WIP Wednesday: Old Friends

Thanks for all the birthday wishes yesterday. It was a good day.

I'll keep this brief because I have miles to go before I'm done writing for the day:

“Don’t worry yourself any, Sheriff.” Sam swallowed hard, remembering. He knew all about jobs too big for abilities. He’d struggled in his first month out at Broughton’s Hollow, fought hard with all the horrors the Sons of Chaos could bring. He motioned for quiet and peeled off his hat, peering over a blond rock. Below, at least two hundred yards away, the black mouth of the Old North Mine stood out against the painted yellows, reds, and tans of the hillside.

“Anyone?” Hesston asked.

Sam began shaking his head, but stopped and held back a hand.

At the edge of the entrance, a shape moved, not much more than the edge of a shadow. Sam tumbled back as a spray of rocks erupted a few feet from his face. The rifle report echoed through the valley a split-second later.

“Don’t move gentlemen.”

The voice came from behind, a deep, rough, and familiar voice.

Abraham Reaver.

I guess he didn't die, after all...