Sweet Surrender

The Gambling Table

Lanes Tavern, 1870

Nervous green weary eyes looked at the card in his shaky palms. It was his chance to win back his losses if luck was on his side. The pile of coins in the middle of the table continued to grow as the game played on until the wee hours of the morning. To his amazement, the tavern had thickened with more drunken sopps that it could hold and smoke to fill it.

Every so often, boisterous laughter followed by soft giggles could be heard in the distance. Finally, old man McGill leaned forward, shook his head folded, and left the table. The quiet voice of reason which clawed at Oliver Chenoweth's impulsive nature like a tick, told him to fold his hand, fold and get the hell out of there before he got more lost with his footing in his grave he was digging.

But, another voice-the one he listened to more and that currently because of it, he lost his estates in Dower, His manor in Stanfield, a large some of his savings and now possibly...the clothing on his back...

Beads of sweat now formed on his head as he looked at the men before him. Reynaud Locksley, The Tons most ruthless gambler, sat with confidence as two players took their losses and left the table. Leaving him to face Oliver alone.

Oliver looked nervously at his cards.

"Any day now, Chenoweth," Locksley drawled impatiently, blowing his cigar smoke over the table.

Slowly with trembling hands, he played his cards on the table. Eyes wide with fear, Chenoweth watched his opponent let out a boisterous laugh and laid his cards eloquently on the table for all to see: An Ace, King, Jack, ten of hearts and the card that sealed Oliver's fate, the queen of hearts.
A murmur rose around them, along with gasps and quick whispers.

Slouching in defeat, now penniless, he continued to stare dumbfounded at the red queen that smiled back at him.

He watched Reynaud lean forward and eagerly began to pipe out his winnings, and because Oliver lost so much, he gambled away everything in his possession. Tonight, he lost the one thing he chanced at his poor luck.
His daughter

The cowardly and weak man caved under the weight of pressure and ambition of trying to win it all back, but he lost so much in the process.

Sputtering, he sat up in haste and began to beg for another chance to win it back. But his pitiful plea only got a mocking laugh from the men around him.
"Oh! Give it up, Chenoweth," Reynaud laughed.

"Look at you, man, at least you're leaving with your dignity intact....your poor now.....but nonetheless alive," he puffed his cigar.

Reynaud's smile soon turned serious as he leaned forward; he spoke in a lethal tone.

"I expect her here tomorrow, Chenoweth," he warned.

Oliver swallowed hard and looked around nervously.

"Locksley, please, can we not settle this another way? She is just a child," he pleaded, his eyes beginning to see with tears.

Shaking his head with a devilish grin, he answered.

"A deal is a deal, Chenoweth."

He sat in disbelief at what happened.
Tired of seeing him there, he dismissed Oliver, and when he didn't budge, he ordered his men to toss him out of the tavern.

His pride beaten, and now he must hand over his daughter. Stricken with grief, he began to walk his way through the streets, lost in these thoughts; the emotions he was going through was taking a toll on him as he walked further, his breathing increased, and his heart spends heavily in his chest his view became cloudy, and a sharp pain began in his chest.

Slowly he began to undo his shirt as he tripped unbalanced. In waves, the pain in his chest radiated to his arm that now began to throb and become numb. The pain became unbearable as another wave coursed his body that he held his chest again and crouched over. Barely able to stand, another surge of pain finally rendered him weak, his knees gave away, and he slumped to the ground.

The next wave of pain rendered him immobile.

Oliver Chenoweth lay face up in the street near death's door; his eyes blinked slowly at the stars above him. The agony and pain continued before he took his last breath; he cried out in pain, barely able to breathe, his chest tight as if it was being crushed by tons of brick, he whispered.
"Forgive me, my sweet Evangeline, forgive me" slowly, his eyes glazed over, and Oliver Chenoweth was no more.