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Overview
He calls himself Neville. As he rides the lonely desert trail to Commercial City, the sweat on his brow is not from heat, but from knowing what awaits him. For the sake of his family, Neville accepted a grim bargain. When he gets to Commercial City, he will confess to a murder he did not commit.
Neville’s life started out tough and got worse from there. He made his share of mistakes, and never knew a place he could call home—until he met the woman who would become his wife. All he wants now is to provide for her and their children. And he’d give his life to do it. So when a killer offers money for his family in exchange for his confession, Neville accepts his fate…until the sheriff of Commercial City begins to question Neville’s guilt.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781101610589 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 02/03/2015 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 894 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Stone Wallace's career ambitions have taken him along many paths: actor, broadcast announcer, boxer, celebrity interviewer, creative writing and media instructor, and advertising copywriter. Stone finds writing Westerns to be the most satisfying. It is a field he has appreciated and embraced since reading the classic stories of Louis L'Amour, whose works provide an escape back to a time when the lands were clean, heroes and villains were clearly defined, and values were simpler. It is a tradition of storytelling that Stone decided to follow. The author of Montana Dawn, Stone currently resides with his loving and supportive wife, Cindy, who is also an author, as well as storyteller and children's entertainer.
Read an Excerpt
MY GALLOWS HANG HIGH
“You got a name?” he said curtly.
After a brief hesitation: “Neville.”
“That’s it? Neville.”
Neville nodded.
“All right, Neville, now why don’t yuh just state your business?” Rawlins said in a more friendly manner.
Neville breathed out a sigh. “I do have a matter to talk over with you, Sheriff. But—I’d suggest you handcuff me ’fore I say anything more.”
Rawlins regarded Neville with a deliberate look and folded his arms across the width of his barrel-like chest.
“Now why would you be askin’ me to do that?” he said.
Neville hesitated, then focused his eyes solidly on Rawlins and spoke outright the words he’d come to say. “’Cause I’m the man that killed your mayor.”
PROLOGUE
He called himself Neville. Whether that was his family name or the name given him at birth, seldom was he asked and never did he offer.
Where he came from, no one knew. Where he was headed, no one could say. He was looked upon as a loner, a man who neither sought nor welcomed companionship, and a man whose mysterious presence would elicit conversation among the citizens in those dusty dirtwater towns through which he would pass. Saloon patrons would eye him curiously, watching in silence, as he entered the premises, unwashed, unshaven, the denim fabric of his shirt and trousers faded from long exposure to the sun, walking with purposeful wide strides, spurs jangling against the sound of his brisk footfalls, and stepped up to the bar, where he adhered to the routine he observed in each town he stopped in, ordering a schooner of beer with which to wash away the taste of trail dirt, followed by a straight shot of whiskey that he’d toss back in a swift, single swallow, before leaving as silently as he had come and riding off to whatever his eventual destination.
Who was that stranger? the men would then ask among themselves. Cowboys passed through trail towns all the time, and outwardly in dress and appearance there appeared to be little to make him stand out from others, but there was something distinctly different about this lean-faced, tawny-haired man whose brow was furrowed in a perpetual look of concern: an indefinable yet somehow penetrating quality that he carried with him as surely as the six-shooter that rested in his holster—an unsettling presence that captured attention and prompted suspicion.
The man called Neville never failed to notice the stares that followed him, and yet he never acknowledged them. Even with his back turned as he stood at the bar, leg bent with boot resting on the foot rail, he could feel those piercing glares. He minded his own business and expected the same consideration. Most people were obliging, but on occasion someone just a little too curious or whiskeyed up would sidle up beside him at the bar, usually with a friendly offer to buy him a drink, though Neville was wise to the true intent. Neville always declined the offer, with thanks. One glass of beer, one shot of whiskey as a chaser; his order never varied. Only rarely was the refusal of this gesture met with offense, but to avoid the possibility of trouble it seemed all Neville had to do was slowly turn his head and fix his eyes on whoever might attempt to challenge him, and inevitably the man would back down and try to hold on to his dignity as he returned to his table. Neville’s deep-set eyes, of a deep brown color that appeared almost black, embedded in dark, expressionless features, were desolate. Some might assume they were the eyes of a man who had seen too much. Others could say they reflected the soul of a man resigned to death. And that made him a potentially dangerous adversary.
He discouraged any attempt at conversation from barkeeps prone to talk, keeping cordial by responding to a question with either a “yep” or a “no,” but refusing to elaborate. Soon the bartender would get the idea and return to other duties. Saloon girls did not approach the stranger to ask him to buy them a drink. They could sense his aloof, brooding temperament and kept away.
None of his stays in any saloon exceeded ten minutes, but within that short time he stimulated the imagination of the customers. Once Neville strode out the batwings and rode off slowly on his horse, whispered conversation would rise in an excited tempo as drinks were swiftly consumed, prompting more orders from the bar, and theories were tossed about: He was thought to be a gunslinger, an outlaw, maybe even an army deserter or a man on a mission of revenge. While no one could know for sure, all agreed that the stranger harbored a dark, perhaps even a tragic past.
There was a tragedy in Neville’s life, though it existed not in his past . . . but in his future.
—
Neville knew he wouldn’t come upon another town for many a mile. It promised to be a long ride through the sun-baked prairie landscape where grasses were yellow and fields parched, thirsty. The trail was hot and dry and the air still, and he was unable to catch even the whisper of a cooling breeze. He kept the brim of his Stetson tilted low against the glare of the sun. He rode the horse he’d named Daniel at a steady, even pace, so as not to deplete the animal’s strength under the exhausting heat. The horse was old and tired and they had come a long ways together, and still had a fair distance to travel. Neville kept the fingers of one hand draped over the pommel and held his canteen at the ready with his left hand. He drank frequently but not liberally, consuming just enough to sustain him until he reached another creek or stream. As the hot midday sun bore down upon him like a blinding white fireball he had to fight the growing urge to take more aggressive swallows from the canteen, only strong self-discipline preventing him from what he knew was an unwise temptation. He had to keep mindful of the importance of conserving his water until he came to another source—or rode into another town where his thirst would be satiated by a somewhat more potent beverage.
Luck seemed to be with him. As the sun reached its peak and with Neville’s willpower beginning to diminish, he noticed a familiar reflection . . . and what he prayed was not a mirage . . . shimmering under the sunlight in a gully not too far in the distance.
He kept himself steady on the saddle, tracing his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, squinting under the brim of his hat to see if his eyes were merely playing tricks and that the image would fade.
Satisfied that he was not hallucinating, he prepared to urge Daniel forward, but the pinto had also already noticed the little creek and didn’t need guidance; in anticipation of the cool refreshment he picked up his pace toward the free-flowing waters.
Neville gave a slight tug on the reins to slow the animal, then proceeded.
It took a couple of minutes to navigate the slight but rocky descent, but once they were on level ground Neville released his hold on the reins and let the horse tread on alone across the dried mud bank toward the creek. The animal was smart, displaying an intelligence that intrigued Neville. He kept back and watched as Daniel tentatively dipped his muzzle into the water to taste it, testing it as if to give his approval. Neville waited . . . until the horse raised back his head in a strong, abrupt movement, then thrust his muzzle back into the creek to quench his mighty thirst, snorting into the water. Neville watched until Daniel began drawing from the creek, then strode across to the water’s edge, dropping to his belly, and after allowing himself a taste of the water, he slapped off his Stetson and plunged his head whole into the slow-running current, giving his head a vigorous swishing beneath the surface to clean the dust and sweat from his face. When he finally lifted his head and wiped the moisture from his eyes he noticed that his horse was still contentedly enjoying his own refreshment, lapping up water at a leisurely pace.
“That’s right, fella,” Neville muttered as he pulled himself up from his belly and rested on his haunches. “Drink easy.”
Neville knew he had to heed his own advice or risk suffering a bellyache, so he merely cupped his hands and scooped up a couple of small handfuls of water, which he slowly sipped.
The water was cool and clean and Neville swept his canteen through the gentle flow, filling it near to capacity. He rinsed out the canteen, then refilled it, taking a final taste before tightening the cap.
He stood up, brushed back his wet hair, and put his hat back over his head against the beating sun, then placed his hands against his hips and took a slow, absorbing look around his surroundings. He inhaled, then exhaled a long breath and savored the feeling of freedom that suddenly washed over him. As brief as it was, he would keep this memory. He felt good in this little oasis and wished it were possible for him to stop longer to rest. Camp out for the night before heading onward. He sighed again. As much as he dreaded what awaited him in Commercial City he knew he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of a prolonged stopover anyplace. Circumstances—and a bargain he intended to honor—demanded that he keep riding.
His horse had drunk his fill and was standing back from the creek, cropping a small growth of grass. Neville waited until the pinto lifted his large head, and then he walked over and rubbed his hand affectionately along his muzzle. Daniel responded with a nicker and slight rock of his head.
“Okay, fella, time for us to get movin’,” Neville said.
Taking the animal by the reins and tensing the slack, Neville carefully maneuvered them both up the rocky slope back onto the trail.
He mounted the horse and paused just long enough to tip his Stetson back up over his forehead and wipe away the pellets of sweat that had again started to dot his brow. His lips stretched in a slight, self-conscious smile. He wasn’t fooling himself that the perspiration that glistened on his skin was due solely to the heat.
No, he was considering that the next stop on his journey could likely be his last.
And as night rapidly approached, a black canvas overtaking the burnt-orange hue of the prairie sunset, Neville sat with his horse atop a small rise where he noticed the distant dotting of lights, looking to flicker like the flames of tiny candles reflecting against a vast charcoal tapestry. Next to him, at the side of the road, was a wooden sign driven into the dirt whose neatly printed wording confirmed to Neville that his long, slow ride had indeed come to an end:
COMMERCIAL CITY
2 MILES
Now that he had come this far, his destination in sight, he fought back a growing apprehension and, finally, summoning all of his courage, he rode forward with a singular purpose.
Prepared to complete those last couple of miles to enter a town he had never visited.
Arriving for an appointment with a lawman he had never met.
To confess to the murder of a man he had never known.
Some weeks before . . .
Commercial City was a community grown prosperous due to the steady influx of hardworking and enterprising families moving west into the lush green landscape of Gila Valley, a territory rich with fertile grasslands and bordered on the eastern perimeter by Pomosa Spring, which provided plenty of fresh, clean drinking water. Farther west, the valley was watered by the Salisaw River. Families lived in sturdy clapboard houses spread out across the landscape, their properties neat and well maintained and colorfully decorated with flowerbeds and gardens tended to by the housewives.
The town’s primary road, named Archer Street, was built on a slight elevation with wood-framed stores, shops, and other business enterprises standing side by side in a mostly unbroken row, mainly populating the north edge of the road, though there was continued construction activity on the opposite side of Archer Street as further development of the town was encouraged. Currently there was much excitement among the citizens as work had begun on a major undertaking: the building of a theater intended to showcase top entertainment acts from across the country.
Not many years previously the town had existed as a raw boom camp: settlers living in canvas tents and lean-tos, families huddled together for shared warmth against the bitterly cold nights, enduring spare meals cooked over outdoor fires. It was a tough existence, made worse by inevitable illness and death, most particularly among the very young, the elderly, and the physically feeble who had endured much hardship during the long journey west. There were also those who did not survive the journey due to misadventure. One of these casualties was Emmanuel Archer, who lost his life while attempting to rescue a girl who had wandered too close to a river’s edge and fallen into the rushing currents during their trek. Sadly, his valiant act was in vain as the girl also perished, but because of his heroism it was decided that the town’s main road would be named in Emmanuel Archer’s memory.
Yet gradually the town developed as buildings and houses were constructed in a determined community effort. These were God-fearing folk, and the first two structures erected were a church for worship and a schoolhouse for learning. Their credo, engraved on a gold plaque soon to be affixed to the outside wall next to the main entrance of the Municipal Building, proudly proclaimed: Strong of body. Clear of mind. Pure of spirit. Throughout their labors they echoed the battle cry of “Faugh a Ballagh!” (Clear the Way!), and since many of the men were veterans of the War between the States, what they expressed was not a shallow optimism.
A town government had been established; a mayor was appointed by unanimous decision, supported by a council composed of merchants and businessmen. The town sheriff had also been elected by a majority vote, prompted by an enthusiastic endorsement from the mayor. Both men had been leaders in the establishing of the community. The mayor, Thaddeus Ford, possessed qualifications that made him well suited for overseeing the affairs of the town as it strove to live up to its name of Commercial City and gain a secure economic foundation.
The sheriff, Tim Rawlins, was a big, bearlike man whose mere presence inspired confidence in the people of Commercial City. He had worked as a police constable in Philadelphia, establishing a fine arrest record, before accepting the invitation to head west to partake in a new adventure.
With two highly competent individuals handling municipal affairs and law enforcement, Commercial City expanded and, indeed, thrived. Its reputation as a clean, safe community encouraged others to make their home there, and most were received with welcome.
Of course, the growth of the town also attracted more unsavory types who saw the potential for other opportunities. These small groups or individuals who tried to insinuate corrupt methods into the business community were quickly discouraged in their ambitions by swift action from the sheriff’s office.
A town like Commercial City offered another incentive for shady entrepreneurs. Its prosperity and expanding population made it a prime location to scout out with the purpose of establishing gambling parlors and other questionable venues of recreation. It wasn’t long before intriguing wire correspondence led to a meeting between Mayor Ford and agents from San Francisco who claimed to represent an interest eager to discuss a serious business proposal that they assured the mayor would prove beneficial to the town.
Thaddeus Ford was a clever and careful man who through his past exploits and leadership had come to understand human nature, and he became suspicious when he received a final telegram sent during their journey suggesting that they meet in the saloon and discuss the proposition over a few drinks. Thaddeus immediately formed the impression that the true intention of the message was to learn if the town had a saloon. In any case, for the moment he pushed that aside as an unnecessary consideration; he believed it proper and professional that a meeting regarding town matters should be held in his office in the Municipal Building, which held significance not only for its status, but also because it was the only stone-constructed building in Commercial City, situated at the end of Archer Street, bordering the western limits of the town, beyond which lay the farming communities.
When the three associates finally arrived in town by Concord stagecoach, Thaddeus, accompanied by Sheriff Rawlins, was standing at the depot to provide his visitors with an official greeting. After Thaddeus welcomed the gentlemen to Commercial City, he suggested his preference of discussing business in his office—he suggested but did not insist, curious to gauge a reaction from these business agents; upon meeting each personally, he could not quite quell his sense of distrust of them. The associates, however, agreed to the mayor’s request, and a time for their meeting was arranged for later.
That afternoon Thaddeus was affable while maintaining a professional deportment. He poured his visitors a glass of premium imported brandy, while he himself abstained. He opened a decorated box on his desk and offered cigars, which only one of the men accepted. Thaddeus himself did not smoke.
The three men were immaculately groomed and conservatively attired in white shirts with starched collars and suit coats, their brocade vests complemented by either an ascot or cravat. Two had bowler hats, which they rested upon their laps while they sipped at their drinks. When they’d entered the office, the fragrance of bay rum accompanied them, which Thaddeus, who did not favor perfumes or colognes, found rather cloying.
They presented themselves as successful businessmen and exuded an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. When they shook hands with Thaddeus, their grips were dry and strong. The mayor noted this, as well as the maintaining of eye contact when one of them was speaking.
Thaddeus admitted that they introduced themselves most admirably, but that only heightened his intention to stay on his guard. These were clearly skillful men.
The man who called himself George Stadler appeared to be the spokesperson among the group. He also looked to be the oldest of the three, approximately the same age as Thaddeus, but thin- rather than thick-framed, and whereas the mayor’s hair was dark if thinning, Stadler’s own head of hair was full and wavy and silver. He had a mustache and neatly trimmed goatee that gave him the appearance of an academic. The precision of his speech offered another indication as to his education and intelligence. He was sitting at his ease, perfectly relaxed, comfortable in this environment, with his legs crossed in one of the plush armchairs opposite the big second-floor arc window that overlooked the east side of town where the muted sounds of construction on the theater could be heard and through which filtered the midafternoon sun, bathing the brown and rust tones of the office in a warm yellowish glow.
Stadler puffed on the cigar he’d been given, pulling it from his lips and nodding in approval of its fine taste while carrying on with small talk. He seemed initially hesitant if not downright evasive about getting to the point of the meeting, first stressing through carefully modulated tones the various economic considerations to a growing community like Commercial City; Thaddeus quickly realized that Stadler was employing his comments and arguments to cleverly segue into the thrust of the conversation.
Stadler soon confirmed the mayor’s suspicion when he spoke of the financial benefits towns out west were enjoying by permitting the operation of gambling parlors. Thaddeus felt his gut tightening but purposely did not change expression. His first urge was to bring the meeting to an immediate end; instead he held himself in reserve and decided to hear out the whole proposal.
“It’s simple economics, Mayor Ford, that as these parlors profit, so shall the towns where they are employed,” Stadler said. “The additional revenue generated, which should be considerable, would go a long way toward aiding in the expansion of Commercial City.”
“That’s an eventuality, of course,” Thaddeus countered, his features impassive. “A more immediate question would be where do you propose to secure the funds to finance the building of these . . . establishments?”
Stadler spoke confidently. “The funding will be handled on our end. And just to put your mind at rest, we don’t plan to populate Commercial City with gambling, Mayor Ford. Just one parlor—at first, to test the waters, as it were.”
“And if this enterprise should prove successful?” Thaddeus asked.
Stadler gave a practiced response. “As I said, best if we proceed one step at a time.”
Thaddeus got up from his chair to add more brandy to Stadler’s glass, which Stadler accepted. The other two men declined refills.
“I take it then that you have investors,” Thaddeus inferred.
“We have the support of backers, yes,” Stadler said.
“Mmm,” Thaddeus said in a dubious tone.
“These are serious men, Mayor Ford,” Stadler elaborated, his face drawn in a frown. “They’ve built a solid financial structure that has made a number of people quite wealthy.”
Thaddeus didn’t seem impressed.
“But of course I’m speaking of those who have seen the profitability of allowing for expansion,” Stadler added slyly.
“So if I understand correctly, we provide no cash outlay and merely reap the benefits,” Thaddeus said carefully, with a smile that was difficult to decipher.
Stadler returned the smile and shifted slightly but a little too noticeably in his chair. “Well, share in the profits may be a more polite way to express it.”
Thaddeus nodded perfunctorily.
Stadler detected the mayor’s skepticism, and he decided on another approach.
“Something you may want to keep in mind is that the construction and operation of such an enterprise would provide employment for your town . . . and later, I’m sure we could offer other incentives to assist in the continued financial welfare of Commercial City.”
Thaddeus lifted an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what Stadler meant by “other incentives,” but frankly he didn’t like the sound of it. He cleared his throat, and with both hands clasped behind his back he turned toward the arc window and gazed out onto Archer Street. It was another quiet day in town, people pleasantly going about their usual business, no particular excitement outside the ongoing work on the theater. It was the vision he had seen for the town—one that he had realized through sweat and hardship, pain and sacrifice, and by earning the people’s trust. One he intended to both foster and maintain.
Thaddeus spoke with his back toward the three men, his voice firm yet reasonable.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing them as a group, “the people of this community aren’t of the type to either patronize or be employed in a gambling establishment, dealing cards or spinning a roulette wheel. I know personally almost every one of our citizens. They’re simple, basic folk. Those who don’t operate businesses are satisfied farming the land outside town. Commercial City is still a new town—yes, still developing, which I’m sure you know, based on your coming here with your . . . opportunity. These people traveled far and worked hard and a long way to help build this town, and today they are content in their endeavors.”
Stadler started to speak, but Thaddeus turned to face the group and raised a hand to silence him.
“Whether or not you can appreciate it, we look upon ourselves as a Christian community,” he said. “In fact, our faith is what brought us to where we are today . . . and where we hope to be tomorrow.”
Another of the partners, Harwood Finch, spoke up. Of the three agents, he looked to be the most rough-hewn. Not so much in appearance, but attitude. His tone was mildly brusque.
“Yet your town has a saloon,” he noted. “A right fancy one, too, I hear. Drinking alcohol isn’t prohibited. Isn’t that a mite hypocritical . . . if, as you say, you promote Christian values?”
Thaddeus smiled indulgently. “No one promotes Christian values, Mr. Finch. The people make their own choices. As for the saloon, we’re not what you might call fanatics. People drop in for a glass of cold beer on a hot day or come in to relax with a drink of whiskey, and I can see no harm in that. No one abuses the privilege. I enjoy the occasional drink myself. Gambling, on the other hand, presents a different sort of problem.”
Finch frowned. “How so?”
Thaddeus spoke forthrightly. “People here work hard for their livelihood. I admit some of our local merchants are still having a difficult time, and I don’t need to tell you gentlemen that those working the farms are dependent each season on good harvests. Most everyone in town has a family to support, so that can be a challenge. What I’m saying is that in such circumstances the chance to maybe earn some easy money can be a strong temptation. Entice them with gambling and it’s like spinning the cylinder of a six-shooter loaded with five bullets. One time against the odds you may get lucky. In any case, it’s intoxicating and the next thing you know families go hungry, desperation sets in, and our streets become unsafe. Decent people turn bad because they’ve fallen into a trap and can’t see any way out except to turn to crime.” He paused to capture his breath and to reach into his breast pocket for his handkerchief, with which to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. He spoke with more fervor than he had intended. He was satisfied that he had presented a telling argument . . . but didn’t doubt his words had fallen upon deaf ears.
“You’re presenting an extreme situation, Mayor Ford,” Stadler said, “and one that I can say we have yet to encounter through any of our establishments. We have no desire to see any of the towns we visit turned into Dodge City.”
Thaddeus drew a deep breath and went on. “There’s another consideration. A gambling parlor would almost certainly attract people of, shall we say, questionable character. I assure you, Mr. Stadler, those are types we do not wish to encourage into our city.”
“Our intention . . . our plan, as it were, is to open a respectable establishment, Mr. Ford,” the third man, Cyrus Connelly, finally said, speaking thinly and with a slight tremor in his voice. He was a pear-shaped individual, balding and round-faced, bespectacled with watery eyes, and appeared to be of a nervous disposition. Thaddeus determined that had he been dealing with Connelly alone, he could have ended this conversation much sooner—which would have been to his preference.
“It is not our desire to cater to riffraff,” Connelly concluded.
“No? But how do you judge who’s the, as you say, riffraff?” Thaddeus argued. “I know of gunfighters who present themselves as affluent gentlemen, yet they’d shoot you dead just for looking at them the wrong way. The irrefutable fact is, intentions aside, you cannot guarantee the character of each customer who walks into your establishment.”
Connelly presented no rebuttal. He turned his head aside, coughed obviously, and settled back even deeper into his chair.
It was Harwood Finch who answered, offering a noncommittal shrug. “There are no guarantees either in business or in life.”
“Very true, Mr. Finch,” Thaddeus acknowledged solemnly. “But we also don’t light the fuse hoping the dynamite won’t explode.”
The room fell into silence. The atmosphere was not exactly tense, but a slight tangible uneasiness was present. Thaddeus absorbed it, and he hastened to bring the meeting to a close.
“Gentlemen, I have other business to attend to this afternoon. I apologize for having disappointed you, especially given the distance you had to travel. But as I stated, your proposition is simply not something I feel would be an asset to Commercial City. In fact, if I may speak frankly, I see it as a detriment to the positive growth of our town.”
The three agents exchanged furtive glances among themselves before George Stadler rose and stubbed his cigar in the tableside ashtray. He looked a little disappointed but managed a thin smile as he extended his hand. His own expression grave, Thaddeus accepted the handshake, once again noticing the dry firmness of the grip.
Stadler, though, was not quite ready to surrender. With his hand still clasping the mayor’s, maintaining that physical connection as if not wanting to sever the bond, he said, “I assume this decision is solely yours, that it would be of no advantage to arrange another meeting . . . with your town council?”
“On this matter and in the interest of not wasting any more of your time or encouraging further discussion, yes, I’m making the final decision,” Thaddeus said, the tone of his voice official. “I feel I can say with assuredness, knowing the council members as I do, that they would side with me, unanimously.”
As the men prepared to leave the office, Thaddeus returned to the chair behind his desk, though not immediately seating himself. Instead he stood there for a moment, head held upright, the fists of both hands pressed against the walnut surface. He looked to be considering. Finally he spoke his final say, beginning by addressing the partners individually, fixing his eyes on each.
“Mr. Stadler, Mr. Connelly, Mr. Finch, I debated saying this because the intention wasn’t defined, but something mentioned earlier . . . not that it had any bearing on my decision . . . but what you, Mr. Stadler, said about the success of a gambling establishment providing our town with ‘other incentives.’”
Stadler responded with a cautious nod.
Thaddeus shook his head. “It now seems clear to me that you and whoever your backers are had planned your own agenda for Commercial City, and that gambling would just be the start.”
Stadler’s face remained impassive. But then his lips peeled back in a sly smile that for the first time seemed to reveal his true personality and intent.
He said, “The West is open, Mayor Ford. What we’re offering is simply the first step toward progress.”
—
The agents had hoped for a better outcome, and once the documents were signed they were prepared to start back for San Francisco the next day to deliver them. But Mayor Ford’s obstinance now forced a delay in their schedule. While they never admitted it, these men, despite their authoritative bearing, were merely messengers for the West Coast syndicate they represented, a group that originated out of the Barbary Coast and hoped to expand its interests into the opening of the frontier. George Stadler and his two associates were sent out to seek new settlements within these territories. Most importantly, they were expected to obtain results, and up until Commercial City their discussions and persuasions had yielded success with other towns they’d visited throughout the Southwest. On occasion, tactics had to be employed that were not entirely honorable, such as inserting a subtle threat into the conversation—but a measure necessary only when there was an obvious hesitation and a little prodding would prove beneficial to sway the decision in their favor. Otherwise it was always intended for these matters to be handled in a polite, businesslike manner.
Through their dealings with various officials they had gained valuable knowledge as how best to handle each negotiation—and George Stadler, in particular, developed a keen insight into individual personalities: where one’s strengths and weaknesses could be discerned and effectively manipulated. What he most often discovered was that, intentions aside, the mercenary nature of most politicians prevailed.
Much to his dissatisfaction, for he was anxious to secure the Commercial City deal swiftly, that seemed not to be the case with Thaddeus Ford. Greed did not motivate him. He presented himself as a thoroughly honest and moral man—though whether that truly was his character or a mere facade was difficult to determine. However, it was a part of his personality that Thaddeus Ford had so assiduously cultivated, he could not be swayed from what he believed was right. Stadler also discerned from his talk with the mayor that not even a blatant threat would prove effective against his tenacious stand. With options at a premium, Stadler understood that Ford would have to be dealt with another way. A necessary if not preferred method of persuasion.
Stadler and his partners were given the authority to recommend any course of action necessary to guarantee a successful resolution. Mayor Ford obviously had a great deal of influence over the community. With him removed from office, it likely would be easier to convince a man of less authority to agree to their way of thinking.
With the right incentives.
BOOK 1
ONE
Times had been tough for the family, and as each day passed with no relief in sight, desperation continued to set in—a desperation that bore into the man’s soul like some unrelenting virulent disease. He felt he had done all he could. With blistered, bloody hands he’d cleared the land, planted the crops, and then—with what little he’d been able to put aside as collateral—he’d applied for credit, only to be told outright that his meager assets, including a pair of near-crippled draft horses and a favored though aged pinto he’d named Daniel that he used as a saddle horse, were not sufficient for him to borrow against and there was little sympathy for his plight. As if in a pathetic attempt to soften his disappointment, bankers reminded him that he was not the only farmer going through hard times in this part of the country. The soil was poor to start with, but when the drought hit that summer the earth was cracked and had the consistency of solid clay, which even weeds could barely inhabit.
It wasn’t his fault—the elements had conspired against him—but he still blamed himself. Farmer, he thought miserably. What right did he have to call himself that? What did he really know about successfully working the land, yielding a saleable crop? As he thought about it with bitterness, what did he really care? He should have learned from experience. Why didn’t he heed the memories of laboring in dismal fields alongside his pa?
It was a question he really did not have to ask. The answer was simple. He chose this life. No . . . that wasn’t right. He pursued it after that terrible day those many years ago. He returned to it both out of necessity and because it brought him back to his roots, where at least there was a familiarity, as painful as that memory often was. And it was where he hoped to live his life in relative peace, in anonymity, free of the worry of those who might remember he owed them a debt.
Free . . . of everything, except his conscience.
But there was more. He had to provide for his wife and children and knew of no other way to care for them. Hardly any schooling. No training with which to work a trade. He didn’t possess any other damn skill.
Still . . . for just a moment his face could lighten. His family was the only bright spot in his life. The one thing he could always count on was the love of his wife and the affection of his two young daughters: Rose, age seven, and Penelope, just turned five. It gave him comfort until stark realization that at times struck like a mule kick to the gut returned to remind him that he could barely support the family he had been blessed with. The house in which they lived was a cabin that could more accurately be called a shack, a spit-and-tar structure framed with poor-quality lumber that hadn’t been cured and was weathered, warped, and split. A dwelling that perhaps offered shelter from the rain and occasional late-season snowfalls but provided little protection against the accompanying biting cold that penetrated walls weakened by storms and heavy winds and forced the family to huddle together, sharing their body warmth under woolen blankets.
While he knew he had put out his best effort, he felt he had failed as a man. He would often sit up on those cold nights, unable to sleep, haunted as he was by troubled thoughts. He’d try to warm himself with a hot cup of coffee—a damn luxury, seated at the kitchen table watching his little ones shiver against the night chill—and he’d curse himself for ever bringing children into such an environment. Certainly it was never how he planned it, but circumstances or, as he more often began to regard it, judgment and condemnation—a perverse providence—had thrust this miserable existence not only upon him, but also on his family.
He was resentful. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that his wife and children should be made to suffer for the wrong he had committed.
That one youthful decision had changed his life forever. It existed in his past, but despite periods of respite now growing ever more infrequent as the days of desperation became ever bleaker, he never forgot or truly forgave himself, and he suffered with the knowledge of what he had done, the memory of the people he had betrayed. Despite other influences he could not deny, he could never stamp out the truth that ultimately he alone was the one responsible for a desperate act that had made him a criminal—one who might still carry a bounty eager to be collected by parties on both sides of the law.
Often during these troubling days when he worked tirelessly yet fruitlessly on tending his fields, he reflected on how it all began . . .
He was a boy of fourteen. A farmer’s son who worked long days with his widower pa, busting sod from sunup to sundown to scratch out a living harvesting poor crops that only wholesalers with the most generous of hearts would purchase—at a humiliating discount. But every penny helped, and as his pa would remind him when he was of a Christian mind, if they didn’t show gratitude for what they had, they couldn’t expect more. There was a coldness in the old man, as Pa suffered from the same frustrations and disappointments that his son was now experiencing. His pa was prone to vent his discouragements in violent outbursts, directed at him. Occasional beatings that were delivered for the slightest provocation, deserved or not. But one day he’d simply had enough and gotten up before dawn, packed a few necessities into a canvas sack that he tossed over his shoulder, and walked away from Pa and his home. He remembered stopping by his mother’s grave, which was on a peaceful hillside not far from the farm. Pa had wanted her laid to rest in a special place where each morning the sunrise would meet the grave—and she was, but the burial plot was not on the meager stretch of grassland that he owned. It stretched just beyond the border of his property and intruded upon the land owned by a neighbor.
The neighbor, a man without wife and children named Caulfield, was of somewhat better means than the boy’s pa, and sympathetic to Pa’s grief. He had not objected upon discovering that earth had been opened on the land to which he held claim without permission and a coffin lowered deep within the soil. Caulfield held the right to issue a complaint with the land title office, which would have resulted in a penalty: financial restitution and/or jail time. But Caulfield made no such charge against his neighbor. A thoughtful, considerate gesture, but not looked upon as such by the boy. To him, it was a blatant act of charity, which his adolescent mind resented. He regarded it as another humiliation for Pa, who was so overcome with grief that he remained ignorant that he had trespassed onto another man’s property.
It also grieved Pa that he could not pay for a minister to officiate at the burial. Preacher Roberts did, however, come by the house shortly afterward to speak with Pa. His words were intended to offer comfort, but to the boy they sounded hollow. While he could not conceive of the eternity Preacher Roberts spoke of, the boy struggled to find comfort in the concept of eternal peace, for his mother had suffered long with her illness, her body wasting away until what was finally placed into the cheap coffin resembled little more than a flesh-stretched skeleton.
It was on that damp September predawn while the boy stood before his mother’s grave, his small, thin form framed in the blossoming of an eager sunrise soon to reach over the grassy mound beneath where his mother lay, his head bowed and hands folded in reverence, that old Mr. Caulfield happened to come by.
Caulfield thought it odd to see the boy standing by the gravesite at such an early hour. While he was a neighbor, Caulfield had never had much dealing with either the boy or his pa. Barely a word had been exchanged between them in the dozen or so years they’d sided property.
Caulfield was by nature an early riser and he’d already prepared his buckboard for the two-hour ride into town, where he’d hit the wholesale market early to sell his own vegetable crop—a yield only slightly better than his neighbor’s but only because Caulfield put more effort into trying to keep his land fertile. His neighbor’s attempts to maintain a quality yield, not impressive to start with, declined as the man fell deeper into a state of depression, and his son felt the growing urge to break away from a stifling and dirt-poor existence and therefore did not see the need to assist in trying to improve the family livelihood.
The boy had some schooling, but the fundamentals of education—facts and knowledge that would hold no importance in the world that he knew and soon would fully enter—provided little incentive for achieving a better life. To that end, he wasn’t unhappy the day his pa, embraced in another of his miserable moods, took to drink and, under an influence that propelled him to a dark place, once more released his rage on his son. The boy withstood the undeserved punishment, almost welcoming each blow of the beating, gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw in defiance as his pa, beyond comprehension, perhaps not even understanding the reason behind his cruel actions, continued his drunken assault.
He recalled how after his pa came to his senses, he gazed at his son with the saddest, most regretful expression the boy could ever remember seeing. The old man’s eyes glistened with tears as his face fell to resemble a countenance much older than his pa’s forty-three years.
His pa looked stricken, regarding the boy’s bloody face with a look of incredulity, a combination of horror and revulsion. His mouth twitched as he struggled to utter what might have been an apology, but it was as if such words were foreign to his tongue.
The boy did not want to hear his pa say he was sorry. An apology might have penetrated the protective shell the boy had built around himself—a shield of armor he barely was aware he’d constructed in anticipation of the time when his pa would finally release all of his despair, regret, and guilt on the boy he had come to regard not as his son, but as his wife’s child.
Yet a more gentle memory existed, one placidly within his brain. He recalled the nights when his pa would bring out his fiddle and express his emotions through music. The boy would stretch out at his pa’s feet and be swept away in glorious melodies that represented both the prairie life and origins that extended through two generations and were a part of his family’s old-country heritage. Those were the best times, but these memories were infrequent and faded fast in the harsher realities to which the boy had been exposed during those years following his mother’s death—those times when he had come close to knowing a family.
Because there were also the occasions when his pa’s music would reflect his heartbreak, his sadness at how life had been so unfair, taking from him the only person he claimed to have loved, the one woman he could ever love. The woman who had brought him a son but who fate had decreed would leave him to raise the boy alone. The boy recalled the heaviness that descended upon the little house when Pa, usually after consuming a jug of corn whiskey, would either stretch his violin strings to the breaking point through fierce renditions of songs that terrified the boy, or succumb to his sorrow and bow the strings while tears clouded his eyes.
The violin music, the recollected melancholy strains, faded from the boy’s brain as tears dried while he said his final good-bye to his mother. He knew that after this day he would never return. He was surprised at how fast the sorrow passed. It was almost as if his mother were speaking to him, her voice distant and whispered, comforting, encouraging him in his decision to set out on his new life.
The boy nodded in silent acknowledgment . . . and then he felt a hand rest upon his shoulder.
The boy started. As he spun around, the hand lifted from his shoulder in a pacifying gesture.
“Whoa, hold on there, son,” Mr. Caulfield said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The boy exhaled a rattled breath before he relaxed. Caulfield’s brown and lined-as-leather ancient face creased even more as he offered a kindly smile.
“Just kinda early to be seein’ yuh out here,” he explained.
The boy gave a wary nod as his eyes shifted back to his mother’s grave.
“Visitin’ . . . or sayin’ good-bye?” Caulfield inquired with a slight twitch of his head.
The boy responded to the old man’s question by assuming a defensive posture, as if to convey that the reason for his being there was none of the old man’s business.
Caulfield understood and smiled gently. “Ain’t nosin’, son, just maybe figgerin’.”
“What—would you be figgerin’?” the boy said tersely.
Caulfield lifted his head and looked off toward the distant valley as it responded to the breaking of dawn, announced by marmalade-tinted skies brimming bright over the eastern horizon.
“Looks to be a beautiful day,” he said broadly, as if intentionally ignoring the boy’s question.
The boy spoke again, with emphasis. “I said what would you be figgerin’, Mr. Caulfield?”
The old man regarded the boy with a look of gentle astonishment.
“Feisty one, ain’t yuh?” he chuckled.
The boy’s tone became subdued. “Just wanta know what you was meanin’ by what yuh said.”
“That you’d be movin’ on,” Caulfield replied.
The boy narrowed his eyes as he scrunched up his face. He didn’t speak, though he was puzzled and somewhat perturbed that his neighbor had figured out what he was planning. He’d wanted to be gone long before anyone would notice.
“You won’t be sayin’ nothin’?” the boy asked cautiously.
Caulfield didn’t answer outright. Instead he furrowed his brow. “Gonna be hard on your pa, though, havin’ yuh go.”
The boy shook his head and looked away. “Pa will get along.”
“Know things ain’t been easy for you folks,” Caulfield said in a sympathetic tone. “Had my own share of rough times. Hell, still do. But they’re a lot tougher when you gotta go through ’em alone.”
“Pa’s been alone ever since my ma died,” the boy retorted.
The old man rubbed his fingers along the back of his thinning scalp. “Can’t rightly see that.”
The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an impatient gesture. Caulfield waited for him to explain his odd comment, but the words didn’t come.
Finally Caulfield spoke. “I can’t be tellin’ yuh what to do. There are times when a man’s gotta follow through with what he sees best for himself.”
Upon being referred to as a “man,” the boy turned to Caulfield and managed a faint but appreciative smile. To his own pa he’d never been anything more than “boy,” and the word had taken on a contrary connotation. His mood softened. He turned to look at his mother’s grave.
“Never placed no marker here,” he said wistfully.
Caulfield merely shrugged. “Reckon . . . reckon maybe your pa didn’t want to be reminded too much.”
The boy shrugged and murmured, “S’pose.”
Mr. Caulfield indulged himself to a deep breath of the dew-moistened morning air. “Yep, fine day ahead.”
The boy’s voice was muted when he next said, “I never thanked you for lettin’ my ma rest here.”
Caulfield nodded and resisted the urge to place his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder.
“Don’t know if Pa ever thanked you, either,” Neville added sensitively. “So I’m thankin’ yuh . . . for the both of us.”
“That’s fine, son,” Caulfield said, touched by the sincerity of the gesture.
Caulfield’s tanned and weathered face took on an expression that suggested he was in a debate with himself, considering. After a few moments his eyes veered off into the distance and his features took on a pensive look. His lips puckered and finally he gave a firm nod. Then he reached inside the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small piece of colored cloth that he opened with great care. He looked contemplatively at whatever he had revealed; to the boy it appeared to be some sort of shiny object. But it wasn’t showing clear enough for the boy to make out precisely what it was.
The old man regarded the object for several moments, again as if considering. Finally he popped a breath and fixed his eyes firmly on the boy. The hand in which he held the object was swaying.
He said, “What I got here is somethin’ my own pa handed me when I decided to go out on my own. Was probably just ’bout your age.”
The boy tried to see exactly what it was that the old man was referring to, but Caulfield deliberately kept the fingers of the hand closed in a loose fist that concealed the item.
Then, with slow ceremony, Caulfield lowered his hand toward the boy and relaxed his fingers. Resting in the palm of his hand was a ten-dollar gold eagle. The boy thought the coin was pretty but didn’t recognize its significance, as he had never seen a gold piece before. But once the old man explained what it was, the boy was so impressed that he almost choked on his breath.
Caulfield cleared his throat to quell the emotion he could feel rising in himself.
“This piece is the most valuable thing I own,” he said. “Ain’t easy for me to part with it . . . but got no kin to leave it to and can’t see no point in havin’ it buried with me, when my time comes.”
The boy looked up at the old man, wide-eyed. “Are—are you sayin’ . . . are you tellin’ me you want me to have it?”
“Let’s say I’m entrustin’ it to yuh, yeah,” Caulfield said. “Served me well all these years. Or maybe it just gave me a contentment when times got hard. Well, reckon I’m just about as content as I’ll ever be. But . . . well, maybe since you’re startin’ out on your own . . . maybe . . .”
The old man’s voice faded. He didn’t—or couldn’t—finish what he was saying. But it hardly mattered, as the boy was so overwhelmed with being presented with the coin that he wasn’t listening much to Caulfield anyhow. He’d rarely received any kind of gift and never one this valuable.
Caulfield said sternly, “Give me your word, son, that you always keep this piece with yuh. Never decide you’re gonna go ’bout spendin’ it. Myself, sure, I was tempted many times: on food, lodgings, even at times on a thirst I needed quenched. But I’d rather go hungry, sleep out on a cold night, and save myself from a miserable ‘morning after’ than part with it. Y’hear what I’m sayin’?”
The boy gave a perfunctory rock of his head. The old man sighed and pondered whether he had made the right decision in handing over a treasured heirloom to a kid he really hardly knew. Perhaps he was too hasty in his generosity. The gold piece held much more than monetary value to Caulfield, and he questioned whether the boy would look upon it the same way. The coin was still in his hand; he could still pull it away and drop it back into his shirt pocket and come across in the boy’s eyes as some crazy old eccentric. The temptation was there, but Caulfield was an honorable man who could not go back on his gesture.
Still, he said, “I need to hear yuh tell me, boy.”
The boy half lifted his eyes so that they just met Caulfield’s gaze.
“I—give yuh my word,” he said.
Caulfield handed the boy the gold piece and could only hope that his words had made some impact.
What People are Saying About This
Praise for the western novels of Stone Wallace
“This unusual Western mines some fairly fresh ground...The plot is engaging in a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid kind of way.”—Booklist
“Stone Wallace will become an institution to Western fans.” —Tommy Lightfoot Garrett, San Francisco News