Chapter Seven

Excerpt from Ch 6

If Damion hadn't known Nick so long, and known him as well as he did, he would have doubted what he'd just been told. As it was, all he could do was shake his head. "So, I will assume you will want me to telegraph your sheriff a few hours after you send your message. That way – you hope – your family will get your telegram before the law gets mine."

"You assume correctly." Nick pulled out his wallet.

"I don't see why you have to drive the coach." Gideon watched as his father climbed up onto the driver's seat of the stagecoach that Gideon had driven though town and stopped in front of the boarding house. An employee of the coach line was supposed to have brought it only that man had woke up sick. That being the case, Gideon-who had driven coaches short distances-had driven it instead. Nick and Elizabeth were already seated inside.

"Mr. Barkley just got married, and they want to travel down the coast. What better wedding present can I give them than to take them on the journey for free?" Mr. Harvey smiled and patted his son's shoulder. "We're only going to be gone a week-maybe eight days at most. If we are delayed, I'll send you word. Until then, stay with Hank here and his family." If Damion's wife hadn't passed away the year before, he wouldn't' have bothered his long time employee and his family.

Gideon didn't really mind his father going-he'd just wanted to go along. After all, the few times his father had driven the coaches, he'd always rode shotgun. However, when he cornered his father the night before, the gentleman had flat out refused. When the young lad started trying to debate the issue, his father had put his foot down harder than he'd ever had before.

"I can't take you, son. Don't ask me why, I just can't." Damion had turned and stormed out of the room. In the past, that sentence had always meant his father was getting weird feelings and something bad had always happened afterward. It had made Gideon more than nervous, and he'd wanted to argue with his father-only he hadn't . He still didn't; he simply stepped away from the coach and onto the boardwalk. Only when his father had driven the coach away did the young lad turn and walk away thinking 'This isn't going to end well; I just know it."

~oOo~

The rain was coming down in bucketfuls as Fred, who felt as if he'd had the longest morning in the history of mankind, walked into his office. If it weren't for the pile of paperwork and mail sitting on his desk, he'd have simply checked with his deputy and the two prisoners they had in the cells and gone home. As it was, he figured if he was going to be able to relax when he got home, he needed to have his desktop cleaned off. He hung up his coat and hat, and then pulled the chair back just far enough to be able to sit down.

He began going through one wanted poster after another; thank goodness, there weren't many of them. "What a waste," He muttered as he saw some of the things the strangers were wanted for. By the time his deputy walked into the office, Fred had finished looking at the posters and had put them on another chair in the room – as he intended to ask his help to get the posters hung up in places such as the post office.

"What's that?" Fred gestured towards the telegram in his deputy's hand.

"Don't know." His deputy handed him the telegram. "Michael, that new red headed lad the telegraph office hired the other day to deliver telegrams, stopped me as I walked past the post office. He had some other telegrams to deliver, guess he figured I would do. It seems like he's been running telegrams to people-starting with Heath Barkley- all day. Think he just wants today to get over with."

While Fred could understand that feeling, he frowned slightly as he took the telegram. "That boy needs to be told any telegrams meant for me are to be brought directly here-no matter what."

"So I told him," the deputy picked up the wanted posters, sat down on the chair and placed the posters on his lap. "So, what's up?"

For the first time Fred looked at the front of the telegram. HARVEY STAGECOACH LINES SILVER SPRINGS was on the sender list. He did not like this. He knew the stagecoach line and the place. However, he never received any telegrams from the business and seldom stepped into the town. How could he when he and the sheriff up there weren't exactly friends. Okay, they were polite enough to each other, only that was more for the sake of the badge than anything. Opening the telegram, he began reading.

When all color drained from Fred's face and he looked as if he'd pass out, his deputy quickly stood up. "What is it? What's happened?"

Fred leaned back in his chair and read the words again-as if he was hoping the message would somehow change if he did. Of course, no such thing happened. Slowly, he folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

"Fred?" His deputy took a step closer.

Fred stood up. He wasn't about to tell his deputy what the telegram had said. Well, not before he had traveled out to the Barkley ranch and talked to Nick's family. As hard working as his new deputy was turning out to be-the man did have a tendency to talk just a tad bit too much. In fact, it was that habit that had the man walking a thin rope when it came to keeping his job. If Fred told him Nick and his bride had been killed before going out to the ranch, it would be all over town before Fred had a chance to prepare the Barkleys for the news. "I'll be back later, and tell you everything." He put his coat and hat back on and stepped out in the rain-which had surprisingly gone from a raging storm to a light drizzle. Only after the door was shut and he was on his way to the Barkleys, did Fred allow tears (which seldom fell from his face) to roll off his cheeks.