Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  “Spit it out, Stan,” Mississippi said dryly. He did realize that if this feast was Jessa’s idea, then she was still carrying strong feelings for him. If the widows were trying to persuade her to forget him altogether, no one had talked her out of anything. After all, he was basically a dead man.

  Stan shifted uneasily while eyeing all the goodies. Quite a buffet. Plenty more than the three of them could eat. It might take a week to finish it all, and that meant three squares a day and stuffing themselves full at each sitting. Why all the fuss? Perhaps Mississippi should’ve known.

  Stan’s shoulders shrank. He twiddled with his fingers a minute, working up the nerve to say whatever it was that had him jittery. “Well…” He hem hawed around. “Guess she wants to spoil ya with a few last good meals.”

  Those words made him instantly lose his appetite. It was the same damn reason he couldn’t sleep last night. He wouldn’t have too many more nights or meals or anything else. He turned back to solemnly stare out the window. He’d always known it would end this way.

  “She told me to tell ya she’d be by later.” There was a perkiness to Stan’s voice, as though he were saying, Look on the bright side.

  Mississippi glanced over his shoulder. Stan grinned. He must have been a romantic. What he’d said was a surprise to Mississippi, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  Amen. She didn’t hate him.

  “Said she has something important to do,” Stan offered as he began to fill a plate.

  “She didn’t leave town, did she?” Mississippi turned from the window and stepped toward Stan just in time.

  A boom echoed from somewhere outside and shook the morning awake. Sparks flew as a bullet pinged off the window bars, ricocheted, hit the inside bars, bounced again, and lodged in the wall. Pike flipped off his chair and hit the floor while grabbing for his rifle, which fell during all the fumbling and smacked the planks. Stan had jumped behind the desk, tossing his plate in the air, which smashed when it landed near his feet, and he cowered next to the sheriff who now had his rifle in hand. Mississippi was ducked low and had his back flat against the outside wall under the window from where the shot had come.

  Up on his feet, Pike turned to Stan while keeping crouched and crossing the room toward the door. “Keep this door locked.”

  Mississippi didn’t need to look to know. It had to be Clint.

  Curry’s men weren’t that gutsy. Mississippi had seen this play out before. They’d busted Chuck Connelly, their pard who’d gotten killed while robbing the bank, out of jail once. Mississippi wouldn’t live long if Pike left him with just Stan on guard.

  Pike opened the door.

  “Sheriff,” Mississippi called. Surprisingly, Pike halted and glanced back. “Let me go with ya. I’ll help stop them.”

  “I don’t need your help.” He whipped around to go, cursing under his breath, probably irritated that Mississippi had held him up.

  “Wait!” He was desperate. Clint would take care of Mississippi, then go after Jessa. It would be easier to make her talk.

  Pike was seething. His teeth gnashed, but he did stop.

  Mississippi was about to break an unspoken rule among outlaws. There were a few that had gotten out of the so-called business. Made lives for themselves, settling into an honest way of life. One thing that was never done, ever, was to disclose hideouts or informants or how certain things such as jailbreaks were done, unless ya wanted to die. None of those things were haphazard. Timing and people and places were planned. Mississippi knew the plan Clint was about to use on him, and he’d die if Pike didn’t listen and let him loose. Mississippi had to stay alive to help keep Clint away from Jessa.

  “Clint wants you to ride out after him. Then Rascal will swoop in here.” Mississippi didn’t say it, but that wouldn’t take much doing.

  Stan was a real nice fella. But a fighter he was not. He held that Winchester as if it were a newborn baby. Not every man was born to aim a gun, and Stan was one of those men. Had fight in him. He had locked horns with Pike that day in the barn, but he didn’t possess the killing type of brawn. And this was a fight in which men would die.

  “Rascal will kill Stan, then me. Then he’ll go after Jessa while Clint has you distracted.”

  Pike straightened to his full height.

  “Honest, Sheriff.” Mississippi had his hands around the bars. “I know this plan.”

  Pike’s face drew up tight as a whistle as he studied Mississippi with a savvy eye. He knew this wasn’t a trick to escape jail. It wasn’t hard to figure that Stan was no match for the two gunmen outside. Even facing Rascal, who wasn’t much of a shot, Stan didn’t have a chance in hell. He’d get his guts blown out. Sheriff Pike didn’t want that; neither did Mississippi. And he had to be wondering what horrible thing they would do to Jessa after they got what they wanted from her. Pike had already seen their handiwork. Been there when Doc dug the lead out of her hip and stitched up her shoulder. If it weren’t for them and the evil they’d done to her, she’d still be carrying the baby.

  Pike grabbed the keys off his desk and tossed them. “Git your gun.”

  Mississippi reached through and unlocked the cell. “Stan, go guard Jessa. Don’t let her out of your sight. Git her somewhere they wouldn’t think to look for her.”

  Stan ran out the door while Mississippi hitched on his holster. When he got outside, Pike had both horses brought from the livery, saddled, and he sat astride his horse. They left town by the opposite end from where the shot had been fired. Plenty of looks from lots of townsfolk were thrown their way, all of whom had to be wondering what their sheriff was doing riding out of town with him, an outlaw, a man overdue to have his neck stretched. Gunfire had interrupted their first cup of coffee, and things weren’t the way they should be. Mississippi was a prisoner. He wasn’t supposed to be on the streets with his Colt strapped on his hip.

  Clint would be expecting Pike to run right for him. This way, skirting around into the trees, Mississippi didn’t believe Clint would see them coming. Not at first anyway. The south-facing window in the cell—there was only one spot a man with a rifle could’ve made that shot. It was the knoll the gang and Topper had pulled up on and surveyed the town from those many weeks ago.

  It was a good four, five hundred yards away. Not just any rifle could throw lead that distance, but Jay’s Sharps buffalo gun easily could. Clint must have returned to the spot where Mississippi had killed Jay and picked up the weapon. Rascal definitely wasn’t good enough to even attempt to make that shot, not even with the use of the telescopic lens. Clint owned lots of confidence, even if he didn’t have the skill, and his pool of luck ran deep. So had Mississippi not turned, Clint, that fortuitous son of a bitch, might have pulled off that shot. And from any other place, the bullet wouldn’t have come straight through. It would’ve angled the shot.

  They cut across a small stream. Patches of aspen dotted the hills around them, not completely hiding their approach, but it was some cover. Maybe they could ride up fairly close before being seen. Rascal would be waiting somewhere closer to town, but not along the same path they thought the sheriff would use to come out. When the sheriff got a certain distance from town, then Rascal would move in.

  Mississippi pulled up under the trees. Pike reined in next to him. Both horses were breathing heavy.

  “I’m going back to town.” Mississippi jerked on the reins, wheeling Peppy.

  Pike raised a brow. “Why… cold feet?” He patted his horse’s neck.

  It had nothing to do with Mississippi’s years of riding with Clint. He’d kill him if he got the chance. “I’m going after Rascal.”

  The jailhouse would be found empty. Rascal wouldn’t leave town without bringing Clint something. Curry and most of his men had been gone long enough that Rascal would figure that wasn’t a worry. Two deputies plus Stan wouldn’t scare him off either. The only thing he would eventually find in town to put a smile on Clint’s face was Jessa.

  Pike nodded, then spurr
ed his horse. Mississippi kicked the gelding’s sides.

  He made fast time getting back to town. Only, he didn’t ride right down the street. In through the rear of the livery, he stalled his horse, took up his rifle, then headed down the back alley toward the hotel. Curry’s men might be at the jailhouse or on the street investigating that shot from earlier. That was a fight he didn’t need right now, and he’d have to stay clear of them if he could. It was just Rascal that he wanted. He needed to find him before he got his hands on Jessa.

  Mississippi stood in the shadows between two buildings. Town was wide awake, folks coming and going all over the place. The boardwalk was humming with chatty neighbors talking about the commotion. Practically, the whole town had stirred out of doors to see what was going on. Horse-drawn rigs creaked along the street. A couple kids had tied a tin can to a pup’s tail and were chasing him in circles, making all kinds of racket. If there was ever a time for him to blend in, this was it. Lots of distractions. He just hoped it was enough to save his bacon from being spotted by one of Curry’s men or Rascal or even maybe Bernstein. Any one of them was likely to shoot at him.

  Mississippi pushed his hat far down, shadowing his face. He slipped over the boardwalk and crossed the street at a slightly faster than casual pace but didn’t step too hurriedly. Attention wasn’t what he wanted. The Colt, when he faced Rascal, was the only draw he wished to make. Up onto the boardwalk, then two short steps, and he opened the door into the hotel.

  A man in a striped shirt with a garter around each arm and a matching visor stood behind a long polished counter where the guestbook lay open, the key box hanging on the wall behind him. Seven of twelve keys were missing. At the top of the staircase, a primly dressed husband and wife appeared, a newspaper held folded under his arm, and the headline read “Governor Aurand to Visit…” Mississippi couldn’t see the rest of it, but he could fill in the blank.

  As the couple passed, their eyes were on each other and their thoughts on whatever conversation they were having, completely paying him no mind. Wood, as polished and shiny as the counter, crowned the large archway into the dining room, which was near empty. Only a few voices drifted out. At this time of day, the breakfast crowd had gone, and lunch wouldn’t be served for another couple hours. Mississippi ran a finger down the page while reading the name and what room that person occupied. The clerk cleared his throat loudly. His visor looked like a green duckbill perched above his brows.

  “May I help you, sir?” He snapped the registry closed, almost pinching Mississippi’s finger.

  “What room is Jessa Pike in?”

  When a man takes a notion to be scared, it can render him useless for a few minutes, and depending on how strong that fear is, he might become completely incapacitated. Mississippi hadn’t burst in hunting trouble. He’d simply asked a question. Before him stood the clerk, frozen, mouth agape as though he wanted to scream in the worst way, but something big had gotten stuck in his throat. His face had turned white. Time was something Mississippi could not waste. If Rascal found Jessa first… he hated to think of what might happen. He flipped open the book. Her name wasn’t there. The widows… She had been with them.

  “The widows, what room?” Mississippi snapped his fingers to wake the clerk out of his shock.

  “Y-y-you’re M-Mississippi L-lightning.” He pointed with a shaky finger across the counter.

  Mississippi held his hands up. “See my gun on my hip. I ain’t gonna hurt ya or any of these other folks.”

  “How did you get out of jail?” Poor fellow. His face changed from white to puke green.

  His guts must’ve been roiling with the dreaded thought that Mississippi had shot the sheriff and escaped. If he’d done that, he wouldn’t still be in town, but this feller was shaking too hard to think straight. And it wasn’t unlikely that some might have heard the shot this morning but had not seen him ride out of town with Sheriff Pike. The clerk’s fear was understandable, but Mississippi wasn’t a killer anymore, not in the sense that the clerk was thinking. Cold-blooded he was not. Never was, though he had killed men.

  “I’m helping the sheriff keep Jessa alive.” He offered the clerk some reassurance.

  Slim chance, though, that he would be believed. Outlaws weren’t known for their honesty, and his reputation was such—rightly so. It would be almighty nice to shed that and not have people look at him like they were two seconds away from pissing their pants, but his life wasn’t worth a plug nickel. He’d be dead in a few days, hanged by the neck until the life choked out of him. What could he say to convince this fellow that he was on the up and up? Or maybe he should just go upstairs. But then the clerk might fetch Curry’s men, and that could start a shooting. Too many innocent folks around for that.

  Stan, whom Mississippi had almost forgotten about, came in from the dining room, carrying a silver platter with a matching teapot and cup. He stopped when he saw Mississippi, nearly dumping the tray. “Thought you was with Sheriff Pike.”

  The clerk began to breathe again, his stiff posture softening into what one might think of as a rag doll. “Room seven, but the ladies aren’t up there.” His gaze was on Mississippi, and he cringed as he said it.

  Stan dropped the platter, making a hellish clang. The pot and cups rolled, and tea steamed across the floor, soaking into a checkered rug. “Where’d they go?” He looked utterly dumbfounded. Then he looked apologetically at Mississippi.

  Stan shifted his weight uneasily. “I didn’t think I had to tell them to stay put. I assumed everyone had heard that shot this morning, and Jessa, of all people, would recognize the danger. Those other ladies, though, they might not have realized. Jessa would have told them.” Stan was now arguing with himself. “Maybe they wouldn’t hear her out. That older lady, she’s bossy. Why do you think I’m down here fetching tea?” Stan cursed under his breath.

  “They went out about thirty minutes after you came down.” Sweat glistened on the clerk’s freckled face as he seemed to be contemplating whether or not he was in trouble for this. His gaze flipped nervously between Stan and Mississippi.

  Mississippi scowled at Stan. “For God’s sake, it doesn’t take thirty damn minutes to boil tea. What in blazes kept ya?”

  “Well… the pot slipped out of my hands. I spilled the whole first go. Had to clean that mess up, then boil more water.” Stan turned and glowered at the clerk. “Did they say where they were going?”

  The clerk ardently shook his head. “Two deputies followed them out.” He lifted his chin toward the dining room at the table nearest the archway where the door could be seen. “Just a few seconds behind. The young widow, Martha, she was talking to the one deputy when they left. I’ll bet they’re just fine.”

  Neither Stan nor the clerk wanted to carry the blame for allowing the women to slip out, especially if one of the ladies did end up getting hurt. It could be purely coincidence that Curry’s men left the dining room shortly after the ladies had gone. Mississippi hoped not. Their guns meant protection, but he would not risk the women’s lives against being wrong.

  Mississippi started for the door. Before he got more than a step or two, Stan tackled him into the wall with a hard thump.

  “What the hell?” He gave Stan a shove, but Stan was used to wrestling broncs at his livery. The push Mississippi had given him was barely felt, and Stan gripped Mississippi’s arm tight with both hands as he hauled him away from leaving.

  “For Pete’s sake, boy, you can’t go waltzing out there. Curry’s men will shoot ya to ribbons without Pike in town.”

  “Just how do you think I got in here? By flapping my wings. I know how to stay hidden in plain sight.” Mississippi wasn’t in the mood to argue. He wanted to find Jessa and the other ladies and get them to safety. She might still be upset with him, but that didn’t matter. He loved her and wasn’t about to let anything bad happen to her.

  What was Jessa thinking? She knew better than to go out without protection. Unless for some reason she hadn’t heard
the shot this morning. Of course, Stan was right. Those deputies would seize the first opportunity, whether that was shooting Mississippi in the back or in a crowded street. They certainly wouldn’t give him a chance to face them.

  “I’ll find them.” Stan rushed out the door. Mississippi stood at the window beside the floor-length curtain, which was sheer in the middle. From the street, he would be shadowed.

  Stan crossed the roadway toward the general store. A man strolled out with a lollipop between his lips. Mississippi’s hand instinctively went for his gun. Stupidly bold that boy was, as if he had nothing to worry about. Rascal tipped his hat at Stan and kept walking as Stan returned a friendly nod before going on inside. Had the sheriff shown Stan a wanted picture of Rascal or Clint? Maybe not, since he’d been kind of dragged into this mess and he wasn’t really there to fight. Stan was more of a second pair of hands to take care of the less dangerous stuff.

  There was Rascal walking away. Mississippi fought the almighty tempting urge to go after him. Then out of the dress shop, not twenty feet from Rascal, glided one of Curry’s deputies with the young widow, Martha, on his arm. Behind them by a few feet was Jessa, the second deputy, then lastly, the self-proclaimed broom-wielding widow. So Jessa hadn’t left the hotel without protection. Two armed escorts. Good.

  All of them, men and women alike, were carrying brown paper packages of every size. The deputies’ hands were full, which made them easy targets, but two armed men and lots of witnesses around was a rather strong deterrent if a man wanted to get away with his crime. Into the alley, Rascal disappeared just as Stan came fast-stepping it out of the store and broke into a trot toward Jessa.

  An argument seemed to instantly spark between Stan, who had ahold of Jessa’s arm and was half turned to lead her away, and the other tin star, brow furrowed, mouthing something back at Stan. In a muttering cluster in the middle of the street, they stood like a bunch of damn dummies.

  Stan’s face was beet red. The ladies all looked bewildered, and Curry’s men were snarling. Did any of them see the danger? It was an open area, perfect for Rascal, who could stand in the alleyway, open up with both six shooters, and blow the whole group of them to hell. Mississippi was about ready to give a sharp whistle to draw their attention when they, as a mismatched bunch, headed toward the hotel of their own free will.