Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  Growing up on the outskirts of Port Gibson, lots of folks had traveled through by way of steamboat, and the town grew. Businesses of all kinds popped up, and that was how Pa met his second wife. Madam Loretta was her name, a woman of ill repute. Ma had been dead almost a year, leaving Pa a sad, lonely man. Ma, who had nursed Mississippi on words from the good book every morning, was a kindhearted lady, loved by all.

  After Madam Loretta left her profession for Pa, she kept her head up, despite the foul looks and whispered accusations by so-called respectable women. After they’d overheard some busybodies clucking at each other about how Pa must have been crazy or drunk to have married a soiled dove and how unfortunate for him as a boy old enough to understand the sensitive nature of her morality, his new ma wanted to know if he had any pause about her past. Did it bother him? He’d shaken his head. She treated him with kindness just as his late mother had. In fact, both women had doted on him.

  That day, she’d gone on to explain that sometimes circumstances could throw a person into a way of life that they never saw coming, and no one should be looked down upon for taking care of themselves. He’d gotten the distinct impression she was talking about herself. Pa treated both women the very same, even though they’d been vastly different in all manners of being. Madam Loretta didn’t take lip from anyone and, at times, had an edge to her. Ma had been much softer and followed diligently behind Pa. A few times, when Mississippi was a boy, he hadn’t been so sure if Pa or the madam wore the pants in the family. It made him chuckle.

  Mississippi had a hunch only, no real reason to go hunting the pretty girl. Just the same, that gnawing in his gut—the same one that always warned of trouble—was prodding him. “How long ago did she leave?”

  Topper stopped stitching. “Maybe ten minutes.” Her rocking chair creaked with each move.

  He shoved on his coat and picked up his rifle at the door, confident he could catch Rascal before he got wind of the girl. He had probably waited a few minutes before creeping in behind her so she wouldn’t sense him stalking her. Time wise, that put him only five or six minutes ahead.

  Mississippi threw his saddle over his horse’s back. He studied the ground where the mule had stood. Big feet and unshod, those prints wouldn’t be hard to follow, nor the fresh tracks made by Rascal’s horse. Mississippi spurred his gelding.

  At a fast pace, Peppy weaved between the trees along the mountainside. After a mile, the pair of tracks he trailed turned. His horse scrambled up the muddy slope. The ground leveled off where the path turned again.

  Behind him, a shot rang out across the mountainside, then another. Volleying rifle fire shook the trees. Mississippi jerked up on the reins. Somewhere ahead of him, the girl would soon find herself alone with Rascal. Behind him, it could only be one thing. The posse had snuck up, and the boys, along with Topper and Buckhorn, were trapped.

  Smoke puffed above the treetops over Topper’s place. He wheeled Peppy. The mountain girl was on her own for now. He hoped she had the guts to use that carbine.

  The gelding thundered down the mountain. Twenty yards from Topper’s, two men twisted around at the sound of his charging horse. He squeezed off two rounds, killing them both before either had a bead on him. He’d had no choice. That posse was riled. They’d lit the cabin, so they aimed to have the gang one way or another. A third man stepped around a tree, and his rifle boomed. Mississippi grabbed his arm, flipped his pistol into the other hand, and fired. The bullet skimmed the fella’s neck. He dove into the brush while firing, and Mississippi shot back. A groan echoed. Mississippi must have hit him hard. The man stumbled out, holding his gut. After two or three aimless steps, he fell on his face.

  The ground rumbled behind him. Rascal appeared alone, coming down the same path that Mississippi had just used. Was the girl okay? He couldn’t worry about her, not now. The entire roof of the trade post was up in flames. Those inside needed out of there.

  “I’ll cover this side. Get to the corral, guard those horses, an’ cover the rear door.” If anyone made it out, they’d need a horse.

  Mississippi didn’t turn his back until Rascal had gone.

  Blasts of flame went off everywhere. Smoke billowed into the sky and clouded the air around the cabin. The door swung open, smashing off the wall. Porter was the first one out, followed closely by Jay, both of them firing on the run. Mississippi gave those boys as much cover as he could. Empty casings jumped with each pump and littered the ground around him. Clint ran out next, then Topper. She was clinging to a gun but wasn’t shooting.

  Rascal unloaded his pistols into anyone who wasn’t one of them. Mississippi hurriedly fed bullets into his gun. The number of men in the posse was shrinking, but the gang was still far outnumbered, which kept Mississippi’s heart banging. If they all got out alive, it’d be by the skin of their teeth.

  Buckhorn stopped in the flaming doorway, rifle aimed at a horseman wearing a badge. Both guns blasted, and both men fell. Buckhorn groaned, blood spilling from his leg. He crawled toward the corral. Mississippi fired at the horseman as he raised his gun and sent him flying from the saddle. A bullet flew from inside the tree line, tearing through Buckhorn’s chest. Topper screamed somewhere near the corral. Buckhorn didn’t get up, his shirt now soaked with red.

  Mississippi stopped firing for a minute, nearly forgetting that he was in the middle of a gunfight. The shock of seeing Buckhorn’s fallen body on the hard ground made him swallow roughly. That shouldn’t have happened. Buckhorn hadn’t helped rob that bank. Friendship, loyalty on the wrong side of the law, had been his misfortune. A grim guilt panged Mississippi. Topper was now a widow, and that was partly his fault.

  A bullet whizzed through the branches next to his shoulder, jolting him into focus. He raised his gun, hating himself, and pulled the trigger, sending the man who’d shot at him to his grave.

  When Clint and the boys were all on horses, they took off, disappearing into the shadowed mountain. They were across the yard from Mississippi, a good thirty yards, and there was no sensible way of following right after. Topper was with them. Night was falling fast. Mississippi wheeled his horse in the opposite direction, because if he tried to escape across the open ground, he would be an easy target. Behind him, loud voices shouted. He suspected what was left of the posse was reforming. They were too close not to go on the hunt. Some of the posse would probably follow Clint, and a few would likely follow after Mississippi. Darkness might slow a manhunt but not altogether kill it. If he didn’t catch lead, he’d have to pick up the gang’s trail tomorrow in the light.

  His horse raced along the same path that he had followed the girl. Shots fired in the near distance some yards behind. With the light between the trees growing blacker as the sun died down, his focus was on anything that might trip Peppy. After the storm, fallen branches booby-trapped the ground. Rocks that naturally stuck up out of the dirt or a soft spot of earth covered in pine needles could make a horse lame quick.

  Men bellowed to and fro. The posse must have split up, searching in a grid pattern. Within the hills, shots echoed. It was hard to decipher from the sound where or how close the posse was.

  In front of him, the trail narrowed, tunneling through a canopy of pines thickly clustered along either side. It appeared as a black hole. An animal snorted close behind him, and he threw a glance over his shoulder, believing he would see a posse member, but it hadn’t sounded like a running horse. And how had anyone caught up to him so quickly in the dark? No animal. No one was there. The path was nearly black. The hair on the back of his neck prickled on end. His heart raced. He whipped around in the saddle, madly hoofing the sides of his gelding to get the hell out of that eerie spot. But he’d turned too late to duck. A bristly branch, slightly less round than a fencepost, loomed at nose level. With Peppy at a dead run, Mississippi had no time to react. Smack! Square in the face. His feet flew out of the stirrups, and he flipped over the rump of his horse and thudded to the ground.

  When Mississippi’s
eyes opened, the girl was at his side, hunkered on her knees and gently dabbing with a wet cloth at the goose egg thumping on his forehead. He was stretched out on a patchwork quilt underneath a rocky overhang that had been dug out long before this. They were sheltered on three sides. How had he gotten there? He tried to push up.

  “Lie still.”

  She had a small fire burning. The ground around them was completely dry, even after all those days of rain. Trees surrounded the entrance, which was maybe four feet in height and eight wide. He was over six feet and fit inside comfortably.

  “Where’s my horse?” He started to sit up again and got woozy.

  “Dammit. Stay down.” She pressed his shoulders. “You ain’t fit to ride anywhere. Been out cold for hours.”

  He rested his head back and let her fuss over him. She wasn’t but a hundred pounds soaking wet. Best he could figure, she had somehow dragged him off the trail and into this place. She couldn’t have carried him, and there wasn’t anyone else about. Likely, she had saved his hide from the posse.

  “Thanks.” He owed her more than that, but his appreciation was all he had to offer.

  “Don’t thank me just yet. I heard voices not an hour ago. That posse’s still got it out for ya.”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna outrun them on foot, not the way my head’s thumping.” He touched gently at the knot on his skull.

  “Don’t worry. Your horse’s hid with Bean, an’ they ain’t too far away.”

  He raised a brow. “Who’s Bean?”

  She softly chuckled. “My mule. It’s a funny story how he got his name. There was a beefy Mexican woman, a pan of flat cornbread, a kettle of beans large enough to feed an entire village, and a whole lot of trouble involved. Remind me. I’ll tell ya about it sometime when your head ain’t swimmin’.”

  He would do just that.

  She picked up her carbine. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”

  She sat at the cave entrance, staring out into the dark. A sliver of moonlight haloed her face, making her look like an angel, and she was. Had that posse gotten to him first… He owed her his life. It made him wonder if Clint and the boys had fared as well as he had, and where was Butch?

  When Mississippi woke, the pretty girl had meat sizzling in a frying pan. It turned out to be the best rabbit he’d ever tasted. She had thrown in some wild onions and bitterroot. Why had she done all this for him?

  “Topper told me what you boys done. Dumb thing robbin’ that bank. Sheriff Curry, he’s hell on women and horses. Don’t take to gamblers or those who butt up against his town. Gotta walk soft on the street of Burnt Cabins.”

  Strange name for a town. Mississippi wasn’t about to pussyfoot around anyone. Never had. “Woman, I don’t tiptoe.”

  “That’s what I like about ya.” She sat down next to him, her hand resting on his.

  Was her kindness and the little flirting she was doing payback for peeling Rascal off her? Maybe Topper had told her how much was stolen, and she was out to cut herself a piece of the pie. He was probably being paranoid. She looked harmless, but then so did a horse until it threw you or kicked you. He pulled his hand away.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t ya like me?” Her lips turned down, and those green eyes reflected a definite sadness.

  “Reckon I do.” He moved off, wanting to stay close to her but needing a little space. At the entrance, for the first time, he recognized how smart a spot she had hidden them in. From above on the mountaintop, their fire would not be seen back under the rocky overhang. Below them, the trail was rocky, so rocky it appeared impassable, certainly too dangerous a place to risk navigating a horse unless one knew each precise step. Here and there, clusters of pines stuck out of the rocks, helping to camouflage this spot. He would bet the gelding and her mule were picketed in one of those groups of trees. She obviously knew these mountains well.

  He went back to the fire. “What’s your name?”

  She was flipping through a book of poetry by Edgar Allen Poe. “Jessa.”

  Prettiest name he’d ever heard. “Them’s some dark words you’re readin’.”

  She flushed. “Don’t know how to read. Just like lookin’ at the letters. Maybe someday I’ll learn.” She fiddled with the pages. “Can you read? Would ya read me some?”

  “Sure, I can read.”

  She passed him the book. He flipped open the pages. “The Raven” was the first poem. Then he read “Dream Within a Dream.” She clung to his arm and ate up every stanza. The meaning of some of those lines was as mysterious as how the two of them came to be sitting tight together on the blanket.

  When he read the last word of “Annabel Lee,” Jessa sighed heavily. “How sad.”

  “Them’s just words.” He didn’t see why she should be teary-eyed. Hell, she had faced Rascal being his ornery arsehole self and hadn’t gotten this upset.

  She shocked but, more so, surprised him by laying her head to his shoulder and staring off into the flames. Seemed those words really had an effect on her. He didn’t know why, but he slid an arm around her shoulders and she snuggled into his chest. Maybe they were just two lonely people, and hearing about a dying love made her contemplate taking advantage of what momentarily brought her happiness. That seemed to be him.

  She unfastened one of the buttons on his shirt, slipping her hand inside. It took less than a minute of her touch, and as one, they gently sank into the quilt. His hands began to roam her body. She kissed all over his neck. While they caressed one another, she arched against him. There was no doubt what she wanted. That and she unbuckled his belt. Time seemed to stand still as they discovered what pleasured the other. As the stars shifted across the black sky, again and again, they found the height of their passion.

  When Mississippi closed his eyes to sleep, gray steaks of the breaking dawn were crawling into the cave. Jessa was wrapped in the quilt with him.

  The sun was overhead when they left the cave. He had been right about where she had picketed the horse and mule. He swung a leg over the saddle, then carefully followed her every step. When they got to the level where he had gotten knocked off his horse, Jessa rode the other direction, not a word said of tomorrow, next week, or a year from now. It was doubtful that they would ever meet again. They were both practical creatures, too sensible to make foolish promises that he, for one, couldn’t keep. He was a wanted man on the run from the law. Not exactly the settling down type, not that he hadn’t ever thought about it. He had, plenty. And he was a little sad as he watched her go.

  When Jessa disappeared between the trees, Mississippi rode cautiously toward Topper’s. What might he find? Probably some of the townsfolk or men in the posse would be collecting their dead. If Mississippi was lucky, that chore would be done before he got there, and he would run into no unfriendly parties. His plan was to scout out the place from high on a knoll that sat a half mile up behind where the trade post had once stood. If no one was around, then he’d go into the yard and have a closer look. Was Buckhorn the only one gunned down? Could he pick up Clint and the others’ trail, or had the posse trampled over it too much?

  Peppy was breathing heavy after the steep climb to the top of the knoll. Here, the trees were thick, as were all the shadows. Clusters of rock would also help hide him from being seen by anyone below. An hour passed, and no one came or went. There were old wagon tracks from earlier, and no dead bodies littered the yard. Mississippi figured the dead were gathered and everyone had gone with them.

  It would be a sad day in Burnt Cabins, and Mississippi wasn’t feeling too wonderful himself. There should have been one body left behind, that of Buckhorn. Mississippi hated the thought of him maybe being put on display in a coffin like the catch of the day. Picturing it actually turned his stomach. Buckhorn wasn’t an outlaw. Maybe not completely honest, but who was? He certainly wasn’t a hardened criminal and didn’t deserve to be a spectacle of hate.

  As he turned Peppy down the hill toward the yard, Mississippi tried to think of something else,
something pleasant, something slightly distracting. Enough time had passed that if anyone was down there near the remains of the trade post, he would have picked up on it. His senses were keen, so he let his mind wander just a mite, trying his damnedest not to hover on Buckhorn’s death.

  He knew Jessa’s name. That was about it. His life on the run demanded a forfeiture of attachments. No heartstrings could be tied around him. He didn’t need some woman to worry about. Though, that was exactly what he was doing. Rascal wasn’t the only danger out there. This was Apache country, and they’d take a woman’s scalp as quick as lifting the hair off a man. Bear and cougar roamed throughout these mountains, dangerous stuff, and her stupid old mule probably couldn’t outrun a turtle.

  He needed to forget her. There was a hundred thousand dollars running wild somewhere on Butch’s horse. Butch was probably dead. He couldn’t stitch himself up, not as much as he’d been bleeding. And other than Topper’s place, there was no one else around, not for a hundred miles.

  Mississippi reined in, hidden back among the trees. Smoldering ashes were all that remained of Topper’s trade post. Near the corral, a fresh mound of dirt with a crude cross stuck in it was a sign that at least Topper was still alive. She was the only one who would’ve come back to bury Buckhorn. Clint and the others wouldn’t have risked it, unless she was nagging at them. She wasn’t afraid to point a gun at a man either. Mississippi was glad Buckhorn hadn’t ended up on a slab display back in Burnt Cabins.

  When he found Clint’s tracks among all the other hoofprints, including those of the posse, Mississippi followed west.

  The day was somber, although the sun was shining. Once he crossed the posse’s trail and saw them resting in a canyon while he rode the rim, hidden back under the trees, he continued on after Clint. Trying to focus on the tracks ahead of him, he found that each time the breeze tickled his nose with a whiff of honeysuckle, he missed the smell of Jessa’s hair when he had held her wrapped in his arms tight inside the blanket. He needed to get her out of his head. If he wasn’t alert, he might get caught, and that meant hanging. Find Clint, find Butch and the money—that’s where his head should be. Then get the hell out of the territory.