Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  The boys disappeared into the woods as quick as they had stumbled across his path. Their bird calls were getting worse with each try. Those three were but grasshopper size. Too young to stray far from the village.

  Mississippi turned his horse. It had been over twenty-four hours since Porter disappeared. There was simply no way the Apache had kept him alive that long. Torturing a soul was the way of the Apache, but not over days. At least not that Mississippi knew of, and he didn’t care to rightly find out. He put spurs to his horse. A great emptiness seemed to envelop him, though he slumped with a heavy sadness weighing on his chest and wetness momentarily blurred his vision until he focused on settling with Clint. And this was one more reason to do that.

  Abreast the mountain, he gazed down over the hillsides and into the lush valley that housed Piketown. At that distance, the rooftops were but dark specks. Jessa was down there somewhere. Out of the way of Clint and the others, which meant safe for now. Though, that posse was a mean one. She’d obviously made some mistakes in her past, being that she had nearly been run out of town for something. But her biggest mistake was getting tangled up with Mississippi. She deserved a lot better man, and he was about to prove who he really was.

  It was five miles before he’d reach the cabin. If Clint and the others hadn’t lit out, then that was where they would be. He and Clint agreed on nothing lately, so Mississippi wouldn’t be surprised if the boys all took off with the cash. A three-way split was a little over sixteen thousand dollars each. With the posse out there somewhere, a manhunt through the mountain ranges was the last thing he wanted.

  Tucked inside the snug little cabin like fish in a barrel—that’s how Mississippi hoped to find them. Three against one, he didn’t expect to come out alive and hoped Jessa would forgive him. Maybe someday she would understand why he had to do it. There was a big change in him. He would make right the wrong he had done, and strangely, he wasn’t afraid to die. By Clint’s gun or maybe Jay’s, who Mississippi honestly did not have a problem with.

  Jay had let Mississippi walk away freely to get Jessa help, so if he could somehow return the favor, not forced to draw on Jay, then he would let him ride on. Without the money, of course, but he’d have his life. Just as long as it wasn’t Rascal who shot him. He couldn’t tolerate the thought.

  Mississippi hoped that in doing this, Jessa would catch a glimpse of the man he could have—should have—become. This was his way of saying sorry to all those he had stolen from, and it wasn’t just money he had taken. He had stolen lives. Not for the sake of killing, but he had squeezed the trigger when fired upon or drawn on. Men who were fathers, brothers, husbands had fallen, leaving behind widows and babies. His name was hated. He wanted no one taking revenge on his woman or child. If the gang was wiped out, their names would be forgotten in short time.

  Mississippi pulled up reins on a knob about hundred yards above the cabin. There was light flowing out into the evening shadows. Three horses stood in the corral. He recognized all of them. Inside were the men he had made his bed next to each night for the past few years. They had talked of life. Played cards, laughed over mugs of beer, and together had crossed a line, walking the wide path straight to hell. As a boy, he had dreamed of being a tobacco farmer just like his pa. That dream was a lifetime ago.

  He left his horse and crept down through the trees and shrubs. Facing each of them, one on one, would be best, but he couldn’t crouch somewhere and wait for each man to leave the cabin for whatever reason, maybe to check the horses or take a piss. The posse was still hunting them and could ride up any minute. They’d been caught off guard there before, so those lawmen might come sniffing around again.

  Mississippi had no choice. He stood and walked out of the brush toward the door. Never did he think it would end like this. His hands were steady, though his heart banged. The red-orange sun sat atop the mountain. It was just dark enough that if he opened the door without identifying himself, he might get shot. And he had it in mind to do some shooting before he caught any lead.

  CHAPTER 10

  Clint stepped outside with his Henry rifle cocked on his hip, his finger on the trigger. “Well, look who decided to show his face.” His tone was not welcoming. His eyes were as cold as his words. “You’re a traitor. You should’ve let her die.”

  Clint was a big man and breathed heavily. It reminded Mississippi of a snorting bull about to charge. Clint was wrong in his thinking that Jessa and Porter were working together this whole time. And judging by the snarling look on his face, he was beyond reasoning with, not that it was why Mississippi had come there. Quite the opposite.

  Clint’s eyes narrowed into a hateful glare. “Figured you’s working with them, since that little bitch has her claws in ya. Knowed it since that day at Topper’s when ya rode out after her. I’d hoped that Rascal had killed her once he was done with her. Women ain’t nothing but trouble.” He tilted up his rifle, both barrels aimed at Mississippi’s chest. “She has that money.”

  Mississippi’s heart no longer banged. His breathing was smooth, almost silken. Nothing in his posture would declare a fear of dying. He wasn’t cowering to this man, nor would he to any other. There was a sound confidence in the easy way he stood tall before Clint.

  Mississippi’s hands felt natural hanging at his sides. He might not have appeared poised, although he was ready. His fingers tingled. One wrong twitch and his pistol would jump into his hand, and Clint would die. There were ten feet between them. Mississippi had hoped Rascal would show his ugly face, and then he’d be able to cut down two of the three before he was filled with lead. Neither Rascal nor Jay came out of the cabin. That’s where he assumed they were.

  “Got him in my sights. Should I kill him?” It was Jay Simpson yelling from off among the trees to Mississippi’s right.

  Clint smirked with clear satisfaction, though he didn’t give Jay the go-ahead to shoot. Jay’s buffalo gun would make an awful mess of Mississippi. He didn’t flinch, his hands slowly moving away from his gun belt. He cursed under his breath for foolishly walking right into Clint’s snare.

  “Let’s have some fun with him before we kill ‘im,” Rascal said from behind him near the corral.

  A loop fell over Mississippi’s shoulder. Before he could stretch free, Rascal yanked it tight, and Mississippi was ripped off his feet, thudding to the ground. Clint stomped a boot in the middle of his chest, then leaned down, his wide red face snorting hot air into Mississippi’s eyes.

  “She worth gettin’ kilt?” Clint spit harshly. “Reckon I’ll go have myself a piece of that wildcat and find out where the other half of the money is.”

  Mississippi’s blood turned cold, though anger boiled up inside him, and he knew right then that he despised that bastard, hated him more than anything. Every memory of Clint rubbing Mississippi the wrong way, every disgusting moment, and each time they’d butted heads rumbled to the surface. His fists balled, but his arms were pulled down tight to his sides. The thought of any man touching Jessa—especially Clint since he’d tried to kill her once before—drove Mississippi straight to insane. Never before had the desire to kill overcome him. He lusted for the chance to pull his pistol and squirmed madly under the confines of the rope. If only Mississippi could reach his gun, Clint would never see another day.

  Crude laughter erupted from Clint. He most likely recognized the bloodthirsty drive in Mississippi, and he, knowing all too well that he held all the cards, smirked. “I’ll let Rascal have a taste of her too.”

  Mississippi jerked a shoulder but couldn’t throw off the near full measure of Clint’s bulky weight. If his hands weren’t drawn tight to his sides, he’d smack Clint’s teeth right down his damn throat. The only thing that would keep Jessa alive, for a short time, was the secret of where the other half of the cash was hidden, and Clint would beat that out of her.

  He ground his boot heel into Mississippi’s chest, keeping him still. Jay and Rascal each grabbed an arm and hauled him to his feet. As he w
as whipped around, his back whacked a porch post, where he was tied tight. They took turns battering him with punches. It was what Rascal had always wanted, maybe Clint too. They’d both been jealous of his slick gun skills.

  Out of breath and the stamina to take one more mean blow, his body burning, Mississippi’s legs buckled. He slumped forward, head dangling, blood drooling from his busted lips. He was barely able to see out of either eye, and waves of consciousness spun him in and out of darkness. Cruel and hateful voices taunted him. Jay had backed off, but the other two pounded boots to his ribs and chest, knocking him right then left.

  “He’s done or will be soon.” An air of besting the best lifted Clint’s voice to the point of cheery.

  Only, they hadn’t shot it out with Mississippi, or Clint would be dying too. Three to one was nothing to brag about, but that was the kind of man Clint was. And Jay and Rascal… Well, neither was smart enough to see the difference.

  “Git his horse.”

  When Mississippi hazily came to, he was lying on the ground, tied behind his gelding. Clint towered over him with sneering triumph on his face and waited for him to fully wake so he could feel every rock, stick, hard bump of ground, briar patch, and tree he would get thumped on. His body gave him hell for walking foolishly into Clint’s trap. His skull pounded, and the cut on the side of his face burned. There wasn’t a peck of strength left in him.

  He hadn’t come to take back the money, but to kill them, with the exception of maybe Jay. But now Jay had clearly picked a side, and they had gotten Mississippi first. Clint looked over at Rascal, who waited at the rear of Mississippi’s horse. Rascal drew back his hand. A mad slap rang out into the night, and Mississippi shot off bouncing across the ground behind Peppy. He’d been dragged maybe a mile—that hurt like twenty—when, mercifully, he passed out.

  A hard peck at Mississippi’s chest forced his eyes open. His horse had stopped, but Mississippi’s body pained all over. Just the thought of moving hurt like a son of a gun. His lips, along with his throat, were too parched, yet he wanted to scream. A hoarse groan choked out. Dark wings spanned wide, fluttering in his face. Vultures, three of them, hovered over him. One was perched on his boot toe, another on a rock next to where it had torn a small piece of shirt and a pinch of flesh from his breastbone. The largest of the big birds squawked as if complaining about the sudden discovery that he was alive, not lunch. These scavengers were known to have a keen sense of smell. Most feathered creatures didn’t, but the black vulture could sense decaying meat from a fair distance. And if they preyed on live critters, it was little ones like mice and such, never a human. It was a dismal indication of how bad off he was, not that he couldn’t feel that much for himself.

  The ugly buggers hungrily eyed him, not leaving their perches. As much as he didn’t want to move because of the pain searing through him, he wished even less to become a meal for these beasts, so he wriggled and groaned until the rope around him loosened. Then with a hell of a painful moan, he swung an arm, walloping one of the bold beggars as it hopped forward on its talons, its beak open and ready to tear in for a bite. All three scavengers flapped into the air, just out of his reach. He hadn’t much strength and didn’t want to use what little he had to fight these mean pests. He swung again, smacking a second bird. This time, they flew into a tree where they perched and seemed irritated that they had to wait for a meal.

  Mississippi rolled onto his stomach. The rope had slipped down around his waist. Ten feet away stood Peppy, chewing on a small tuft of grass. If only he could get on the gelding, he could get out of there, find water, find a place to heal. He crawled inch by slow, painful inch toward his horse, trying to whistle, but his lips were too swollen and his tongue didn’t want to work right. The gelding’s ears perked up, and his nostrils flared as he snorted.

  Mississippi’s clothing was stained with dried blood. His horse didn’t recognize his scent. It stepped nervously. Mississippi stopped, pulled his knife, and sawed the rope clean through. He couldn’t risk Peppy bolting and dragging him a second time. There was already only a small chance of surviving after one time. The gelding trotted off to a thicker patch of grass. The vultures squawked devilishly, as if gloating there was no escape for him now that he had lost hold of his mount. Mississippi crawled across the ground until he got under a bush. Even if he died—and he probably would—those damn vultures couldn’t make a feast of him there. He was too big for them to drag out.

  The next time his eyes opened, it wasn’t because something was trying to eat him. The air had cooled. In fact, he was downright shivering. Stars twinkled beyond the treetops as he looked up from the dirt where he lay. Water, a drink to wash the tackiness from his mouth, was what he wanted. His muscles would not coordinate to move. A little effort wore him to utter exhaustion. And Peppy was gone.

  The next morning, he dragged himself over rocks and through the brush, stopping every five or six feet to catch his wind. Once, rocks broke away under him, and he rolled down a hillside into a thick patch of saltbush where he gave in to his pain and fatigue and slept. When he woke, the sky was a bright palette of fiery colors. He couldn’t survive much longer without water. Of all the ways he figured his death would happen, drying up in the middle of nowhere wasn’t one of them.

  That night, it rained, not long or too hard. What he could catch with his mouth stretched wide open, he did. It was the best drink of water that ever passed over his lips. His clothes had drawn damp and he’d thought of trying to suck out the moisture, but he was too tired. By noon the next day, with sunshine overhead, his shirt and pants were baked dry and his parched mouth was wishing for more rain.

  Mississippi had made what felt like another mile on his belly, crawling through the dirt, when the sweet sound of babbling water tickled his ears. It took a spell to crawl within sight of what would keep him alive for a little bit longer. At the edge, he planted his face in the coolness, lapping from the spring. After that, he found a sandy spot, maybe a foot away from the water’s edge, and rested his head, letting his eyes close. The following day, he laid in that spot and slept, rolling over only to drink from the spring.

  No wolves or Apache had found him, so he was lucky. How long would that luck last? He was far from feeling healthy or even half alive. He’d barely been able to fight off the buzzards. A little nourishment would help. Clint had left Mississippi’s pistol strapped on him, but he was too weak to hunt. Not the right time of year for berries, and there was nothing edible on the ground within sight. No nuts or mushrooms. Some wildflowers were perfectly fine to eat. None of them blooming there, though. His stomach grumbled. He’d eat just about anything at the moment.

  He drank, then closed his eyes and slept again.

  “Doc, there he is.”

  Mississippi’s eyes were closed, too close to dead to open them, but he was vaguely aware of voices. Had he heard Jessa’s sweet concern? He must have been dreaming, because he was lost in the mountains. After being dragged through the dark in who knows what direction or for how far, his horse could have stopped anywhere. The chances of anyone but an Apache finding him were slim.

  “Oh my lands, girl. I’d say he’s dead.”

  Doc and Jessa were both there in what Mississippi believed was a dream until warm finger pads touched the skin on his neck.

  “There’s a pulse, weak, but he’s alive,” said Doc.

  “Mississippi, wake up.” Jessa’s voice sounded strained.

  He was lightly shaken, and someone sniffled. His eyes fluttered, wanting to see her face, but his lids were too heavy and a low moan coughed out with a second slightly harder shake.

  “Stop that.” Doc sounded irritable, and instantly, the prodding to come awake stopped and Mississippi’s body lay still. Birds twittered, and there were no voices for a long minute. “We can’t take him back to town. Sheriff Curry’s men are stopping everyone. They would search the wagon and find him. It’s not sensible to take him to your cabin. They’ve gone there too many times.”<
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  “I know somewhere else that’s safe, but it won’t be easy getting him there.” Jessa’s voice sounded brighter. “Give me a minute.” Dainty footsteps walked away.

  Mississippi, in his state of barely being alive and conscious, was gently jostled for a few minutes. There was now something soft under his head, and he was sure he was slung inside a blanket. Someone clucked at a horse, and with that, Mississippi moved forward, but not of his own free will. He was being dragged above the ground, grimacing with the occasional jar of striking a rock. Sticks must have been gathered to make him a stretcher, which was yoked behind and pulled by a horse. He slept throughout the day, and each time he stirred, though he did not fully wake, he heard Doc’s and Jessa’s voices. Now and then, the lip of a canteen was pressed to his mouth, and he drank.

  When he stirred the next time, his eyes actually opened. He was on a cot inside a very tight room that held a musty odor. There was a fire roaring. Dancing shadows were thrown out of the stone hearth, across the floor, and onto the walls. It was dark outside, and he was alone and covered in the same quilt he’d slept on weeks ago in the cave with Jessa.

  The door swung open with a cranky squeal from an old hinge. Jessa, carrying a bucket of water, walked in, and Doc was a few feet off her pace, holding firewood in his arms. They both stopped midstep and stared toward his open eyes. She plopped down the bucket, sloshing water over the sides onto the floor, then scooped up his hand as she hunkered at his side. Doc hastily dropped his wood near the fire, and within the small confines, he took no more than a skip, nudging Jessa, who scooted aside, allowing Doc to take a professional bedside position.

  “Boy, you sure gave us a scare.” Doc grinned.

  It hurt, but Mississippi managed a small smile.

  “How are ya feeling?” Doc asked while looking him over.