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.