The Devil's Snare

by Tony Healey

  Warren Cavill hammered a horseshoe into shape, the worn implement in his fist clanging against the newly rendered metal shoe. Deputy Mitchell rapped his knuckles on the doorframe of the workshop, and the blacksmith straightened and turned around.

  “Morning,” Mitchell said, walking in. The blacksmith was short, with a ring of long black hair at the back and sides of his otherwise bald scalp. At some point in his youth, Warren must have had an unfortunate accident, because his left ear was a scarred mess that looked like it had been put through a meat grinder, put back together, then sewn back on. His left eye drooped to such a degree Deputy Mitchell wondered if he had been kicked in the face by a horse. Clearly, something horrific had happened to Warren for him to look the way he did. But the deputy had never asked—a man’s past was his own to keep.

  Warren set his tools down, then pulled an old rag from his pocket and wiped at the grimy sweat beading his forehead. “Howdy, Deputy.”

  “Damn hot in here already.”

  “It gets that way sometimes,” Warren said, replacing the rag. “I don’t complain in the wintertime, though. So what can I do you for? Don’t usually see anybody in my neck of the woods this early in the day.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that stranger been hangin’ about the place.”

  “What about him?”

  “He rode in about a week ago, I believe,” Mitchell said. “That right?”

  Warren nodded. “Yessir. Asked me to stable his horse. No idea what he’s here for, or for how long, before you ask.”

  “Any idea where he’s staying?”

  “Yes, I do. Right here.”

  Mitchell looked at him. “In here?” he asked, glancing about at the cramped confines of the forge and wondering how anybody could sleep in here.

  “No, back there,” Warren said, thumbing back at the doors behind him. “With his horse.”

  “In the livery?”

  “Yessir.” He led Mitchell through the doors and across the way to his stable out the back. The upper level, half filled with hay, was accessible by a worn wooden ladder that could be unhooked from the ledge and moved about. “He sleeps up in the loft there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Why don’t he lodge at the guesthouse?”

  Warren shrugged his shoulders. “No idea.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  Warren seemed hesitant. “I don’t, but I made the fella a promise I would watch over his things when he ain’t here, and I can’t help but feel it’d be an imposition to let you root around up there.”

  The deputy considered this for a second. “This his horse?” he asked, indicating the chestnut mare closest to them.

  “Yessir. Calls her Ruby.”

  Mitchell examined the horse, reaching over the pen to pet the beast. “She’s a fine animal.”

  “That she is.”

  Mitchell ran his hand down the creature’s neck. “Any idea where he was the last couple of nights?”

  “Matter of fact I do. Been here with me every evening since he rode into town. Eating chili and playing cards. Sometimes we have a little whiskey, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do not.”

  Warren leaned against one of the thick timber posts. “Have to admit it’s been nice havin’ some company around here. He don’t talk much, and I think I do enough talkin’ for both of us, if I’m honest.”

  Mitchell smiled. “That I can believe. So he ain’t been getting up to anything he shouldn’t, far as you’re aware.”

  “If you’re asking me was he here with me the night the Harts got murdered? Yes, he was. I can place my hand on the Bible if you like, Deputy. I ain’t got no problem with it. I don’t know what that man is here for or how long he’s gonna be staying. Could be hiding out here for all I know. But from what I seen, he’s lookin’ to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble, and that suits me. I don’t need no strife brought to my door or anyone else’s.”

  “You trust him?”

  “I do.”

  “How come?”

  Warren shrugged. “Has that way about him, I guess. Says he’s just passing through on his way to someplace else, and I believe him. Amity has always been that kind of town, never been no different.”

  Mitchell sighed, content with Warren’s answer. “Okay, then. But you’ll let us know if he does anything out of character, won’t you, Warren?”

  “You know it.”

  Mitchell shook hands with him. The blacksmith’s paw was filthy, the skin embedded with oil, soot and dirt. But before he walked off entirely, Mitchell turned back. “Oh, I didn’t catch his name.”

  “Ethan.”

  “Surname?”

  “There ain’t none.”

  “No surname?”

  Warren shook his head again. “Not that he’s given me.”

  “Okay, then,” Mitchell said, and left.

  * * *

  * * *

  Cooled off now, Boyd?” Abernathy asked. He was sitting out front, watching the people of the town go about their business, and sucking on a pipe positioned in the crook of his mouth, seeming completely at ease. He patted the arm of the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”

  “I think I will do that,” Mitchell said. He sat down and rolled a cigarette.

  Across the way and down some, Larry Turner left the general store, carrying an enormous bag of chicken feed, and struggled to hoist it up into the back of his wagon. Like Glendon Hart, Turner had a farm outside of town. But as far as either lawman knew, Larry had never been put under pressure by Jack Denton to sell up his land. Not yet anyway. Otherwise they could have asked him about his interactions with Denton, if he’d ever felt threatened.

  “Almost makes you wanna go help him,” Abernathy said, watching Turner go red in the face.

  Mitchell lit his cigarette. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “You’re right. It don’t,” the sheriff said with a chuckle.

  Mitchell looked at him. “How’d it go with Denton?”

  Abernathy exhaled heavily. “About as you’d expect, I guess. The man is an opportunist, Boyd, but don’t let his conduct rub you up the wrong way. Denton sees an opportunity and wants to let us know he intends on muscling in on it. Be honest. Do you expect any different from a man like that?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither,” Abernathy said. “I guess his timing could be better and all, but in this world, you can’t very well judge every man by your own set of principles. Do I think it’s right we got a whole family down the street in their caskets, ain’t even had a funeral yet, and Denton’s already got designs on their property? No, I do not. I don’t know how he sleeps at night, to tell the truth. But can I do anything about it?”

  “No, sir, you cannot.”

  The two men smoked for a while. Then the sheriff turned to Mitchell and asked, “What did Warren have to say about that stranger?”

  “Not a lot. Said he was there with him the whole time. Assured me he’s no trouble,” Mitchell said.

  Abernathy accepted this. “I know Warren from way back. He’s honest as they come. If he says that’s how it is, then I guess that’s how it is. Don’t mean we shouldn’t keep an eye on the dude ourselves, though.”

  “I agree,” Mitchell said. He dropped the butt of his cigarette on the porch boards and rubbed it out with the heel of his boot. “Listen, Sheriff, I apologize for letting my temper get the better of me earlier.”

  “Speak nothing of it. We all get a little hotheaded now and then, Boyd. Comes with the job. Hell, comes with being a man, don’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  Abernathy surveyed the street, eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Looking for trouble. Looking for anything out of place. Keeping watch. Even when it didn’t look like it, the sheriff was on guard.
Sometimes Mitchell thought Abernathy was the kind of man who could lie on his cot with his eyes closed, fully asleep, and still know everything that was going on in the room around him through intuition only.

  “I dislike that man much as you do,” Abernathy said. “But we can’t let our own prejudices cloud our judgment of a situation. Sometimes you have to let the cards fall and see how they come out, however frustrating that may be. Does that make sense to you?”

  Mitchell sighed. Looked down at his boots, covered in drying mud splatter. “I know,” he said. “Don’t much like it, though. What about Denton?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We treatin’ him as a suspect?”

  Abernathy thought for a moment, his face a blank slate, giving nothing away. He examined his pipe. “Everybody is a suspect until we figure out who did it.”

  “I’m talking about Denton specifically.”

  “I know you are.”

  “Well?”

  Abernathy eyed him wearily. “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Shoot,” Mitchell said, exasperated by the sheriff’s many evasions, all in the service of making a point.

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  Mitchell considered. “Much as I hate to say it, I can’t say for sure I buy Denton bein’ behind this. He’s ruthless, and he’s mean, but he ain’t crazy enough to kill an entire family just so he can buy their land. Unless I underestimate him.”

  “And you would have to be crazy to kill a whole family,” Abernathy said. “Funny thing happened after you left, though.”

  “Go on.”

  “I got to tellin’ him that Glendon Hart’s sister was coming to town to deal with his affairs, and I got the distinct impression he didn’t know Glendon had kin. Knocked the wind out of his sails, I can tell you.”

  “Sounds like it might throw a wrench in the works,” Mitchell said.

  “Precisely. He left soon after that. No doubt to have somebody who works for him do some digging, dig up what they can.”

  “What do we know about her?”

  “Whole lotta nothing. Only that she’s coming in from Boseman tomorrow on the first train.”

  “Married?”

  “No, she ain’t married. No idea on occupation, either.”

  “So will the Hart place go to her?”

  Abernathy said, “I reckon it must be that way. No idea what she’ll do with it, mind you. Woman on her own out there fendin’ for herself like that . . .”

  Mitchell looked far off down the street where it was hazy. “Can’t imagine what she’ll think when she sees the place.”

  “Don’t bear thinking about,” Abernathy said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Midafternoon the man Warren knew only as Ethan returned to the livery stable bearing a paper bag of jerky and hooch in an earthenware jug.

  “What’s it made from?” Warren asked when Ethan handed him the hooch.

  “Hell if I know. But I had a snort and it’s pretty potent.”

  Warren pulled the cork from the top and sniffed the neck of the bottle. He then lifted it to his lips and drank some. His eyes bulged as it slid down his gullet. He coughed and sputtered, shoving the cork back in place. “Whoo!”

  “I don’t think you’re meant to drink it like water. I think you’re meant to drink it with water,” Ethan said, grinning. He was tall and of a slender build, though he seemed to possess a wiry strength and ease of movement that reminded Warren of a wildcat he had once seen moving through the uppermost branches of a tree, scavenging eggs. Ethan took the jug back. “Think I’ll set this aside for later. The jerky is for you, though.”

  Warren accepted the paper package. “Why, thank you kindly.”

  “I noticed you chewing it the other day. Saw some in the store just now.”

  “That where you got to, huh?”

  Ethan frowned, thumbs hooked into his belt. “Why? Somebody been askin’ after me, Blacksmith?”

  “Only the sheriff’s deputy. Came by here asking where you was stayin’, asking what you was about.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth. That you been stayin’ here. That I don’t think you’re here do no harm to nobody,” Warren explained. “I said you was here with me when those murders happened.”

  Ethan nodded, looking away. “Makes sense they’d ask after me, seeing as I’m a new face round these parts. Well, it’s all the truth, isn’t it? I’ve been here every night playing you at cards.”

  “Yessir, you have.”

  Ethan raised a finger. “And winning, I should add.”

  “A winning streak you are on the wrong side of—just you wait.”

  “Maybe,” Ethan said. “What you got on today?”

  “The usual. A horse to shoe. Some repair jobs that I don’t really like doing on account of they’re fiddly, and my stiff joints ain’t so good at it no more. Oh, and I got a run to make tomorrow.”

  Ethan took a thin cigarillo from his breast pocket and examined it. “What run would that be? Where to?”

  “The station to collect Glendon Hart’s sister.”

  Ethan looked up, sliding the cigarillo back into his pocket, his impulse to smoke it forgotten as swiftly as it had occurred. “As in Glendon Hart who got murdered?”

  “One and the same,” Warren said. “Gotta pick her up, take her out to the Hart place. It’s work I could do without right now, you understand, but I ain’t so dumb as to turn it down, not when it can be scarce at times. Man’s gotta do what a man can do—ain’t that the truth? Ain’t it always been, Ethan?”

  “Hey now,” his guest said, “I can do the run for you. Go to the station, collect the Hart woman, take her where she needs to be. Simple as can be.”

  Warren eyed him skeptically. “For sure?”

  “You bet.”

  “Why would you do that? I can’t afford to pay ya.”

  Ethan smiled. “I’ll do it to help you out. You’ve been more than accommodating toward me, so let me return the favor some by running this errand. What d’you say?”

  “Well . . . ,” Warren said, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I suppose you could. You’d be doin’ me a helluva service. You sure you ain’t got nothin’ going on?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t offer.”

  Warren hesitated. “You know, I told the deputy I didn’t have no clue what you was in town for.”

  “In what way?”

  “As in what your business is in Amity Creek.”

  Ethan nodded slowly. “Well, I’m just visiting. That’s a good enough answer for anybody. Any man or woman has a right to come and go as they please.”

  “I guess . . . ,” Warren said, his voice trailing off. “Well, anyway, if you’re offering to run an errand for me, I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I?”

  Ethan said, “Then it’s a done deal. What am I taking to collect the lady?”

  “A cart. Got one round back, and two old mares to pull her. Ain’t neither of ’em got any get-up-and-go left, you should know.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine. What time is she arriving?”

  Warren scratched his head. “First train pulls in at three o’clock sharp, unless they had something on the line. Then they can be an hour or more after that.”

  “Okay. Show me to the cart so I know what I’m dealing with.”

  Warren eyed him. “Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Ask me again, I just might change my mind,” Ethan said, patting him on the back.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next day, Warren watched the cart trundle out of town for the station. It was another hot one, with barely a cloud in sight.

  Places like Amity Creek were usually established around the course of the railway, but Amity was the exception in
that it had been started long before the railway ever arrived. So the train stopped a ways out, and folk either had to pay transport or walk the eight or so miles distance from town.

  When he was sure his guest had gone for certain, Warren returned to the livery stable and stood for a moment pondering the loft. He’d promised to respect Ethan’s privacy and leave his personal possessions well alone, but ever since his conversation with Deputy Mitchell, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Although he knew there was no way Ethan could have been involved in the Hart murders, he had to admit the man still came with more questions than he was able to supply answers for. That mystery led Warren to begin climbing the ladder, rung by rung, questioning his own judgment the whole time until he’d reached the top. In a stretch of boards free of hay or other stores, Ethan had laid a bedroll and set a lamp several feet away from his things, clustered together in no particular order.

  Warren crouched over Ethan’s belongings, stopping for a second to listen for the sound of approaching boots or the cart returning unexpectedly for some reason. But all was quiet. He was free to satisfy his curiosity unhindered. Warren knew that whatever he looked at had to go back the way it had been. There was no gun belt—Ethan wore that at all times and never left to go anywhere without it.

  “Hasn’t been a shooting in town for years,” Warren had told him the first night he got there.

  “Sounds like you’re about due one,” Ethan had said, settling the matter.

  Warren gingerly unthreaded the straps of a worn leather satchel and peeked inside. There were papers, some of which appeared important, as they were in leather wallets. Some money in a billfold and a tied leather pouch full of coins. Warren didn’t dare open it. He was not in the business of stealing, and if he wasn’t going to steal from a man, why count how much money he had to his name?

  He’d been guilty of many things in his life, but stealing money was not one of them and never would be. Warren reached into the satchel and felt around. His hand met something small with hard edges. He took it out—a children’s figurine carved from wood. Warren sniffed it and detected the unmistakable aroma of maple. Did the figurine belong to a child of Ethan’s, perhaps? Or was it his from when he was a kid himself?