Charles frowned, genuinely confused. "You sent me a telegram from town yesterday. Said you hired a private transport company from Blackwater to take you, and that I should take two days' rest."
"I sent no telegram," Arthur said quietly.
Charles froze. The easy morning stillness shattered instantly. Charles had survived the Indian wars and countless outlaws; he knew what a lie like that meant. He reached back and picked up his rifle, racking the lever with a sharp, metallic clack.
"Who is on the box of your coach right now?" Charles asked.
"A dead man, if he stays there long enough," Arthur said. He pulled the small leather ledger from his pocket. "Saddle your horse, Charles. Keep it quiet. Do not use the main road. We are riding into town, and we are not taking the coach."
"Miss Molly?" Charles asked, his voice low.
"She is in the parlor," Arthur said, the exhaustion finally creeping into his tone. "Waiting for me to die."
Charles did not offer pity; he knew Arthur would not want it. He simply nodded. "I will be ready in two minutes. We take the ridge trail."
The ride to town took forty minutes. The ridge trail kept them hidden beneath a thick canopy of pine and spruce. Arthur rode his gray thoroughbred, his mind racing faster than the horse's hooves.
They arrived at the back alley of Valentine, tying their horses behind a sturdy brick building. A wooden sign above the door read: Hosea Matthews, Attorney at Law.
Hosea was an older man with silver hair and a sharp, calculating mind. He had been Arthur's legal counsel for fifteen years. He was sitting at his cluttered mahogany desk, sipping black coffee when Arthur and Charles walked through the back door unannounced.
Hosea took one look at Arthur's face and set his coffee cup down.
"Lock the door, Charles," Hosea said. He pulled the blinds shut. "Arthur, sit down. You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I almost became one," Arthur said. He dropped the leather ledger onto Hosea's desk.