In the local sheriffs office, where dust was fixing on every surface, the quiet telegraph machine clattered to life.

The loud, rhythmic noise woke Jebidiah Dawson from his peaceful nap.

It caught him terribly surprised. The thing never made a sound, and was all together a useless investment.

It’s best quality was that Jeb never had to think about it, until now.

So Jeb gave a loud groan and moved his feet off the wooden table before him.

The light filtering through the window caught on the swirling specks of dust as he moved about the room.

The tapping had come to an end by the time the writing on the paper could be seen.

Samuel Turner.

Missing.

And Jebadiah did not quite know what to think. He knew the name.

Turner.

Samuel Turner was the son of some old money family. They ran a Tobacco plantation somewhere further west.

A fair ways west, so what the hell was he going to do about it.

Jebadiah pulled out a smoke and lit it, the thick smell of aged tobacco coating his lungs.

He took another long drag, then another, contemplating the disappearance of the Turner boy.

Perhaps he was kidnapped, being held for ransom, perhaps he was a prisoner for the war, perhaps he just ran away.

Whatever it was, it was not Jeb’s problem.

In fact, Jeb was in the middle of a very important nap before he was so rudely awoken.

He looked to the paper in his hand.

Samuel Turner.

And just when he went to set the paper alight with the end of his tobacco roll, watch the boys name become engulfed by flame, a knock rang out against the door.

Once, twice.

Three times.

“Sir, I need ya help” a young voice rings out.

Jebadiah grinds his teeth and drops the paper to the ground.

He stalks over to the door, but takes a moment to calmly, civilly, open the door.

There’s a young boy in the empty doorway, blonde hair, brown eyes, covered in dust and wearing tattered clothes. Once fine, now ruined.

“Ma’ names’ Sam Turner, I need ya’ help”.

And Jebadiah Dawson’s eye twitched.