Cameron's Law

By Harry Sholk

Matt Cameron likes being a federal lawman, and he's good at it. But an unexpected transfer from Wyoming to Oklahoma Territory was the last thing he needed.

On arriving in his hometown to investigate an Army payroll robbery in which three soldiers had been murdered, he runs into the same attitudes that had driven him away sixteen years earlier. His father, Pete Cameron, a well-respected cattle rancher, has never forgiven him for leaving without a word. Under orders to conduct his investigation in secret, Matt has no choice but to endure Pete's constant badgering. But where is his breaking point? It had been a long time since any man had gotten away with humiliating him.

To add to his difficulties, the town ne'er-do-well, Billy Butler, also has some unfinished business with him. This state of affairs only strengthens his resolve. Never again will he pay, with feelings of shame and guilt, for the mistakes of his youth. The long overdue showdown with his father and Butler will be the first order of business following the investigation's conclusion ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 15, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469757162

Harry Sholk

After receiving a BSME degree from Norwich University, Harry Sholk spent his 33-year career helping to develop small rockets and munitions for private industry and the U.S. Army. Complementing his vocation has been a life-long interest in the history of the American West. Mr. Sholk is retired and resides in New Jersey.

Book preview

ONE

A horse and rider towing a pack mule moved in slow, labored steps across the Wyoming countryside. It was a spring day with just enough sunlight poking through the cloud cover to penetrate the early morning chill.

To stay awake, Matt Cameron tried focusing on anything the trail could offer up—a rock, a broken wheel, and now and then a solitary flower—as he made his way toward Cheyenne, some two miles to the west. Overhead, three buzzards, lured by a lifeless human form across the mule’s back, kept a close watch.

By the time Cameron reached town, his winged followers had abandoned their vigil in favor of more profitable pleasures. He unloaded his cargo at the undertaker’s and headed for the U.S. Marshal’s office.

Glad you’re back, Matt, Deputy Finn said, glancing up from a stack of wanted posters. Any luck finding the Ross brothers?

Cameron dropped his saddlebags and settled into the chair behind his desk. I caught up with one of them, but he forced my hand; he’s down the street. Did anything important happen while I was gone?

Not so’s you’d notice. Except for a drunk who tried to break up one of the saloons, we haven’t had any ‘guests’ at all. Oh, I almost forgot. The Widow Harris was here. She brought you a food basket and then made a comment about bachelors not always eating right. I took it over to your house.

The widow’s gesture exemplified the affection the townspeople felt for Cameron, who had been a widely respected lawman for ten years. In protecting the people of Wyoming, he and others had ended the careers of countless criminals. It was enough for him to be proud of his profession. Unlike a lot of men, he had no interest in pursuing wealth; he possessed a fortune of another kind.

Tom, I’m going to duck out for a while. My clothes can stand up by themselves and I need a hot bath. See you in a couple of hours.

The rest of the day was spent catching up on paperwork—never his favorite pastime, but it kept him out of the saddle for a while.

When Cameron got to the office the next morning, Finn had news for him. Matt, Clem Ross is holed up twenty miles from here at his girl’s place. According to a drifter named Anders, Ross says you’re going to pay plenty for killing his brother. He’s waiting for you there.

Where’s this Anders fellow now?

I got him on ice out back.

Cameron poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He’ll keep a while. On the desk in front of him was an unopened telegram.

When did this arrive? he asked.

A few minutes ago.

Cameron stared at the contents. Finally, he looked up. Damn!…This really cuts it!

What’s wrong?

Everything’s fine.

Uh huh.

Don’t you have more posters to look at, my friend?

Suddenly Cameron pushed back in his chair. Sorry, Tom, but it looks like I won’t be able to accommodate Mr. Ross any time soon—They’re transferring me to Oklahoma Territory.

Oklahoma Territory? Isn’t that where you grew up? How much time do they give you to get there?

Not enough, Cameron said, crushing the telegram in his fist.

Finn pushed the posters to one side. I know my neck’s way out on this one, Matt, but in all the years we’ve been friends, you hardly mentioned Oklahoma. Maybe now’s a good time to talk about it.

Cameron nodded, but old habits are not easily broken.

First it was Scotty, and now you. Finn went on, the party’s breaking up fast.

Cameron smoothed out the telegram and reread the last sen-tence—Delay en route to new assignment not authorized. There’d be little time for putting his personal affairs in order. He got to his feet, started for the door, then turned toward Finn. You don’t need my lousy company, Tom. I’ll be back in time to relieve you for lunch.

The anger was still with him late that evening as he made his final rounds. Cheyenne had been his home for the past sixteen years—half of his life—and he wasn’t ready to leave, especially when the Wyoming District needed more, not fewer, deputy marshals. Why had Oklahoma suddenly become so important to his superiors? he wondered.

The next morning, after tracking down the people he figured to miss the most, he stopped at the churchyard to pay his respects to one or two others, now departed, who, over the years, had cared enough about a certain headstrong kid to protect him from his own foolishness. Minutes later, Cameron boarded his train.

The trip to Guthrie, the territorial capital, took a couple of days. Cameron checked into the first decent hotel he came across. A bath and a change of clothes later, he left the hotel to meet with the governor at the Oklahoma Building.

The governor’s deep concern over the matter at hand scuttled any chance Cameron might have had for catching up on lost sleep. After the meeting, he returned to the hotel. Then, he went to the railroad station, where he caught the 10:15, heading south, for the final leg of his trip.

For more than an hour, the train sped through endless miles of rolling hills. Soon, familiar landmarks began to appear in rapid succession. Cameron turned from the window. He watched as the conductor moved from seat to seat, punching tickets, and listened to the laughter of some children about to challenge their parents’ patience. A few minutes later, the conductor’s spiel burst through his thoughts, announcing the end of his journey.

BOULDER CANYON…BOULDER CANYON…HOME OF FORT ROBERTS. Watch your step getting off, folks, and enjoy your stay.

Turning back toward the window, he caught the first glimpse of his hometown since his hasty departure long ago. The main drag, State Street, with its wooden frame buildings, sloped upward from the train station, past Johnson’s Livery on the right and the blacksmith shop on the left. The imposing Boulder Canyon Bank stood at the Bleeker Avenue intersection. Directly opposite the bank were the inviting doors of what he remembered as the town’s only saloon. But the sign, Tiny’s, indicated a change of ownership.

Gone now was the soul searching that had preoccupied him since the whole business began—displaced by a premonition of imminent calamity. The part of his life that had been frozen in time for so long was about to move forward again, like the restarting of a long-dormant timepiece.

He collected his belongings and followed the other passengers into the hot midday sun. After crossing the platform, he headed up State Street.

What’s your pleasure, mister? the outsized bartender asked. Cameron tossed a quarter on the bar.

I’ll have a cold one. After surveying the scene before him, he parked himself at the nearest table. A few feet away, a piano player was doing his best to be heard above the din. On the other side of the room, a red-haired barmaid navigated with admirable agility among the tables.

The other patrons—with one exception—had taken little notice of him. The exception was a grizzled old man who kept looking in his direction. The man’s face had that distortion peculiar to those whose gums must do the job of their long lost teeth. Time had taken its toll, but Cameron recognized him—Ray Bennett had worked for his father for many years.

The smell of hot chili soon turned his attention away from the old man and toward the free-lunch counter. But Bennett must have been hungry too; both men reached the counter at the same time.

Begging your pardon, young fella, but ya look familiar, Bennett said. You’re the spittin’ image, give or take a few years, of a kid I used to know. I worked for his pa back then.

Hi, Ray, how’ve you been? Yes, I’m Matt Cameron, and it’s been more than a few years since you busted my ass with ranch chores.

Good to see ya, boy. You were always a strong kid—and big for your age—so ya never had no trouble with the work. And it looks like ya growed a sight more since then.

And you were the best foreman around; what are you doing these days?

I was at the Circle C until about eight years ago, when I broke my leg. Your pa, bless him was kind enough to put me on light duty, but when I couldn’t pull my load no more, I started drinkin’. Now, I mostly pick up odd jobs like muckin’ stalls and cleanin’ up for Tiny there. Have ya been out to the ranch yet? No? Well, Pete’s gonna have a calf when he sees ya! He never got over the split, ya know.

After they filled their plates, Bennett followed Cameron to his table. I see ya still don’t like guns, son. Well, a man’s gotta be able to protect hisself in case of trouble—don’t know what I’d do without my pal here, he said casting an affectionate glance toward his ancient leather holster. The gesture made the younger man uneasy, as he thought of his own Colt packed away in his bag. His derringer would have to do for a while, the bulge it made in his vest being almost unnoticeable.

The old man, always a talker, looked like he was gearing up for a long gabfest, but Cameron was too quick for him. It’ll take me some time to get settled in, Ray, so I’ll be moving along, he said, getting to his feet. Good seeing you again.

On the street, Cameron began to regret the encounter. No doubt his past was going to catch up with him soon, but Bennett’s penchant for running off at the mouth could bring it on that much quicker.

At Murphy’s Boarding House, he went directly to his room, took off his hat and coat, and was soon fast asleep. Sometime later, he was awakened by loud chatter from the floor below. It was then that he remembered Murphy’s reputation for preparing the best food in town.

The hostess led Cameron through the main dining room to a windowless alcove where the noise level was surprisingly low. As he began to relax and enjoy his surroundings, Cameron found himself looking forward to a pleasant dining experience. He reached for the menu just as a waiter placed a bottle of red wine in front of him. I don’t believe I ordered this, Cameron said. Somebody must have made a mistake.

It’s complimentary, sir, courtesy of the owner, Mr. Murphy.

Minutes later, a small, bespectacled man approached the table. I have the right person, don’t I? he asked. You are Pete Cameron’s son?

Nice to see you after all these years, Mr. Murphy. You look pretty much the same. Thanks for the wine…and please join me. Murphy definitely had something on his mind.

I’m sure you remember Billy Butler. Well, it didn’t take him long to get the word that you had come back home. Since then, he’s been shooting off his mouth about unfinished business. Rumor has it he had something to do with your leaving town in the first place. I thought you should know.

Thanks for your concern, but if I know Billy, he won’t lose any time in telling me what’s bothering him. Meanwhile, let’s have a drink to friendship. And then you can recommend something for a hungry man.

"The steaks have been real good this week, especially the T-bones.

You read my mind. I’ll have one, well done—the bigger, the better.

Later, outside Murphy’s, Cameron took in the night air. It was after ten. Except for people entering or leaving Tiny’s, the street was deserted. He thought about another visit to the saloon but dismissed it as a bad idea—Butler was sure to be there. It’d been a long day and it was catching up with him—no need to complicate it further. Tomorrow or the next day would be soon enough to run into that son-of-a-bitch.

He went back inside, picked up a copy of the local newspaper, and climbed the stairs to his room. After checking his bag to make sure his Colt was still there, he read most of the paper and turned in. Lying in the darkness, he began to mull over the governor’s words.

’Welcome back to Oklahoma Territory, Marshal. I apologize for having you moved on such short notice, but we’re faced with a bad situation. About a month ago, an Army payroll wagon on its way to Fort Roberts was robbed and its three-man escort murdered. The crime took place between Boulder Canyon and the fort. And according to your personnel file, you were raised in that locale—a fortuitous happenstance, because little attention will be paid to a former resident visiting his family.’

Maybe he’d been away too long. More than likely, his family had adjusted to his absence. He told himself he had a job to do, no matter what happens at the ranch. Besides, it made more sense at this point to concentrate on something he could control. He forced himself to recall more of what the governor had said.

’The official Army inquiry is underway, but the investigation will actually be conducted jointly, with your organization in charge. An agent from the Army’s Judge Advocate General’s Department is already in Boulder Canyon. Now, I don’t have to tell you that multiple-agency investigations can be trouble. The potential for jurisdictional disputes is high, and, as you know, important things have a way of falling through the cracks. Nevertheless, this is top priority—Washington wants it understood that anyone who robs a federal component will face swift and severe punishment. And one more thing, Marshal. Some very ‘knowledgeable’ people are responsible for this crime, so don’t confide in any of the townies unless you absolutely have to. From now on, you’ll report directly to the attorney general here in Guthrie; he’ll tell you how to contact the Army agent. And be sure to send your family a telegram. No surprises. Good luck.’

Cameron got up and walked to the window. In the dim moonlight, the buildings across the street were barely visible. As he leaned out, the night air hit him like a splash of cold water, clearing his head. Sleep finally came around sunrise, but before he knew it, the town’s morning sounds woke him—the blacksmith’s hammer, passing buckboards, and, again, the hotel dining room’s chatter. He got up, dressed, and had breakfast.

Boulder Canyon in 1907 was no longer the town of his youth— change was everywhere. The business area had been enlarged and modernized. Several merchants were catering more to women than before. Cameron took note of two dressmaker shops, a store selling only