Chapter Twenty-Four

Zachariah had never been a man who believed in pacing. He hadn't ever found it to solve a damn thing and had believed it to simply be wasted energy and movement.

He'd had a recent change in his way of thinking.

Pacing was now the only thing keeping him sane.

It was either he pace a damn hole straight through the ground to hell or he'd lose his damned mind.

Where was Pete? Had he run into trouble? The man hadn't been gone too terribly wrong but Zachariah felt his mind coming up with all different sorts of terrible scenarios.

His gut said something was wrong.

Zachariah trusted his gut.

He stopped his pacing and his gaze met Gilliam's. The other man nodded. "You feel it too?" Gill asked.

"I think we all feel it," Craig acknowledged.

Jeb stood up and holstered the gun he'd been absent-mindedly spinning. "Something's off."

Without another word, the three men mounted up. The house wasn't too far off and they could only hope they would get there in time to help with whatever was wrong.

Zachariah's blood froze in his veins when a gunshot echoed from the distance.

It was followed by another—and then more yet. Soon it became quite obvious that a gunfight had broken out.

Zachariah threw caution to the wind as he urged his horse forward, desperate to reach the only two people in the world he loved—and save them.

***

Wyatt winced as the harsh sunlight assaulted his vision. If not for Pete holding tight to him and helping him along, Wyatt would not have been able to continue walking.

"Put him over here," Clint called, pointing to a line of sturdy fence beside the house.

Pete led Wyatt to the designated spot and Wyatt leaned against it heavily to remain on his feet as Pete let go. A frown creased his brow when he noticed a tall, skinny man studying Pete—the man seemed to be trying to figure something out.

Wyatt hadn't had much dealing with the curious man. He'd been one of Reg's hands and hadn't shown much interest in torturing Wyatt.

"Okay.. now how should we begin the torture this quiet negro deserves?" Clint asked

Wyatt would have laughed, had his ribs not been hurting so badly. Deserved? What the hell had he done to deserve anything that had happened to him lately?

Pete shrugged as he moved to the side, standing at an angle about fifteen feet from Wyatt. "Everyone likes different things when it comes to torture. What tickles your fancy?"

As Clint and Pete began to discuss various forms of causing Wyatt pain, Wyatt continued to study the tall, malnourished man. The man's brows knitted together and then suddenly, his face paled, his mouthed opened and his eyes widened.

He pulled his revolver and aimed it straight at Pete. "Get away from him, Clint!"

Pete threw up his hands and laughed, though Wyatt could hear the tension in the sound. "Control your friend with the itchy trigger finger."

Clint frowned and glanced toward Reg before looking at the gun happy man. "What are you doing, Frank?"

"I know him, Clint. I know that man."

Wyatt groaned inwardly. He inched his hand toward the back of his trousers and touched the handle of the gun resting there. He had no idea if he had the strength to draw it and shoot it with any accuracy, but he was at least going to try if it came to that.

"Well, I reckon I introduced myself," Pete replied with a chuckle. "You can put the gun away...."

"Shut your mouth," Reg snapped, holding up a hand. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Frank. "Who is he?"

"Pete... uh... Pete Bardo...or something along those lines," Frank replied. "He's a goddamn Texas Ranger, Reg."

Suddenly seven guns were aimed directly at Pete. Pete shook his head. "I'm not..."

"He is!" Frank insisted. "He and that damn colored fella.... Uh.. Rafe Tomlinson's boy, they were regular old bounty hunters for them damn Rangers. Took down my uncle Ralph McGee."

Pete gagged. "Your uncle was ol' Bigfoot McGee? Loudest, smelliest damn man I ever did meet."

Frank growled but Clint appeared thoughtful. "I never met Rafe's boy but I can tell you that there was no love lost between Rafe and I. He was always a bit too much of the helping the helpless type for my taste. I've always preferred helping myself."

"That's a good way to be," Pete agreed.

Wyatt's heart was pounding. He couldn't let anything happen to Pete..... Jane and the baby would need him!

"So are you who he says you are?" Clint cocked his gun and his expression was hard. "Are you a damn Texas Ranger?"

Pete shook his head. "If your malnourished friend here knows so much about me, then he also oughta know that, according to the Rangers records, I died a while back. I was shot dead after I turned on them and went to the other side. I haven't been on their payroll in a long time."

Clint glanced at Reg who simply shrugged. "You must think I'm stupid, don't you?" Clint demanded of Pete.

Pete scoffed. "Of course not!" He frowned. "You can't read minds, can you?"

Clint seemed unaffected by Pete's taunt. "I didn't know who you were until Frank said your name but I heard about those damn rangers who turned on the state of Texas. Yeah, I heard they began running with a gang—the Crane Gang. Bunch of bed-wetting mama's boys is all those folks were. They were like old Rafe and believed in doing bad to serve for good or some such nonsense like that."

Wyatt bristled with annoyance but forced himself to keep his feelings about Clint's insults to himself. Pete simply stood there appearing more serious than Wyatt had ever seen him appear. Gone was the easy-going, almost daft smile. Gone was that boyish glint in his eyes. Pete looked every inch a grown and dangerous man who knew he was being cornered.

"Do you have a point or do you just like listening to the sound of your own voice?" Pete grumbled.

Clint sneered. "The point is I believe you are a member of the Crane gang and I believe that this quiet man here must be too and that's why you're here. You think I didn't notice that he seemed almost happy to see you?"

"You're a full bubble off of plumb," Pete countered. "I came for a job....."

"I've had enough. If you're here, that means the rest can't be far off. It's time to end this," Clint snarled.

Wyatt drew his gun and fired off a shot just as Clint's gun went off. Wyatt's shaky aim had the bullet slamming into Clint's arm. Wyatt didn't see where Pete was hit but he saw Pete go down.

Wyatt made a mad dive for the watering trough beside him and a barrage of bullets thudded loudly against the wood. Wyatt fired off another few shots blindly and heard the unmistakable sound of bullets striking flesh as men cried out.

He glanced toward an outbuilding to see Clint, bloody arm wrapped around Eleanor leading her away. Pete had managed to crawl to the cover of a barrel and four of Clint's men, including his brother Reg and the skinny man Frank, lay bleeding and dead or dying on the ground.

Wyatt forced himself to his knees, looked over the top of the trough and fired a shot at Clint, praying his shaky aim wouldn't cause him to hit Eleanor. Clint cursed loudly when the bullet whistled past his head. He threw Eleanor down and fired a shot at Wyatt.

The roaring of gunfire began to fade from Wyatt's ears as the burning pain of the bullet tearing through his flesh, ripped through his veins. He was barely aware of Clint and two men disappearing from view as they made a run for it.

His vision began to blur and then fade entirely. Wyatt felt cold...and tired. His weak and battered body has suffered too greatly and couldn't afford to lose the blood now pouring from it.

"Wyatt!" Pete's voice was faint.. it was as if Wyatt was fading from the world completely and everything was simply an echo—a shadow of what it had once been.

"He's dying!" Eleanor called out. "Pete! You're hurt badly too!"

Wyatt tried to pull himself back. Pete was hurt. They needed his help.

He had to. Open...His.......Eyes...

Blackness engulfed him then and the world disappeared.

m