Mississippi
© 2020 J.B. Richard
ISBN-Paperback: 978-0-9991553-4-9
ISBN-Ebook: 978-0-9991553-5-6
Published by:
Fig Publishing
www.jbrichard.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Names: Richard, J. B. (Julie Beth), author.
Title: Mississippi / J.B. Richard.
Description: [Beaver Springs, Pennsylvania] : FIG Publishing, [2020]
Identifiers: ISBN 9780999155349 (print) | ISBN 9780999155356 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Outlaws—Wyoming—19th century—Fiction. |
Bank robberies—Wyoming—19th century—Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | LCGFT: Western fiction. | Action and adventure fiction. | Historical fiction. | Romance fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3618.I343 M577 2020 (print) | LCC PS3618.I343 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6vdc23
Editorial services by: Anne Victory, Editing and Gathering Leaves Editing
Cover and interior design by TLC Book Design, TLCBookDesign.com
Cover: Tamara Dever; Interior: Monica Thomas
Cover Images: Mountains ©Depositphotos.com/kwiktor,
Cowboy on horse ©iStockphoto.com/MikeEpstein
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
When the train whistle blew, Mississippi flicked his cigarette into the street from where he leaned against the porch post of the telegraph office. That long blow was the signal. It was time to begin. The plan was in motion. He pushed through the door—the door to secure success. One man, the pigeon-looking wire clerk with his finger poised to do his business, was the only one inside. Mississippi pulled his knife. The pigeon’s eyes stretched wide.
“Holler an’ I’ll slit your damn throat.” Mississippi shoved him out of his chair and against the wall. Poor bastard cowered on the floor with both hands over his face.
Mississippi hacked once, cutting the line between the telegraph and the pole. No SOS could be sent.
“I’m walkin’ out that door now. You stay put, ‘cause if I see your face, I’ll blow it off.” He patted the .44 on his hip. A good scare usually worked. He didn’t typically get mean unless he had no choice.
The trembling clerk hastily nodded.
Mississippi hustled out just as a mighty kaboom rocked the buildings along both sides of the street. A thick cloud of gray smoke mushroomed over one of the train cars. Right on cue, shouts and screams flew from every direction. Townsmen, some with guns, ran toward the explosion.
What had Rascal done? Used too much powder.
Mississippi kicked the dirt, cursing under his breath. That fool couldn’t be trusted with anything important. The idea was not to draw too much attention, just enough to get people looking away from the bank. That boom certainly captured everyone’s focus, but would it raise suspicion of a robbery?
Behind the engine were three passenger cars, probably carrying families. Mississippi’s gut tightened. Hitched to them were two stock cars, then the caboose. Which of the six had Rascal blown? Surely not one with people. If any women or kids got hurt, he’d shove a fuse in Rascal’s ear and blow him to kingdom come. Mississippi’s chest heaved. He hoped no innocent folks were killed.
He followed along until he reached the bank, where Clint, Porter, and Butch were sacking the money. Everything was going as planned. Except that charge Rascal lit had been too strong. What if Sheriff Curry recognized that huge blast for what it was—a distraction? Curry was a savvy man and might think twice about a train full of store supplies being any kind of target. Sweat trickled down Mississippi’s neck—not because the sunshine was overly hot. He hurried onto the boardwalk. Chuck was guarding the door from the alleyway where the horses stood ready.
“Get Doc Hostler,” a man on the street yelled to someone.
Rascal, Porter’s dumbass little brother, was supposed to have dynamited a cargo car so no one was to get hurt. Had that idiot purposely blown up one of the cars holding travelers, or perhaps someone had just been standing too close to the tracks?
Mississippi turned in front of the door of the bank. Chuck stepped up next to him, both of them taking in the frenzied sight of townsfolk scurrying about, asking themselves what in the blazes just happened. Mississippi felt almost sick. He’d become quite a lowlife.
“What’re ya waitin’ fer? Git inside an’ help Clint an’ them.” Chuck gave Mississippi a shove.
He jabbed an elbow into Chuck’s nose.
“You sumbitch!” Blood ran between Chuck’s fingers cupping his nose.
“Shut up!” Mississippi had never thought much of Chuck Connelly, a stupid, two-bit thief with a lean face, but for some damn reason, Clint had taken the dog under his wing.
“We need help.” Two men carried a third fella between their shoulders. His feet dragged, and there was blood all over his shirt and the side of his face. More folks came away from the station, carrying more wounded. A second great boom rattled the town.
What was Rascal doing? That wasn’t part of the plan.
Mississippi’s heart pounded. Why the second blast? Was Rascal trying to prove himself again? Wouldn’t that be just like him, as he was always grasping to impress Clint? Did he figure killing innocent folks was the way to do that? Impressive would be Rascal actually following through with the plan exactly as it had been laid out instead of going rogue. Bloodthirsty was what he was, just plain mean.
Mississippi shouldered past Chuck and stormed into the bank. He looked about until he spotted Porter. At his feet were two clerks, tied up and gagged. He was keeping his rifle pointed in their faces.
“Rascal was only supposed to set off one charge. There’s women and children being hauled out of that mess. What the hell is he thinkin’?” Mississippi wished Rascal was standing right in front of him because he would have enjoyed punching him between the eyes.
Porter threw a glance out the window. “Guess he figured blowing up barrels of whiskey and yard goods wouldn’t keep all them townsfolk and their sheriff distracted long enough for us to steal this money. Good change of plan, huh?” Porter smirked.
Mississippi swung a right hook that twisted Porter halfway around, then went at him with both fists. Porter dropped his rifle. It hit the floor and boom, a window shattered. Out on the street, a woman screamed. Aw shit! Had they injured her or worse? The shot, the scream—it had happened so fast and threw his focus off Porter, who landed a solid five knuckles against Mississippi’s cheekbone, making him see lights for a second or two.
“Knock it off before I plug ya both.” Clint had his rifle aimed at them.
Sobs carried in from outside. Mississippi went to the window. Something in him sank. It wasn’t supposed to have played out like this. No killing. They had all agreed. The woman who must have screamed was on her knees in th
e dirt, hugging tight to a dead fella. That bullet of Porter’s hadn’t even been aimed, and still, someone caught lead. Something panged in his chest for her deep loss, for her pitiful wailing. The awful sound was stuck in his ears, branding its mark in his brain. He might never forget it. Nor should he. That man died without cause. Mississippi hated himself for being part of it. His life had gotten turned the wrong way, and unfortunately, it was too late to straighten it out. Dead or alive, he was worth twenty-five hundred dollars.
Others, who’d been hightailing it toward the ugliness at the train station, now gathered around the grieving woman. Mississippi’s gut twisted into an almighty big knot. If anyone noticed them inside, it would certainly lead to more shooting, which meant more killing. A couple of those men held rifles. One of them looked in Chuck’s direction. Why hadn’t Chuck ducked back into the alleyway?
Mississippi cursed under his breath. Chuck was another in the gang who couldn’t altogether think for himself. Avoiding a shootout wasn’t all that hard if a little forethought was put into it.
A pistol cracked. The man outside the window grabbed his guts as he dropped to his knees. A high-pitched scream burst out, making Mississippi’s ears ring.
The door flung open with a bang against the wall. Mississippi’s hand swept down and came up with his pistol, his thoughts hammering away. No one was supposed to enter. Their town had been struck a mighty blow when that car exploded. These citizens should have been at the train station, picking up those pieces, saving who they could, although that hadn’t been the plan. This stupid fool must not have realized what was going on inside, because when he ran through the doorway, his eyes widened and he plumb froze. He’d probably thought he was getting out of the line of fire. He didn’t even have his gun pointed.
Mississippi wasn’t about to shoot, not unless shot at. That fella would probably turn and run if given a chance.
Porter cut him down with one squeeze of the trigger.
“Porter. You ass.” Mississippi wasn’t holding back his anger. Anyone with eyes could see that fella had been too scared to react. About then, Mississippi wanted to smack Porter upside the head, maybe knock sense into him.
Two men charged in, and one of them was wearing a badge. Gunfire shook the place. Both men dropped where they stood. Blood splattered the wall and puddled the floor around the bodies. Unfortunately, Mississippi was too familiar with situations that demanded the execution of the rule: kill or be killed. As much as he didn’t want to take anyone’s life, he had a fondness for breathing and aimed to stay alive.
“The bank, it’s being robbed!” someone out on the street shouted. Frantic voices buzzed back and forth to one another, a rush of nearing feet, and Mississippi knew it was time to get the hell out of there.
“Let’s go!” Clint tossed a bag of loot to Butch, who held tight to three more bags stuffed full of greenbacks. Clint lit out the door, pumping the action on his carbine, Butch on his heels.
Mississippi’s pistol jerked in his hand as he worked the trigger. Next to him, Porter had his rifle aimed into the crowd as they barreled through the doorway. Lead balls tinged the front of the building all around them. Fear squeezed the air out of Mississippi’s lungs. Chuck lay facedown in the dirt in a pool of blood.
Mississippi ducked, firing on the run. Clint was on his horse when Butch screeched and one of his legs buckled, throwing him right into the dirt, but he didn’t lose hold of that money. Mississippi yanked him up by the ass of his pants. Clint fired over their heads at the posse of men. Porter hollered and grabbed at his shoulder where he’d been plugged with lead, then returned fire. Butch caught a slug in the hip, then another in his back, which pitched him forward, and he stumbled, damn near hitting the dirt. Mississippi dropped his reins that he’d just scooped off the ground, twisted around, and unloaded his revolver into that posse. Butch had a foot in the stirrup when a hole got blown through his shoulder. The cash bags fell with Butch, who lay in a heap almost under his horse. Mississippi didn’t believe they were getting out of this alive, but he wasn’t willing to surrender to get hanged.
Clint and Porter were battling to keep them all from getting killed. Mississippi hauled Butch up and threw him on his horse. Somehow, he managed the reins. Mississippi grabbed the money sacks, jamming them into Butch’s saddlebags, his own horse a step or two away. Too far to worry about the money. He might be gunned down in that distance. He gave Butch’s horse a hard slap on the rump. The mare jumped forward, then took off running. Mississippi then jumped into the saddle and sank spurs.
Shots echoed behind them as their horses thundered away from town, across the valley, and into the hills. Mississippi looked over. Butch was leaned far forward, his big hands gripping the saddle horn. He was a man in his forties, old compared to the rest of them. If Butch died, then his blood would be on Rascal’s hands.
Mississippi was seething, his breath steaming out of him. Never before had a plan gone so wrong, but ordinarily, Rascal hadn’t played such a vital role. Usually, he was in charge of holding the horses or being the lookout, something simple. Chuck had backed away from being in control of the powder. Rascal jumped at that opportunity, and look where it had landed them. In the middle of hell.
Clint peeked over his shoulder. “We got a big cloud of dust behind us, boys.” Mississippi never doubted the posse would follow. Those riders were just a bunch of shopkeepers and bankers, but looking at Butch, leaking all over creation, that was some convincing testimony. Those fellas weren’t afraid to fight and try to take back what had been theirs. Indeed, they had killed Chuck, perhaps Rascal too.
Their horses splashed through a creek and scrambled up the sandy bank on the far side. Jay Simpson was waiting a half mile ahead, top of the bluff, dappled in spruce. He was the best rifleman amongst them. He’d done some sniping in the war between the states, and he carried with him a long-range buffalo rifle.
A blast rang down through the valley from above, where Jay had been planted to hold off any posse. That dusty cloud of riders was gaining ground on them.
“Where’s Rascal?” Porter barked. His little brother hadn’t caught up yet. He should have hightailed it to the bank after blowing up the train car. That had been the plan. Things had gone awry, and Mississippi was still in shock. Chuck’s bloody carcass was lying back in that town and would probably be put on display in a coffin, and to boot, Butch was half dead. Mississippi didn’t relish the thought of his own corpse being a sideshow.
“Never mind that! Look!” Clint jerked his head.
Behind them, the posse had split into two big bunches. Had to be six or seven men in each group.
Dammit, Mississippi cursed to himself. Jay couldn’t fend off a charge from two directions.
Mississippi’s horse, Peppy, made a beeline. A scattering of trees here and there gave him some cover. Farther up the ridge side were Clint and Porter. Butch wasn’t far behind them, a few lengths at most. He bobbed in ragdoll-like fashion against his horse’s shoulder with each long stride. Porter glanced back, likely searching for Rascal, when he noticed the sorry-ass shape their amigo was in. That greedy bastard wheeled his horse alongside Butch’s mare, then grabbed his reins.
It wasn’t Butch that Porter was looking out for. Mississippi was sure of that. If the tables had been turned, Butch would have done the same thing. None of them wanted to lose that horse, not when it was carrying a hundred thousand dollars. Mississippi believed that money was a big part of his out. If ever a chance showed itself and he could slip away from the gang without getting shot in the back, he’d do it. Being a wanted man, there were only two places he could go and not have to look over his shoulder every day for the rest of his life. Mexico or Canada. And he’d need money to make it to either.
Before they crested the knob, Clint let out a loud whistle. “Jay, get your horse. We gotta ride.”
The posse was putting ground behind them fast. In no time, that hill could be surrounded and Jay caught if he didn’t hurry. None of the ga
ng wished to hang.
Jay Simpson jumped in the saddle and swung his horse in with the rest of them. Mississippi’s gelding was young and strong, but after scrambling up the steep ridge, he was snorting, as were all the other horses.
Half of the posse was charging up the ridge behind them, and a half dozen others had skirted around the foot of the hill. With flat and easy riding, a horse wouldn’t become too winded, and it was quicker than going up and over.
Mississippi hadn’t foreseen the split. Most posses stuck together as one tight mob. That hanging party might just be able to get in front of them and put up a good fight until the posse behind them caught up. Mississippi and his pards would be caught in a flaming crossfire.
His spurs hammered the sides of his horse, and the tail of his coat flapped. There was a slim chance of slipping ahead of that posse. Straight down the ridge, their horses raced headlong. What kept Butch from tumbling out of the saddle? God only knew. Butch was horribly pale and his eyes listless, barely open a slit. If he fell, it’d be a death sentence for any one of them to hold up. They’d have to leave him. That posse was too awful close to chance stopping, even to rescue a riding companion. Butch was likely a goner anyway.
When they streaked out of the tree line less than fifty yards ahead of the posse, shots fired. Mississippi skinned his revolver, returning fire. Jay had his six-shooter gripped tight in his palm, flame blasting from the end. Clint was popping off shots too.
A bullet zinged past Mississippi’s ear. He shrank in the saddle. Lord Almighty, that’d been close—too close. His eardrum was ringing loudly inside his head. More shots rang out. Jay Simpson pitched forward on his horse and groaned. Red stained his coat just above his hip.
“Split up, boys. See ya at Topper’s,” Clint shouted over the gunfire.
Clint and Jay cut slightly east, toward Powder River. That posse wasn’t letting up and might follow across the current if the water wasn’t high, and likely, it was low. There hadn’t been much rain lately. The parched, dusty ground was overdue for a good soaking drink. Porter kept his horse running straight with Butch in tow, heading toward Ten Sleep Canyon. Mississippi split to the west, hightailing it for the mountains. There must have been some confusion about the sudden breakup of riders, and the posse faltered briefly. Then, in threes or fours, the posse broke.
Mississippi Page 1
