Print Book
Winter Moon
The Bear, Part One
The Bear, Part Two
The Phantom Horse Bridge Series
Phantom Origins Book 0
Phantom Heat
Wolf Junction Series
Silver Bell Shifter
Dedication
For my readers, who have made The Chance City Series such a success: You constantly inspire me with your support, love, and friendship and I appreciate you more than I can adequately express.
After being asked many times how Chance City began, I decided to write a prequel to the series. As everyone knows, I always take my fans’ wishes into consideration and accommodate them if possible. So, I hope you enjoy this short story, which is the first part of a series of stories about the origins of Chance City.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
Chapter One
In the initial days of Chance City, it had barely been more than a crossroads. These are the chronicles of how it grew into a thriving town and the stories of its early inhabitants…
Lone Wolf sat on a high bluff, his heart deeply troubled as he looked down on the large Comanche village below. The scents of cooking fires and savory meat dishes reached his nostrils every so often, borne on the late August breeze that toyed with his loose, black hair streaked here and there with silver.
To the east of their camp was an area designated for the horses, of which there was a vast array. Paints, sorrels, bays, and blacks all roamed around, grazing or resting. Beyond that patch of land began a large expanse of forest, in which he’d hunted all of his life. He knew every trail that wound through its wooded interior.
Even as he gazed upon the numerous painted tipis and watched his relatives and friends move between the conical structures, even as he smiled at the sight of a gaggle of children running toward the horses, sadness settled deep into his being.
His home, the place where he’d been born and raised, where he’d met and fallen in love with his wives, and where their children had been born, would soon be no more. The United States of America had declared this area part of the Oklahoma Territory and they were moving the Comanche to a reservation, their band included.
They had fought the white eyes, but to no avail. There were simply too many of them. No matter how many white warriors they killed, there were always more to take their place.
As he watched his people move about the camp, Lone Wolf thought about his wife and three children. Although the children were now grown, he still looked after them and guided them. He pictured them living on a reservation and a wave of nausea swept through him at the image.
They’d heard about the deplorable conditions in which the Indians were forced to live: starvation, suicide, and degradation was the norm there. Lone Wolf wouldn’t allow that to happen to his family. Somehow, he would find a way to escape going to the reservation.
He thought about his eldest child, Cotton. A smile spread across his face as he remembered how Cotton had gotten his nickname. His original name had been Fire Eyes, given to him for the fierce light in his eyes during battle.
However, his wife, Yellow Dawn, had let it slip to one of her friends that his touch could be as soft as the down of cotton. She’d told a friend that she called him that in private as a term of endearment. Her friend had told her husband, who had then passed it along to one of his friends.
Much to Fire Eyes’ chagrin, word had quickly spread through the tribe and soon everyone was calling him Cotton. Instead of giving in to the anger this caused him at first, Fire Eyes had turned it into a positive, saying that he didn’t mind if everyone knew that his wife was a well-loved woman.
Lone Wolf’s smile dimmed as his memory shifted to the loss of his daughter-in-law and two beautiful grandchildren. Influenza had taken them and Cotton’s zest for life. That had been six months ago, and Cotton had turned bitter and reclusive. He’d given up his medicine man apprenticeship and hardly talked to anyone.
Lone Wolf feared that if his family went to the reservation, there was a good chance that Cotton would wind up committing suicide. His depression was already deep, but if his freedom was taken away, he would no doubt sink farther into the well of agony. Their family had not only lost Yellow Dawn and Cotton’s children, Little River and Soft Rain, but Lone Wolf’s second wife, Star Woman.
She’d been a white captive, but Lone Wolf and she had quickly fallen in love. He’d married her and she and his first wife, Brown Rabbit, had become sisters and had never been jealous of each other. Star Woman had given Lone Wolf his youngest son, Screaming Wind, and his daughter, Darting Doe. These losses would be felt forever, but all of the family except Cotton, were trying to move on and look to the future.
Lone Wolf didn’t know how he would accomplish it, but he vowed to save his family from being herded onto a reservation. Rising, he mounted his fine horse and headed for the little town called Chance. There wasn’t much to it: a general store, church, bank, blacksmith, a saloon, and a small sheriff’s office rounded out the locale.
A few homes dotted the two main streets. The business from the ranchers in the area kept the stores and other enterprises open. There was talk of building a school, but it hadn’t happened yet.
Lone Wolf knew all of this because he’d made friends with a few of the men in town. He frequented the Chowhound Saloon, playing cards and socializing. The French and English fur traders whom their tribe had befriended had taught many of them how to play poker and other card games. He’d become an excellent player and greatly enjoyed gambling. Whatever money he won was used to buy flour and other staples to supplement his family’s diet since game was getting scarce.
As he cantered along, Lone Wolf enjoyed the smooth, powerful gait of his big, bay stallion. A few years ago, he’d stolen a Thoroughbred mare from a couple of English travelers, which he’d used to improve his own horses by breeding his best stallion with the mare. The stallion he now rode was a product of that union.
The Comanche were arguably the best horsemen of all the Indians and Lone Wolf was no exception. Even more so than other men, he had excellent instincts about horse breeding. Like his Comanche tribesmen, Lone Wolf became an extension of his horses when he rode as one with his beloved equine brothers.
The stallion carried Lone Wolf with ease and soon they rode into town, turning right at the small square, and trotting down the dusty street. The town was fairly busy. Some of the people glared at him, while a few smiled and waved. Whether or not they liked him, the townspeople were getting used to Lone Wolf.
Arriving at the Chowhound, he tied his horse to the hitching post and went inside. The owner and bartender, Calvin Anderson, sent him a little wave. “Well, there’s my favorite Injun.” Calvin’s warm tone and broad smile took all the sting out of the normally derogatory term.
Lone Wolf chuckled as he sat on one of the bar stools. “How’s business?”
Even though he and his band had learned some English from French and English trappers, Lone Wolf kept working on it with Calvin and his brother, Rob, the newly appointed sheriff. He was determined to completely master the white man’s language and fully understand their customs. Increasingly, he realized that fitting in with their culture would be very useful for many reasons.
Calvin poured him a beer. “Not bad. Can’t complain. How’s the family?”
“Fine, thank you.”
As they talked, some men came into the saloon and walked over to the bar.
“Hey, aren’t you the Indian that beat my buddy at five card stud last week?” one of them asked.
Lone Wolf eyed him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Roger Bakersfield.” The man held out a hand to Lone Wolf.
Instead of grasping arms with Roger, Lone Wolf shook his hand the white man’s way. “Lone Wolf.”
“Well, Lone Wolf, can I interest you in a game of cards?”
“Yes.”
Roger ordered a bottle of whiskey and motioned to one of the rough-hewn tables. The Chowhound had only been in operation for a few years and there was nothing fancy about the place. The one-story, wooden structure resembled a barn in construction and included a large barroom, a small apartment and storeroom through a doorway behind the bar, and two rooms built out from the far wall where a couple of soiled doves entertained men.
Lone Wolf sat down with Roger and his two buddies, taking the man’s measure as he shuffled. By the way Roger handled the cards, Lone Wolf surmised that the other man was a skilled, confident player, and he looked forward to competing with a worthy opponent. Roger’s fine clothes also told Lone Wolf that he was a man of means.
The game began and it was a friendly competition accompanied by good-natured ribbing. The Indian was surprised that Roger and the other two men, Lenny and Buck, were so accepting of him. As the game wore on, Buck and Lenny’s luck didn’t hold, and they dropped out. Lone Wolf and Roger faced off. Roger became irritated when Lone Wolf kept winning most of the hands.
However, he stayed in the game until he ran out of money. Lone Wolf thought the game was over and started putting his hefty winnings in the pouch he wore at the waist of his buckskin tunic.
“Wait, wait,” Roger said, a determined gleam in his brown eyes. He pulled a thin packet of papers from his jacket pocket. “This is the deed for my land and I’m willing to play you for it, if you’re game.”
Lone Wolf’s scalp tingled, and he realized that the solution to his family’s dilemma was looking him in the face. Whites craved money and land, foreign concepts to Indians. However, Lone Wolf was learning their ways and understood the great value of what Roger was wagering.
“Yes. I am game.”
Buck leaned toward Roger, a worried look on his gaunt face. “Are you sure you wanna do that, Roger? You’re taking a big risk.”
Roger scratched his chin, scruffy with five o’clock shadow. “Yeah, I’m sure. I won’t lose.”
Buck knew from Roger’s tone of voice that he wasn’t going to change his mind. “Okay. Suit yourself.”
As they played, Lone Wolf took his time placing his bets. The stakes were too high to be hasty and make a mistake that would give Roger the advantage. Lone Wolf kept his expression neutral, giving away nothing to his opponent. When Roger called, he revealed a pair of kings, ace high. With a smile, Lone Wolf laid down a straight flush.
Roger’s face turned red, and he swore a blue streak while he pounded the table.
Buck said, “I tried to tell you.”
“Shut up,” Roger snapped and glared at Lone Wolf. “I can’t believe I got beaten by an Indian, but a bet’s a bet.” He pushed the deed across the table to Lone Wolf. “It’s all yours. It’s a big chunk of land and includes a very nice house. I was going to plant wheat and corn to start a feed mill. Not now, I guess. What are you going to do with it?”
“I do not know. Will think something.” Lone Wolf knew exactly what he was going to do with the land, but he wasn’t announcing his plans right then.
Lenny piped up. “Roger, I don’t think he can own land. He don’t even have a Christian name.”
Lone Wolf scowled at the way Lenny talked as though he wasn’t sitting right there. “Yes, I have a Christian name. Charles Lone Wolf.”
Roger snorted. “Charles Lone Wolf. Well, if that doesn’t beat all? Where’d you get that name?”
“A black robe named me. Come to … camp and gave many of us names.” He shrugged. “It is good name.”
“I guess it’s as good as any,” Roger said. “Congratulations. The better man won—tonight. We’ll play again, my friend.”
Lone Wolf smiled and shook the hand that Roger held out to him. He felt bad for Roger. Picking up the deed, he tried to read it. However, since he only knew the rudiments of reading, much of it was incomprehensible to him. “How much land?”
“Three hundred acres.”
Lone Wolf’s black eyebrows rose above his dark eyes. He understood numbers and three hundred was a large sum. “That is much land.”
“Yeah,” Roger agreed dejectedly.
Lone Wolf realized that having some more white friends in the area would be beneficial to his family. “You meet me here …um…next day, tomorrow. When sun is high in sky.”
Roger’s brow puckered as he met Lone Wolf’s dark gaze. “Meet you here tomorrow at noon? Why?”
Lone Wolf nodded as he finished gathering his winnings and put them in his pouch. “You show land to me. I give you some.”
“Why the heck would you do that?”
Lone Wolf tapped his chest. “I not greedy. Good to have friend by me.”
Roger laughed. “You mean that you want be my neighbor?”
Lone Wolf grinned. “Yes. Neigh-bor. Friend.”
The gregarious Indian was too hard to resist. “All right,” Roger said. “If you’re sure?”
“Yes. I am sure. Noon tom-or-row. Goodbye.”
He left and Roger stared after the tall Indian for a few moments. “Never thought I’d be neighbors or friends with an Indian. This should be interesting.”
That night, Lone Wolf told his family about the land he’d won and what he was planning for them all.
“We will begin packing in the morning and prepare to move as soon as possible. I do not want to leave that land empty for too long. Someone might try to take it.”
Cotton’s midnight eyes shone with anger. “No. I will stay with our tribe. I will not desert our people.”
Lone Wolf said, “I would prefer to stay, but the white eyes are going to put us on a reservation to die. We are not powerful enough to fight them off in battle, but there is another way we can defeat them. We must adopt their ways and must stay free to do that. I will not let my family go to that place of death and be treated worse than dogs.”
Lone Wolf’s wife, Brown Rabbit, said, “If this is what you think is best, then that is what we will do. I do not want to go to the reservation. Please tell my oldest son that he should reconsider his hasty decision and listen to his father.”
Cotton’s response was to let out a sarcastic snort and leave the tipi. His younger brother, Screaming Wind, said, “I will go with you. I will go talk to my brother and make him see that moving with us is the right choice.”
Screaming Wind found Cotton on the steeper, far side of the high bluff overlooking the camp. Although the bluff was a popular place where many in their tribe liked to go to think or pray, Cotton preferred the more secluded spot that was harder to reach. Less people were likely to disturb him there.
“If you have come to talk about Father’s crazy plan, save your breath,” he said as Screaming Wind came into view.
His brother pursed his lips. “You must see the wisdom in what he is saying. You are just unwilling to see how things are changing and that we must change with them.”
Cotton’s fists clenched where they rested on his lap. “I see all too well how things are changing. I have lost my wife and children, my home will soon be taken away, and my family wants to give in to the white man’s will! That is what I see, but I will not give in to them.”
Screaming Wind ignored his brother’s fury. “What I see is a way to beat our white enemies by playing by their rules.”
This perplexed Cotton. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it with clear eyes instead of ones clouded by anger. Father is right about this. If we raise horses to sell to the military, they will depend on us for mounts and horses to pull their wagons. They will not have a choice but to accept us. They will not like us, but they will need us.”
That idea appealed to Cotton. Constantly being a thorn in the white man’s side would be entertaining and a crafty way to exact revenge. He grinned at Screaming Wind. “Perhaps you are right. I will think about it.”
Screaming Wind nodded. “Good.” He walked from the bluff, giving his brother privacy.
Cotton rested back on the springy grass. Evening had fully fallen on the land now, and the stars dotted the inky sky with glittering pinpoints of light. The large moon sat low in the sky, just starting on its nightly sojourn.
Gazing at the heavens above him, Cotton wondered if his wife and children were among the Star People, looking down at him. He felt the familiar sorrow and loneliness wrap around him. At this time of night, he would’ve been telling his son and daughter a last story before his wife made them go to sleep.
He smiled, remembering the sound of their laughter and the way their dark eyes had sparkled when he’d teased them. He remembered the passion he and Yellow Dawn had shared, the way she’d come alive in his arms when they’d made love. His craving for her hadn’t diminished, and he wondered if it ever would.
Bitterness rose, hot and powerful in his chest, and he thought that maybe his brother was right. White man had brought death to his family and so many of their people in various ways. This move could give him the perfect opportunity to return the favor, even if it was on a smaller scale. The moon rose higher in the sky. Cotton lay long into the night, thinking of ways to annoy and agitate his enemies. And he thought of plenty.
Chapter Two
Standing on a slight rise in the ground, Lone Wolf and his family looked out over the land he’d won from Roger Bakersfield two days earlier. While most of it was flat, there were sections that gently rolled toward the horizon. A sizeable house stood off to their left. The white and black house was ugly to the Indians, but they were all willing to acclimate themselves to living in the box-like structure.
All except Cotton, that was. His upper lip curled as he gazed at it, finding it as offensive as any other such dwelling.
“I will not stay in that place,” he announced.
Lone Wolf cut a sharp glance at him. “Yes, you will. This is all part of our plan, and you will cooperate.”
Cotton gestured at the house. “Why must I stay in that to exact my revenge?”
Lone Wolf walked over to his son. “Because we need to fit in and living in tipis will not make us fit in. I know that you are not dense. You are just being stubborn.”
“When is he not stubborn?” Screaming Wind commented.
“Father, may we go see the square tipi?”
Lone Wolf smiled at his daughter, Darting Doe’s, enthusiastic expression. His youngest child possessed a curious nature and saw the good in everyone. “Yes, daughter. We will go look at it.”