An Outlaw's Silence (manxman)(second story in The Crane Gang series)

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Zachariah was balancing a tray from the diner in his hands as he entered the room he'd be sharing with Wyatt a short while later. With disappointment he realized that Wyatt hadn't made it back. He'd been hoping the man would hurry with his shower so they could enjoy their time together.

Zachariah knew that Wyatt was innocent, nervous and afraid. He knew that he'd have to do his best to show at least the smallest fraction of self-control when he finally took the man.

Zachariah had a feeling that was going to be damn hard.

He placed the tray on the small table in the corner. Zachariah was starving but he didn't want to eat without Wyatt. He knew that Wyatt had to be just as hungry. Zachariah sat in the empty wooden chair beside the window and watched the dark road below. He'd lit the lamps in the room before going for dinner and the glow was warm.

Zachariah hoped they'd learn something about Clint while in town. But even if they didn't, the stop wasn't a waste. He needed to have time with Wyatt. If he didn't ease the frustration and want in his blood, he'd self-combust for sure.

Seconds ticked by and became minutes which soon became half an hour. Zachariah felt worry settle into his gut. He was a man who typically trusted his instincts and, just now, his instincts were telling him he needed to check on Wyatt.

Leaving his room, Zachariah went to Craig's door and knocked but there was no answer and the door was locked. He assumed the man might have gone down the road to the saloon—though he hoped that wasn't the case for Wyatt's sake. He didn't need to see his friend drunk on whiskey again.

Zachariah bounded down the steps and went through the door to the showers. It was a small room with drains in the wooden floor and crude walls constructed for privacy between the bathers. Gravity fed the shower spigots from the water in a barrel being kept full by a tired looking Chinaman and warmed by a fire lit beneath them.

Instantly, Zachariah knew Wyatt wasn't there. The doors to the two stalls left the bathers heads visible and both of these men were a bit too pale and a bit too homely to be his man.

That worry in his gut grew.

"Sir?" Zachariah got the Chinaman's attention. "Have you seen a colored man in here this evening? He stands about this tall—" Zachariah indicated his shoulder. "And he can't speak..."

The Chinaman nodded. "Yes. Yes," he replied in heavily accented English. "He in here a while ago. He take shower and say he gonna go back upstairs."

The worry in Zachariah's gut gnawed a hole.

"How long ago did he leave?"

The Chinaman shrugged before dumping another bucket of water into the heated barrel. "I not have watch and I'm too busy to keep track of time. I say about thirty minutes or so."

Zachariah turned and left quickly. Thirty minutes? Wyatt had been done showering for thirty minutes? Where the hell was he?

The hotel clerk was sitting behind his desk reading a newspaper when Zachariah approached. When the man saw him, he let out a squeak and hopped to his feet. "Yes sir? What can I do for you?" he asked with exaggerated graciousness.

Zachariah rapped his fingers on the wooden counter. "Have you seen the quiet man I came in with?"

"You mean the darker skinned gentleman?"

Zachariah growled. "Yeah. That one."

"Yes sir. I uh... I suppose I should have told you. He seemed to be having an altercation with another man and they stepped outside. Your friend never came back."

Zachariah's contempt for the pot-bellied, bow-legged, weak-eyed little weasel behind the desk boiled over and once he again he found himself reaching across the desk and hoisting the worthless bastard up by the shirt collar.

"What kind of altercation?" he all but snarled.

The clerk stammered several times before he was able to form words. "The other man.. he hit the colored man and they scuffled a bit before the lighter skinned man dragged him outside."

Zachariah clenched his free hand and wondered if the damn clerk was worth a punch. "And you didn't tell me? Or go get the law?!"

"No." The answer came so quickly and so simply that Zachariah dropped his hold and stood in shock. Why some people could be so cruel and judgmental of others always shocked him.

"What did the man look like?"

"He is a guest here," the clerk replied, straightening his shirt and backing up to ensure he was out of Zachariah's reach. "I do not like to betray the trust of my guests."

Zachariah's hand was on the handle of his revolver before he could stop himself. "Goddammit, who was he?" he demanded.

"His name is written on that ledger but I won't reveal it and if you pull that gun, I'll yell for the law. We have a town constable eating in the diner and he'll be happy to jail you."

Zachariah laughed humorlessly. A constable? "You'd do well to tell me what he looked like or that constable will be cleaning up your bloody corpse."

The clerk cleared his trembling throat and wiped off his glasses. "Tall. Blond hair. A mustache..." Zachariah was reading the names on the guest list the best he could and just as the definition the man was giving him began to sink in, his eyes landed on a familiar name.

Zachariah turned and bolted from the hotel. "Goddamn son of a bitch!"

He ran down the road, not stopping until he reached a saloon and barreled in, causing a string of curses as he knocked into several men. His eyes landed on Craig at a back table playing poker.

"Come on," Zachariah snapped as he approached the table. "We're leaving."

Craig nodded as he quickly stood. "What's wrong?" he asked, following Zachariah to the door. "Is Wyatt sick?"

Zachariah's heart pounded hard in his chest as his gut twisted. His eyes followed a man walking down the road, twirling a silver tipped cane but his mind was on his poor man and the hell Zachariah was fixing to bring down on the bastard who had him.

"Wyatt's gone."

Craig grabbed Zachariah's arm and yanked him around. "What the hell do you mean, 'gone'?" he exclaimed. "Where'd he go?!"

Zachariah rubbed at his neck and gripped his gun. "Clint. Clint was here and now Clint has him."