Chapter Eleven

"He's supposed to be holed up down there somewhere," Zachariah said as he and Wyatt lay belly down on a hilltop and studied the abandoned ghost town below.

Wyatt pulled his looking glass from his belt and took a closer look at the dilapidated buildings. He saw several men standing and chit catting with rifles resting loosely in their arms. They seemed to be focused around one building in particular—what appeared to be an old saloon.

Wyatt handed the looking glass to Zachariah and waited patiently as he scanned the scene as well. Zachariah's hand tightened dangerously and his knuckles whitened.

Wyatt reached over and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Zachariah glanced his way and Wyatt managed a smile. 'Ready to shoot some people?'

Some of the worry faded from Zachariah's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I am. It looks like they're probably holding her in that saloon—at least I hope so. We'll go with your plan. You sneak in the back and I'll go through the front door. I'm not real good at sneaking. You slip inside, unnoticed and silent f you can and find her if she's there. I'll take care of those guards." Zachariah clicked his tongue. "And Wyatt?" Zachariah added turning his head to face him.

Wyatt raised his brow. Zachariah sighed. "Be careful."

Wyatt nodded. The two men slipped back away from the hilltop and came up with a plan. Wyatt was to sneak in while Zachariah waited. Once Wyatt found Eleanor, he would start shooting and Zachariah would come charging from the front to take out the outside guards.

Zachariah hadn't liked the idea of Wyatt sneaking in alone at first but Wyatt had reminded him of just how quiet he could move about and so the other man had finally agreed. They needed to find Eleanor and ensure she was safe before bullets began flying—Zachariah was far too big and far too angry to make stealth or subtlety a possibility.

"Wyatt, whatever you do, don't get yourself killed. If you get in trouble, just fire off a shot and I'll come to you. If I don't hear anything after ten minutes, I'm coming in after you."

Wyatt patted the other man on the back as he adjusted his gun belt. 'We'll have your sister back in no time.'

Zachariah nodded. "I'm trusting you."

Wyatt saw something flicker in Zachariah's gray eyes....something that had him swallowing hard and nodding as he stepped back. He ensured that his shot gun and revolver were loaded, patted the knife on his leg and slipped away—hoping he could do his job without letting Zachariah down.

***

Zachariah watched Wyatt go and wasn't at all happy. He didn't want the other man sneaking in alone but, once he'd seen the outlay of the town, Wyatt had made the suggestion and Zachariah had been forced to agree it was the best and most obvious choice.

Hell, Zachariah knew how sneaky Wyatt could be. The man was like a shadow and had snuck up on Zachariah more than a few times. If anyone would be able to slip into the building without alerting the men outside it would be Wyatt. And, given Zachariah's knowledge of this particular gang, he knew that there would only be two to three men inside for Wyatt to deal with and the four out here were Zachariah's.

All Zachariah could do was hope and trust that Wyatt would find Eleanor alive and safe inside that saloon. If she wasn't there.........

Zachariah shook his head.

She would be there.

***

Wyatt took advantage of the darkening evening and stuck to the shadows and he slipped through the deserted town and made his way to the dilapidated saloon.

Avoiding the back door, Wyatt slipped in through a broken window and found himself inside what must have once been the storage room. Broken cases of whiskey bottles and barrels of beer filled the dusty expanse of space inside.

A faint smile born of amusement and sadness alike, curved Wyatt's lips as he remembered another time when he had found himself in a saloon storage room. He'd been locked up with Craig and Willie, the first time that Wyatt had decided to stand up for himself. He recalled how scared Craig had been of Jeb finding out they'd gotten in trouble and he also recalled how Gill had put that saloon owner in his place real fast.

Those memories now seemed as if they were from an entirely different lifetime.

Shaking his head to focus on the now instead of the past, Wyatt tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear against the rough wood. Two muffled male voices came from the next room.

Pulling his knife, Wyatt cracked open the door and crouched low as he peeked inside the saloon. Two men sat at a back table with a deck of cards between them. Other than that, the big room was empty.

Wyatt figured, if they were keeping Eleanor in the saloon, they'd be keeping her in one of the rooms upstairs. That meant he needed to get to the staircase and the poker players were in his way. If either of those men made a sound it would alert the four men with guns milling about outside. They weren't on high alert—seemed more like they were relaxing—but they were still outlaws with weapons and Wyatt wasn't about to assume they weren't dangerous.

Studying the layout of the room, it didn't take Wyatt long to come up with a plan. He had always been good at things like this—it had been his main job with the gang. He'd almost always been the one to sneak inside the rich homesteads.

The two men ended a hand and one laughed victoriously while the other tossed down his cards and cursed. "Damn you, you son of a bitch. If it weren't my deck we were playing with, I'd swear you were...."

His words ended abruptly. The other man's laughter faded slowly as he studied his card playing partner. "You okay?" he asked cautiously.

The losers only response was a muffled gurgle before blood spewed from his mouth. The other man had no time to comprehend what was happening before Wyatt pulled his knife from the dying man's back. He spun the weapon as he stood straight, revealing himself, and then tossed the knife through the air, sinking it deep into the second man's heart.

With both men now out of the way, Wyatt wiped his knife clean and headed up the creaking staircase—moving as silently as he could and praying no one would hear the aged wood protesting his weight.

He carefully checked each room, stopping when he heard a muffled whimper come from down the hall. Hastening his pace, Wyatt approached the door and listened close.

The whimpering was certainly feminine and he could also hear what sounded like a man grunting. Wyatt's blood boiled. He knew damn well what was going on in that room. The thought of Zachariah's sister being forced—and knowing what that would do to Zachariah—made Wyatt see red.

He slammed into the door, breaking the lock. As he stumbled into the room, a naked man leapt from the bed where a woman lay bound and bleeding. Wyatt knew the moment his eyes fell on her pale skin and red hair that she wasn't Eleanor—but she still needed his help.

Figuring that this man might be able to help in finding Zachariah's sister, Wyatt chose not to kill him immediately. Instead he pulled his shot gun and blasted a shot through the man's thigh, shattering bone and mutilating flesh.

The man screamed as he fell to the ground, no longer reaching for the gun belt beside the window. At the sound of the gun blast more shot and cries of alarm sounded from outside. Wyatt hoped Zachariah would be okay.

He ripped the curtains down and used them to tie the injured man's arms. The man offered no fight. He was too busy crying, whimpering and begging for mercy.

Wyatt didn't have any for a man who would beat and rape a helpless woman—those types of men didn't deserve a thing like mercy.

With the man secure, Wyatt dashed from the room to check the few doors he'd skipped but, just as he'd begun to fear, Eleanor wasn't there.

The gunfire ended outside and footsteps pounded up the staircase. Wyatt raised his gun, fully prepared to shoot, but instead let out a silent cry of relief when Zachariah appeared at the top of the staircase. The man was whole, safe and uninjured.

Wyatt's entire body sagged with relief as the emotion washed over him. Zachariah came to Wyatt and touched his arm gently. "I'm damn glad you're okay, Wyatt. I didn't like this plan of yours one damn bit."

Wyatt shrugged. 'It was a good plan.'

Zachariah rolled his eyes and let out a growl. "Did you find Eleanor?" he demanded, glancing over Wyatt's shoulder.

Wyatt shook his head. 'She's not here. There is a woman but not her. I left a man alive. You can talk to him.'

Zachariah's scarred face paled, the white lines and raised skin sticking out sharply as his eyes reddened. "She's not here?"

Wyatt didn't know what to do so he did the first thing that came to mind and threw his arms around Zachariah in a hug. Zachariah stiffened at first and then he squeezed Wyatt gently before pulling away. "Where's the man? Take me to him."

Wyatt nodded and turned quickly, leading Zachariah to their prisoner. While Zachariah went straight to the bleeding man and stared down at him, Wyatt went to the woman and undid the ropes holding her. He offered her a reassuring smile as she shied away from him.

Wyatt grabbed a stiff wool blanket from the floor and covered her bare body before turning his attention back to Zachariah. "Where the hell is my sister?" Zachariah demanded of the man at his feet.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." the man snapped as he attempted to sit up against the wall and licked at his sweat-slicked upper lip. "Tie my damn leg before I bleed to death."

"I ain't tying anything, you bastard," Zachariah growled, before kicking the man hard in the injured thigh.

Screams of pain filled the room and Wyatt winced as he did his best to block the woman's view of the gore. He assumed she had already seen enough and it was clear she was terrified—and Zachariah appearance just now did not help that.

The man was nearly seven feet of solid, vibrating, enraged muscle. His scarred cheeks were twitching as his jaw clenched and his gray eyes were a storm of rage. Even Wyatt felt a stirring of fear at the sight of him. Though Wyatt understood the anger. He understood the urge to kill that swam in a person's blood knowing they were facing a man who had harmed someone they loved.

"I haven't seen Clint. Where is he? Where did he take my sister?"

The man on the floor began to laugh. Wyatt knew the man was dying—his blood loss was too great. His laughter seemed to further anger Zachariah and Wyatt was certain he heard the man's knuckles pop as his hands clenched.

"I'm not telling you a damn thing, Zachariah. You shouldn't have killed Russel. You should have left well enough alone. Whatever happens to your sister is your fault—remember that. You only have yourself to blame."

Wyatt leapt forward but was not fast enough to stop Zachariah from hoisting the dying man up by his hair "Where is Clint?" he hissed, pulling the whimpering man's head up even with his own.

"Go to hell."

Zachariah pulled his revolver with his free hand and pressed it to the man's temple. "Goddammit, tell me where he is! What have you done with my sister?"

"Shoot me, you bastard. I'm dying either way."

Zachariah growled, Wyatt winced and the woman on the bed began to scream when Zachariah pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed in the small room and blood splattered the wall.

Wyatt had no idea what to say or do. Zachariah let the body fall to the floor before striding from the room without a single glance toward Wyatt or the woman.