Ozark Devil

By C Lowry

He rode into town dragging a wanted man. He found a deeper evil festering beneath a sheriff's badge.

Eldridge Sample, a U.S. Marshal as hard and unyielding as the Ozark stone, arrives in the terrified, one-street town of Cypress Hollow, Arkansas, with a prisoner in tow. But the fear in the eyes of the townspeople isn't for the outlaw – it's for their own lawman, the mountain of a man named Sheriff Caleb Thorne. Thorne, a figure of absolute corruption, uses his badge not to protect, but to terrorize and bleed the community dry, ruling a hidden empire of fear from the treacherous depths of Devil's Holler.

When Sample's unyielding sense of justice puts him on a collision course with Thorne's brutal regime, the marshal becomes the hunted. Thorne's attempt to silence him with a deadly ambush backfires, and Sample, a battle-hardened Union Army veteran and expert scout and sniper, is forced to flee into the unforgiving Ozark wilderness.

The hunter becomes the hunted… and then the avenger.

Deep within a labyrinthine network of caverns and hidden valleys, Sample must draw on every ounce of his survival skills and lethal training. He turns the tables on the pursuing Thorne clan – a generational scourge of murderers and thieves – employing deadly sniper tactics and psychological warfare to pick them off one by one. Devil's Holler, their impenetrable sanctuary, becomes a killing ground as Sample dismantles their reign of terror from the shadows.

But the battle for Cypress Hollow is only the beginning. Sample uncovers evidence of a wider conspiracy, a network of corrupt lawmen spreading their tendrils of crime and terror far beyond the Thorne clan's reach. His work is far from over.

Fans of gritty, action-packed Westerns in the vein of Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour will devour Ozark Devil. This is not just a tale of frontier justice; it's a journey into the heart of darkness, where a complex antihero must match brutality with brutality to protect the innocent.

Follow Marshal Eldridge Sample as he confronts a sprawling evil, where every shadow can hide an enemy and every badge can mask a devil. If you crave a relentless Western adventure filled with tactical showdowns, raw survival, and a hero as formidable as the wilderness he navigates, then prepare to ride into the thunder.

Click "Buy Now" to saddle up for an unforgettable Ozark frontier adventure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Lowry
• Release date: May 30, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231259465

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sun hung like a brass coin over the Arkansas ridges when Eldridge Sample rode down into Cypress Hollow, trailing behind him a piece of human refuse that bore little resemblance to the man whose face graced the wanted poster folded in Sample’s vest pocket. The captive’s hands were bound tight to his saddle horn, and dried blood painted dark streaks down the side of his head where Sample’s rifle butt had kissed him during their last disagreement about direction.

Sample sat his horse with the stillness of a man who had learned patience in hard schools. His gray eyes, pale as winter ice, surveyed the single street that comprised the whole of Cypress Hollow’s commercial district. Four buildings squatted in the dust like monuments to frontier ambition gone sour: Murphy’s Livery stable with its sagging roof and weathered sign, Keller’s General Store whose windows were so begrimed a man couldn’t see what lay within, the Broken Wheel Saloon that leaned against its neighbor like a drunk seeking support, and at the far end, a two-story structure whose fresh paint and lace curtains announced its purpose without need of a sign.

What struck Sample most forcefully was not what he saw, but what he didn’t see. For a town at midday, Cypress Hollow lay as quiet as a cemetery. No children played in the street, no women gossiped on porches, no men lounged in whatever shade they could find. The only movement came from a yellow dog that slunk between buildings with its tail tucked tight against its belly, as if it expected a kick from any direction.

Sample’s prisoner lifted his head with effort, spitting blood into the dust. Told you this place weren’t worth the trouble, Jake Motley mumbled through split lips. Ain’t nothing here but ghosts and fear.

Every place is worth the trouble when there’s a hundred dollars riding on your worthless hide, Sample replied, his voice carrying the flat authority of a man accustomed to ending conversations before they started. He touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and moved down the street at a walk that seemed casual but missed nothing.

As they passed Murphy’s Livery, Sample caught sight of a face at the window—an old man with white whiskers and eyes wide as a spooked calf’s. The face disappeared so quickly Sample might have imagined it, but the curtain still trembled in the airless afternoon. At Keller’s store, the same performance repeated itself. A woman’s pale features appeared and vanished like smoke, leaving only the memory of terror etched in the lines around her eyes.

The saloon doors hung open in the heat, but no sound emerged from the dark interior. No piano music, no laughter, no clink of glasses or rattle of dice. Sample had seen livelier morgues. Even the comfort house at the street’s end might have been abandoned for all the sign of life it showed, though Sample knew such establishments rarely closed their doors while the sun still shone.

When they reached the jailhouse, a squat building of native stone that hunched between the saloon and general store like a toad in the dust, Sample dismounted with the fluid motion of a rider born to the saddle. His boots struck the earth without sound, and his hand never strayed far from the worn walnut grip of the Colt that rode his right hip.

Sheriff! he called, his voice carrying easily in the oppressive quiet. Got some business needs tending.

The door opened with a creak that seemed to echo from the surrounding hills, and a man emerged who made the doorframe look narrow. Sheriff Caleb Rook stood better than six and a half feet in his boots, with shoulders that could have carried a yoke and hands the size of dinner plates. His black hair hung lank to his collar, and his eyes held the flat, reflective quality of a snake’s gaze. The badge pinned to his vest looked small against his massive chest, but it caught what light there was and threw it back like a warning.

Marshal Sample, Rook said, and his voice rumbled up from somewhere deep in his barrel chest. Heard you might be coming through our little settlement. His gaze fixed on the bound prisoner with what might have been recognition. That there Jake Motley you got trussed up like a Christmas goose?

It is, Sample confirmed. Caught him three days north of here, trying to cross the Buffalo River with stolen horses and a dead rancher’s gold in his saddlebags. He handed over the crumpled wanted poster. Fort Smith’s offering a hundred dollars for him breathing, fifty if he ain’t.

Rook studied the poster with exaggerated care, though Sample suspected the man could have recited its contents from memory. Well now, that’s right public-spirited of you, Marshal. But I’m afraid we got ourselves a problem. He gestured toward the jailhouse with one massive hand. Jail’s full up right now. Had to lock up three drunken Cherokee and a horse thief just yesterday. Ain’t got room for another guest.

Sample’s pale eyes narrowed slightly. In his experience, a frontier sheriff’s jail was never full, and certainly not in a town as dead as Cypress Hollow appeared to be. That so? Mind if I take a look for myself?

Something flickered behind Rook’s serpent gaze—irritation, perhaps, or calculation. Now, Marshal, I surely do appreciate your dedication to duty, but there ain’t no call to go doubting a fellow lawman’s word. Tell you what—why don’t you just take your prisoner on through to the next county? I’m sure Sheriff Davidson in Yellville would be happy to accommodate you.

I’m sure he would, Sample agreed, his tone giving nothing away. But Motley’s been on the trail hard for three days, and so have I. My horse needs rest, and I need a meal that don’t come from a can. Figure we’ll spend the night, head out fresh in the morning.

The big sheriff’s jaw worked as if he were chewing something tough. Well, if you’re set on staying, I reckon Murphy can put you up in the livery. But I’ll need to insist that prisoner of yours stays with me. Can’t have dangerous men roaming free in a peaceful town like ours.

Sample studied Rook’s face with the intensity of a man reading sign on a difficult trail. Everything about the sheriff’s manner set his nerves on edge—the too-ready excuses, the obvious desire to see him gone, and most of all, the way the man’s eyes kept shifting to Jake Motley as if measuring him for something other than a jail cell.

Obliged for the concern, Sheriff, Sample said finally. But I’ll keep charge of my prisoner until I can turn him over proper at Fort Smith. Man learns to sleep light in my profession.

For just a moment, Rook’s mask slipped, and Sample glimpsed something beneath it that made his hand instinctively drift closer to his gun. Then the sheriff’s broad face split in what passed for a smile, though it never reached his eyes.

Suit yourself, Marshal. Just remember—we run a quiet town here in Cypress Hollow. Peaceful folk who don’t take kindly to trouble. You’d do well to keep that in mind during your… visit.

The words carried a weight of meaning that settled over Sample like a cold wind. As he led his prisoner toward Murphy’s Livery, he could feel Rook’s gaze boring into his back like a rifle sight. Whatever was wrong in Cypress Hollow ran deeper than an overcrowded jail, and Eldridge Sample had lived long enough to know that sometimes the badge was just another mask for the devil to hide behind.

Chapter 2

The interior of Murphy’s Livery hung thick with the smell of hay, leather, and something else Sample couldn’t quite name—fear, perhaps, or the sour scent of a man who sweated through too many sleepless nights. Patrick Murphy emerged from the shadows like a ghost given reluctant substance, his movements jerky as a marionette worked by an amateur’s hand.

Marshal, Murphy whispered, though no other ears were present to overhear. His rheumy blue eyes darted toward the open door, then back to Sample’s face, then away again as if sustained eye contact might prove fatal. Didn’t expect… that is, we don’t get many lawmen passing through.

Sample noted how the old man’s hands trembled as he reached for the reins of both horses. The tremor wasn’t from age or infirmity—Sample had seen enough frightened men to recognize the particular shake that came from living under constant threat. Murphy’s fingers bore old scars, and fresher bruises darkened the knuckles of his right hand.

Quiet town, Sample observed, securing Jake Motley’s bonds to a sturdy post. His prisoner had lapsed into sullen silence, but his eyes remained alert, watching everything with the calculating attention of a man who made his living from other people’s weaknesses.

Oh yes, very quiet, Murphy agreed too quickly. Sheriff Rook, he keeps the peace real… thorough-like. The old man’s voice cracked on the last word, and he busied himself with unnecessary adjustments to the horses’ tack.

Sample’s gaze swept the livery’s interior, cataloging details with the methodical precision that had kept him alive through three years of war and ten years of hunting men who killed for profit. The building was clean but showed signs of recent repairs—new boards in the wall, fresh plaster over what looked like bullet holes, and a suspiciously dark stain on the floor near the back stall that someone had tried hard to scrub away.

You do good work, Murphy, Sample said, running his hand along a expertly mended harness. Man can tell you take pride in your trade.

The compliment seemed to pain the old liveryman more than insult would have. His shoulders sagged, and for a moment Sample glimpsed the man Murphy had been before whatever had broken his spirit. Used to, Murphy mumbled. Used to take real pride. Had the finest stable between Little Rock and Fort Smith, back when… He trailed off, shaking his head as if to dislodge dangerous memories.

Back when? Sample prompted gently.

Murphy’s eyes darted again toward the door. Before Sheriff Rook came to appreciate my services so particular-like. The words carried a bitterness that made Sample’s hand drift unconsciously toward his gun. Man’s got to make a living, you understand. Got to pay his… taxes.

The way Murphy said taxes made it