“It’s really him! That’s James Cameron!”
“We don’t have no weapons, Mr. Cameron.”
Hank Marley bobbed his head. “We heard you were in town, asking where Miz Ward lived. We came out to meet you so’s someday we can tell our children that we shook your hand.”
“Turn around slowly.” Cameron kept his palm on the butt of his right pistol and narrowed his eyes into slits, staring hard as they turned for his inspection.
Curious, Della set aside the shotgun and walked into the yard. Hank Marley and Bill Weston glanced at her and nodded, but she held no more interest for them than if she’d been a scarecrow. They studied Cameron as if memorizing his face, his expression, the way he stood with his boots braced and his hands near his guns.
“Is it true what that book said about the shoot-out in Dodge City?”
“Did you really bring down Kid Krider with one shot?”
Excitement raised their voices and the questions tumbled one after another. “Did you catch the Martin gang in Deadwood before you started bounty hunting, or was that after?” “What’s your preference, sheriffing or bounty hunting?” “Was you nervous at all when you faced down the Colt brothers in Laramie?”
Della stared, flabbergasted, as it dawned on her that James Cameron was famous. And apparently not comfortable with fame. He stood stiffly through the barrage of questions, silent, his face tight and his eyes chilly and distant. When Hank Marley and Bill Weston ran out of questions that weren’t receiving answers, Cameron thrust his hand forward, gripped their palms, then turned without a word and strode toward the barn.
“Goddamn,” Hank Marley said, looking down at his hand. “We just shook with James Cameron!”
“Nobody’s gonna believe this. We stood right here and shook his hand!” They grinned at each other.
“Excuse me,” Della said as they walked toward their horses. “I . . . you say someone wrote a book about Mr. Cameron?”
They stared at her in disbelief. “Don’t you know who that is?” They saw her bewilderment. “James Cameron is about the most famous lawman in the West, that’s all.”
“He’s cleaned up a dozen towns, brought in more outlaws than you can count. Damned right there’s a book about him. A couple of ’em. Wish I’d had the nerve to bring mine and ask for an autograph.”
Eagerly they told her about vicious outlaws either imprisoned or dead by Cameron’s hand. Related notorious shoot-outs and acts of foolhardy courage, until it began to look as if they’d still be standing there talking a week from Sunday. Della raised a hand to stop the stories, her head reeling.
“James Cameron don’t care if he lives or dies,” Hank Marley said, marveling, “and that makes him invincible.”
Bill Weston nodded. “Them who fear dying hesitate just a fraction when the fear bites down. Cameron, now, he don’t ever hesitate.”
They stared toward the barn roof, watching the sun glint off Cameron’s side arms as he spit a nail into his palm and swung the hammer.
The two men looked at each other, then Weston urged in a low voice, “If he’s staying a piece, you best warn him about Joe Hasker.”
Della listened, then watched the men ride out of her yard. When they were out of sight, she turned toward the barn, studying Cameron’s profile against the sky and considering what she’d learned. His name was James. And he was a legend. A man whose hand other men wanted to clasp so they could say they had.
Shaking her head, she returned to her kitchen to clean up breakfast and continue her chores.
Now she knew what he’d been doing since the war. James Cameron had been a sheriff and a bounty hunter. Very likely he was one of those things now, for all she knew.
In the West, people glorified the gunslingers and killers on both sides of the law. Journalists heaped notoriety on the thugs who rampaged across the territories, wreaking mayhem and murder, and they created heroes out of the hardened men who gunned them down.
She was still trying to sort it out when Cameron walked toward the house for his noon meal, wiping sweat from his forehead. He paused beside her kitchen garden, glancing at her faded work dress and the old saw-toothed man’s hat she wore.
“Pumpkins?”
Della pushed her garden knife into the ground and came to her feet beside a pile of weeds. “I don’t have much use for pumpkins. But growing anything in this soil is hard work, so I like to grow something where you have a big thing to show for it when the season ends.”
For the first time, he smiled, and Della went still with surprise. He looked like a different man, so handsome that her heart tripped over itself. Until now, she hadn’t imagined that his mouth ever relaxed or that the chill could leave his eyes.
“What do you do with all those pumpkins?” The number of blossoms on the vines promised a bumper crop this year.
She shrugged. “I give them to the school, and to the church ladies. I guess they make pies, or bread. I’ve never asked. Whatever’s left, I feed to my old sow, Betsy. But she’s not too fond of pumpkins, either.” Her tomatoes, corn, potatoes, onions, peas, carrots, and beans kept her through the winter. But it was the damned pumpkins that she sweated over most and took the greatest pleasure in growing. “I had one last year that weighed over forty pounds,” she said, walking toward the rain barrel.
She washed her face and hands, then stepped aside for Cameron. “I didn’t know you were famous.” She mentioned two of the stories Marley and Weston had told her. “Are those exploits true?”
He took the towel she handed him and dried his face. “The basic facts are true. The details are mostly embellishments to sell books.”
“Do you make money from the books?” Realizing she’d asked a rude question, she hastily backed away. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have asked that.” Maybe it was a blessing that she seldom had visitors. She wasn’t fit for polite company.
“The publisher sends a bank draft a couple of times a year,” he said, looking at the pink on her cheeks. “I never asked for those books to be written, didn’t want it, and never spoke to the lying son of a bitch who wrote them.”
It was the most heated speech he’d made since he’d ridden into her yard. Maybe some of the West’s notorious gunslingers welcomed fame, but James Cameron clearly was not among them.
Silently they entered the house, and Della dished up the ham and beans she’d been simmering since breakfast, watching him from the corner of her eye. He wandered into the sitting area and examined a doll’s dress in her sewing bag, then picked up one of the school primers on top of a small bookcase.
“Your dinner’s ready,” she said, putting a plate in front of what she already thought of as his seat. After he flicked the napkin across his lap, she told him about Joe Hasker. “He’s a troublemaker, Mr. Cameron. He’s been in and out of jail since he was no bigger than a tadpole. Everyone knows Joe Hasker will wind up in prison or swinging from the end of a rope.” Cameron didn’t seem to be paying much attention. “Marley and Weston asked me to warn you that Hasker’s talking about how he’d like to be the man who outdrew James Cameron.”
He nodded and buttered a second square of cornbread.
“Mr. Cameron, I know about Joe Hasker. This isn’t an idle warning.” His indifference upset her. “Marley and Weston think Joe Hasker intends to kill you!”
His smile stopped the words in her throat. “Every town has a Joe Hasker, Mrs. Ward.”
Flustered by his smile, she frowned down at her plate. “That doesn’t worry you? Believe me, Mr. Cameron. Joe Hasker is a problem.”
“A problem would be if Monk Sly rode into Two Creeks.”
“Who is Monk Sly?” Della gave up on the beans and ham. Unlike the man sitting across from her, she couldn’t talk about gunfights and dying and continue to eat as if they were discussing something as bland as chickens.
“Monk Sly murdered two men and a woman in Fort Worth. Sly swore he’d kill me before I could take him back to be hanged.”
Della threw ou
t her hands, staring at him. “So there are two men out there right now who want to kill you?” No wonder he wore his pistols at the table. It wouldn’t surprise her to hear that he wore them to bed.
Cameron shook his head. “I caught Sly. He’s in jail in Fort Worth. I’d hate to see that one escape.” A shrug lifted his shoulders, and he turned his attention back to his dinner.
Della couldn’t believe it. Marley and Weston were correct. James Cameron didn’t care if he lived or died. Men like him didn’t expect to see old age.
The realization shocked her until a second thought crept unwanted into her head. Did she care if she lived or died? What did the future offer but loneliness and hard work? Looking ahead, she saw years of sweating in the hot sun to raise pumpkins she didn’t want. Saw herself growing older as she sat alone on her porch and watched the empty road. There was no future for her, only the past. Maybe she understood Cameron better than she’d imagined.
“Will you be leaving Two Creeks soon?”
“Not immediately. I still have some unfinished business,” he said uncomfortably, as if he expected her to pry into what his business might be. “As soon as I finish patching the roof over the hay, I’ll leave for town.”
Picking up their plates, she carried them to the sink and scraped hers into the slop bucket, disappointed that he hadn’t come to North Texas solely to find her.
“You can stay here if you want,” she said, keeping her voice light, as if it made no never-mind to her where he decided to stay. “No one can ride out here without being seen and heard. You wouldn’t have to worry that Joe Hasker or someone like him is coming up behind you.” If, indeed, he did worry about being ambushed. She suspected he didn’t. More likely he relied on instinct and skill and left the rest to fate.
“That’s a generous offer, Mrs. Ward,” he said after a period of silence. “I’m obliged.”
“I’m sure a bed would be more comfortable than a haystack in a leaky barn. But I’ve eaten at the hotel, and unless things have improved, I can promise you better cooking.”
She heard the scrape of his chair behind her and felt him watching her. “I never thought of you as being a cook.”
It surprised her greatly that he’d thought of her at all. Then she remembered her wedding photograph. “When that photograph was taken,” she said, pumping water into the dishpan, “I didn’t know how to make a pot of coffee. After the slaves ran off, I learned fast; it was that or starve, which we almost did anyway.”
Raising her head, she looked out the window. “There was an old man named Dough who didn’t run off, bless him. He helped with Mr. Ward, who we thought was dying, and he brought meat every few days. God only knows what kind of meat. I never asked. Didn’t want to know. He found wild onions, too. Dough taught me how to make stew, and we stayed alive.”
“Put in enough salt and almost anything becomes edible.”
Della nodded. “After the war, we moved to town and Mrs. Ward hired a maid. The maid wasn’t much good at anything except cooking. That woman could cook. By then I knew that cooking was a good skill to have.” She shook her head and plunged her hands into the soapy water. “Turned out that I like to cook.”
But cooking for one was like an actor reciting to an empty theater. “So you’ll do me a kindness if you stay. I can practice dishes I haven’t tried in a while.”
He said something about her place needing work and excused himself. And no wonder. She was babbling. He’d made a simple comment and she’d responded by going on about how and where she’d learned to cook. Another few minutes and she would have started quoting recipes. Disgusted with herself, she washed and dried the dishes and then put a roast in the oven for supper. Later this afternoon, she’d make a pecan cake with vanilla frosting.
But right now she needed to assure herself that she wasn’t dreaming. Hurrying to the bedroom, she eased back the curtain and peeked toward the barn, hoping he didn’t see her. He was back on the roof, making those good sounds with the hammer. And he wasn’t leaving.
Lowering her head, she whispered a prayer of gratitude, absurdly pleased that he’d stay a few more days. She had expected him to ride away after answering her miserably few questions. Heaven hadn’t given her the answer she craved, that Clarence had forgiven her, but heaven had granted her a visitor as a brief token of consolation.
Chapter 3
Artillery bombarded the grassy field, tearing up the earth and pinning him in the adjacent trees and brush. Separated from his men, frustrated, he scanned the exploding dirt and stones and considered making a run for the north end of the field, estimating his chances for surviving the hail of explosives. Not good, he decided.
He didn’t know which side was firing on the clearing, but the decision was ill conceived. Some overzealous officer had directed his men to destroy an empty field.
All right, attempting to dodge the artillery was suicide. He’d wait out the bombardment, and try to second guess which direction the battle had swung and where his unit might be.
Cursing, he moved deeper into the trees, looking for a ditch or gully where he might pass a few hours in relative safety and comfort. Once settled with his back against a mossy embankment, he set his rifle aside and rummaged in his jacket, looking for the stub of a cigar that he’d poached off the company cook.
Before he lit the stub, he rose carefully and scanned the trees, searching for figures darting through the brush. For all he knew, the battle had shifted and he could be sitting behind enemy lines. A tree splintered and fell near the edge of the field, but he didn’t spot any movement in the undergrowth.
He lit the cigar and leaned his head back against the embankment, listening to the explosions erupting behind him. Everyone said the war would end soon and this would fade to just a memory. They’d all be going home. He planned to sit in a hot tub for a day, then sleep for a month.
The ground shook beneath him as artillery brought down another large tree. What irony it would be if he got killed or maimed when it was almost over, after having survived this long with nothing worse than minor flesh wounds. Those were the deaths hardest for families to bear, those that occurred when the end was near. That was a misery his family would not have to bear as he was the last surviving member of the Boston Camerons. His parents were gone. Last year his sister Celia had died in childbirth.
He was remembering Celia when he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.
Over the years, Cameron had spent countless hours studying Clarence and Della Ward’s wedding photograph. Della Ward had occupied his thoughts as he rode across miles of empty prairie or sat before a solitary campfire. He’d propped her photograph on a succession of bureaus in a succession of boarding houses in the succession of rough and rowdy towns where he’d worn a badge. Occasionally during his long drift through the West, in the later years, he had sometimes fantasized that she was his and waiting for him to come home.
He knew every nuance of the girl in that photograph, both real and fancied. The curve of her cheek and breast were as familiar as his own palm. He knew exactly where her hair had caught the photographer’s light, could describe her gown in every detail.
At various times he had read innocence or idealism in her gaze; confidence, apprehension, or vulnerability. The shape of her lips suggested sensuality waiting to be awakened, spoke of sweetness and tender smiles. Other times he saw dreaminess in the shape of her mouth and chin.
The way she leaned slightly toward Clarence told him that she was dependent and in need of protection, a malleable woman-child eager to please and be cared for. A woman raised to be cherished, to bring gentleness into a man’s life.
Her letter to her husband had seemed to confirm his judgement of her character. He’d grasped her bewilderment and desperation in every pen stroke. Had seen the young bride floundering beneath demands and fears and responsibilities that nothing in her experience had prepared her to cope with. Even on his first reading, Cameron had understood the impulsiveness of
her plea for help and her momentary flash of resentment and hatred for the man who had abandoned her to an overwhelming situation. He’d guessed that she had regretted the letter almost at once.
The sound of the dinner bell interrupted his reverie, and he drove in the last nail, then climbed down from the barn roof. It had taken three days, but the job was finished. Surprisingly he’d enjoyed the physical labor and sweating under the Texas sun. It occurred to him that he might like a place of his own someday.
The thought made him smile as he walked toward the rain barrel at the side of the house. Men like him didn’t settle down. If he needed a reminder, all he had to recall was the steady trickle of men riding out here to take a look at him or shake his hand. So far, the calls had been harmless. But he was aware that the next man who rode into Della Ward’s yard could be the one who lusted for a footnote in history stating that he was the quick shot who had killed James Cameron.
“It’s hot in here,” Della called through the kitchen window. “Must have reached close to a hundred degrees today, plus I’ve had the stove going all afternoon.”
The water from the rain barrel felt cool on his face and neck. “Whatever you’re cooking, it smells good.”
“Turtle soup and a shepherd’s pie. Baked apples for dessert. I thought we’d eat on the porch. It’s cooler outside than in here.”
She smiled at him through the window, her expression uncertain, as if she didn’t smile often. A lock of damp hair lay pasted to her cheek, her face was flushed with heat.
Only hints remained of the girl in the photograph.
The rounded plumpness had vanished, leaving behind interesting angles and sharper definitions. He doubted her dark hair had felt the crimp of a curling iron in years; she wore her hair simply now, coiled in a knot on her neck. Sun and weather had drawn faint lines beside her mouth and across her brow. Soft pampered hands had become rough, reddened, and calloused.
Her lips still impressed him as sensual and hinting of mystery, but sharp words could fall from her mouth. This was no longer a dependent girl seeking to please and be protected. The most noticeable change, however, lay in her hazel eyes. Sadness had matured her gaze, as deep as the earth.
Prairie Moon Page 3
