The Devil's Snare

by Tony Healey

  He removed a note from his pocket and used the butt of a revolver he’d stolen from Mikhail to nail it to the door. At some point, the deputy would return and find it. And then he’d know all that Bobby knew. The great evil committed by his father and those in his employ—and Bobby’s attempt at making good. Hopefully it would lead to his father’s arrest and trial.

  On his way out of town, he passed the bordello for the final time. Bobby stopped outside and looked up at the windows. Light shone behind Rosa’s curtains. She must have heard him riding by, because she appeared in the window and looked down at him, her face lighting at the sight of him there. She waved.

  Bobby waved back.

  Then Rosa closed the curtains and left him to ride away from Amity Creek for good.

  * * *

  * * *

  How is she?” Deputy Boyd Mitchell removed his hat as he entered the doctor’s office. His clothes stank of smoke and fire. He could feel its oily residue clinging to his skin and knew that when he was eventually able to sink into a bath and soak this awful night away, the hot water would feel like heaven.

  Dr. Murphy showed him through to the room where he’d been treating Myra Hart. “She’s well. Some smoke inhalation, as can be expected. A couple of minor burns but nothing that won’t heal in a few days. I’d say she’s extremely lucky.”

  “Good news, then,” Mitchell said.

  “There was an injury to her ear. She said a bullet nicked her. Know anything about that?”

  “The shoot-out in town.”

  Murphy’s bushy white eyebrows arched in surprise. “Really? She was part of that?”

  “Yes. Took on the Proctor sisters herself.”

  “Merciful heavens,” Dr. Murphy exclaimed. “Here, I’ll leave you to speak to her.”

  He opened a door and stood aside to let the deputy through. Then he closed the door behind him, leaving Mitchell and Myra Hart to talk in private. Myra sat up on the bed. Her face was dirtied from the smoke, but otherwise she looked well.

  “How’re you doing?”

  Myra smiled at the sight of him. “Well as can be, I guess,” she said.

  Mitchell pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save the house.”

  “Everyone tried. I have so many reasons to thank the town,” Myra said. “I was surprised that so many rode out to help.”

  “We did what we could,” Mitchell said.

  “I’m so grateful.”

  “Myra, I have to ask. What happened out there? What happened at the house?”

  Myra recounted how she and Ethan Harper had left town and gone to the house, knowing that Denton would come there to finish things. She told the deputy how the shooting had begun and how it had ended.

  “So he pulled you and Denton out of there, huh?” Mitchell asked.

  Myra nodded. She coughed a little and the deputy fetched her some water to sip.

  “Thank you. My throat is parched,” she said. “Yes, he got us out. He saved a picture of Glendon, Celia and the children, too. I don’t know how, but he did.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Mitchell said, genuinely pleased she had something to remember them by. “Myra, what happened after that?”

  “Ethan fetched his horse and took Denton away with him.”

  Mitchell frowned. “Took him . . . where?”

  “I do not know.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Myra shrugged her shoulders. “Deputy, I do not know. But he did give me something before he left. He told me he would not be coming back to Amity Creek. We will never see Ethan again.”

  “What did he give you?”

  To his surprise, Myra pressed something hard and spiky into Mitchell’s palm. It was a metal star.

  “Henry’s badge,” Mitchell said, his voice catching in his throat. The star was scratched from years of wear. “Where did he get this?”

  “It was in Denton’s pocket.”

  The deputy shook his head. He didn’t know what to think, what to feel.

  “Ethan thought you should have it. He asked me to pass on a message, too.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said to tell you that Amity Creek is a fine town and that it would be needing a new sheriff,” Myra said. She reached out, covered Mitchell’s hand with her own. The deputy looked into her eyes and she into his. “He said you’d make a fine sheriff and that that was the best way to honor Abernathy’s memory. I agree.”

  Mitchell set the star aside and reached into his pocket. He unfolded the note Bobby Denton had left pinned to the door of the sheriff’s office and passed it to Myra for her to read.

  “Denton’s kid left that,” he said.

  When Myra finished reading, she looked at him in shock. “The poor sheriff,” she said, handing the note back to him. She held his hand again. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Deputy. What will you do now?”

  “Ethan was right. This town will need a new sheriff. I’ll see to it that Henry’s legacy is honored,” Mitchell said. “How about you? What will you do now that your brother’s house has been destroyed? I’m guessing you’ll have to sell the land and leave.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of staying in Amity Creek. My family is buried here. Glendon would want me to build something new on his land, I just know he would. He really hoped to make something of himself here, and I think I’ll try and do the same. Perhaps there’s a life to be made here after all, now that Jack Denton is gone.”

  “What about your life in Boseman? There must be someone at home you’d be leaving behind?”

  “There’s nothing for me in Boseman.”

  Deputy Mitchell looked down at her hand in his, and he laid his other hand on top of hers. “Then maybe this is a fresh start for all of us,” he said.

  Myra smiled. “We’ll have to see what tomorrow brings.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Warren Cavill opened his front door and felt his toe knock into something. He looked down to find a parcel of wax paper on his doorstep. Looking this way and that for a sign of whoever had left the parcel there, Warren bent down and gathered it up off the ground. He untied it and opened the paper to find it filled with jerky.

  The exact same jerky Ethan had given him before.

  Warren looked again for any sign of his former boarder but there was none. So he stood on the threshold, took a piece of the jerky in his mouth and began to chew as the sun rose over Amity Creek.

  * * *

  * * *

  It had felt appropriate to stand Jack Denton—the man Ethan knew as Bertrand Woodward—on the back of his own horse. Ethan positioned Denton’s horse under the shade of a sycamore tree, where he’d tied a makeshift noose to one of the branches. He’d slipped the noose around Denton’s neck and made sure it was firmly in place, tightening it just enough for it to hold.

  Denton was coughing from the smoke he’d inhaled, and his legs wobbled as he tried to stay steady on the back of his horse.

  “Please, don’t do this,” he begged. “I’m sorry for what I did. Have mercy.”

  Ethan sat astride Ruby, looking on impassively as Denton attempted to keep his balance. “Mercy is for better men than you, Bertrand.”

  Denton swallowed hard. “What happened to the others?”

  “The men who rode with you? I found them and I killed them,” Ethan said. “Left you till last. You were the hardest to find. It took me years. Tell the truth, it was pure luck I found you, really. Fate, I suppose you could call it. But I never doubted I’d catch up with you. I knew it was my destiny to be here right now, about to watch you die.”

  Denton began to cry. “Please . . .”

  Ethan lit a cigarillo. “I saved you for last. You were always the icing on the cake, and you didn’t even know it,” he said. “You killed my brother and I’ve
never stopped thinking about how I was going to do the same to you.”

  Ethan stuck the cigarillo between his lips and drew both guns, one in each hand. He raised them over his head. Ruby would not be startled. She was used to the noise. He’d ridden Ruby for a good long time. But Denton’s horse was not so accustomed to gunshots at close proximity.

  “Please don’t!” Denton yelled.

  Without further word, Ethan fired both guns into the air, spooking Denton’s horse. The creature reared up on its hind legs, then bolted away. Denton’s legs slipped off the back of it and he fell. His full body weight caused the rope to snag, the noose tightening so quick and so hard that it snapped his neck instantly. Ethan holstered his guns and smoked as he watched Denton’s legs twitch for a moment. Then Denton’s dead body simply swung back and forth at the end of the rope. Ethan tossed the remains of his cigarillo away, pulled his hat down over his eyes and rode into the dawn.

  A full day had passed by the time anyone found Jack Denton’s body, and Ethan was long gone. Miles away from town, headed south with no particular destination in mind, Ethan made camp under a rocky outcropping. He carved a final notch in the stocks of both of his guns. Then he lay before the fire and slept the sleep of the dead, free of burden for the first time in years.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Huge thanks to Tracy Bernstein and all of the team at Berkley for the opportunity to write Westerns and see them in print. To be able to join the ranks of all the tremendous authors who have written for the Ralph Compton line is both an honor and a privilege.

  Thanks to my wonderful agent, Sharon Pelletier of Dystel, Goderich and Bourret, who made it happen. She truly is the very best.

  A shout-out to my brother-in-arms Bernard Schaffer, who offered advice and support along the way. We’ve been in the trenches together a while now, and I consider him Master to my Padawan. His novel Face of a Snake, also published by Berkley, is a very fine Western indeed, and I implore you all to read it.

  Of course, my biggest thanks to my wife, Lesley. Quite often when it comes to writing books, the partners, wives and husbands go unacknowledged. But their support is very much integral to the juggling act of balancing hours of focused effort with the demands of day-to-day life. Lesley, you’re my rock, and I really couldn’t do it without you.

  Until next time, dear readers—happy trails.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Rider series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.

  Tony Healey is the author of the Harper and Lane mystery series, featuring Detective Jane Harper and Ida Lane, a survivor with a gift for reading the dead. The Harper and Lane series has been favorably reviewed by the authors Blake Crouch, Mark Edwards, and by Publishers Weekly. Hope's Peak and Storm's Edge are available from Thomas & Mercer. Healey independently published the crime novel Not For Us, young-adult thriller Past Dark, science-fiction series Far From Home and is currently at work on a Western.

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