Rock dust sprinkled his shoulders. He turned and looked up just in time. Mid flying leap, an Apache dove at him with knife in hand. Mississippi dropped his gun and threw his arms up, blocking the blow from hitting any vitals. The cold steel sank into his forearm. He hit the dirt flat on his back with that big red buck over him, twisting that knife. With his good arm, Mississippi swung with all his might, all his pain, and his will to live.
Teeth crunched, and the jawbone of the buck shifted four inches and cracked. By God, that blow should’ve stopped the savage. It would have dropped any sane man. But he was a maddened beast and wasn’t about to give up on Mississippi’s scalp. The buck did lose his grip on the blade that stuck out of Mississippi’s arm. In one swift move, Mississippi yanked out the knife and pitched it with the same strength he’d hit the feller with. The Apache grabbed the shaft that stuck straight out from his chest. He took two bumbling steps, then fell over dead.
Mississippi got to his feet while holding his bleeding arm. Out of the rocky lean-to crawled an injured Floyd. An angry war screech pierced their ears. Directly behind Floyd, atop where the angled rock met the boulder, stood an Apache, his lance lifted. His shoulder had a hole in it, and he was leaking red. Mississippi looked none the better and Floyd even worse. Not a one of them stood straight, all of them pale and covered with sweat, dust, and blood. Had that damn Indian turned and gone home, they would have left him, but he aimed to kill Floyd and then Mississippi. Mississippi palmed his pistol before Floyd reacted, and he shot that son of a bitch in the guts. He fell forward and squashed Floyd into the dirt underneath him.
Mississippi rolled the dead Apache off Floyd, who panted and just lay there catching his breath. “Hope that’s all of ‘em.” Floyd wearily grinned.
Mississippi gave him a hand onto his feet, then shouldered some of his weight.
On their way out, Mississippi picked up his rifle and took time to fix his bandanna around his bleeding arm. It was a poor shape that he and Floyd were in, so walking was slow. The slope of that gully seemed to have gotten steeper, and with each step, his strength drained. They stopped a half dozen times to gulp air before reaching the twin rocks where Mississippi had hidden earlier. They sat in the shade, his arm giving him all kinds of hell, and inwardly, he was screaming. A long slash had torn open Floyd’s shirt along his ribs. That would need stitches. Smaller cuts bled through his ripped-up sleeves. At least that hole in his back had stopped bleeding.
“How’d you pull that out yourself?” Mississippi pointed, indicating where the arrow had been sticking out of Floyd.
“I didn’t.” Floyd grimaced, then swallowed hard, trying to handle his pain. “It got broken off while I was fighting one of ‘em. I think the head’s still stuck in there.”
Floyd might not know it, but some Indians dipped their arrowheads in rattlesnake poison. The Pawnee, Comanche, and Ute, he knew of for sure. The Apache… They would soon enough find out.
“I gotta git that out of ya.”
Mississippi gathered what was close at hand, mostly dry twigs but anything that could be used to build a small fire. Then he placed it in the crack between the rocks where it wouldn’t be seen too easily. There might still be some scalp hunters around. It took a little doing, and he blew on the sparks until a wee flame danced. He heated his knife in the coals.
Floyd’s eyes were closed and his head beaded with sweat. Sun or fever, it was hard to tell. In Mississippi’s hat was his needle and thread. Floyd needed those things too. But what they really needed was a horse to get them out of there, not just out of that spot, but back to town, to Doc. And Mississippi’s horse was up top, a long way off, and who knew? The Apache might have stolen him. There hadn’t been any gunfire from above for over an hour, and no one had come down into the gorge looking for them. Between the two of them, they had three guns, one rifle and two pistols, and maybe three dozen rounds. That wasn’t a lot for fighting Apache if they were still out there. Had Clint gotten away? Had he gone back to town after Jessa?
Mississippi gently shook Floyd awake. “Roll over.”
He plucked his knife out of the fire. The blade was glowing hot. If Floyd screamed, they would have every Apache within ten miles hunting them. He slipped Floyd’s bandanna over his chin and shoved it into his mouth. That might muffle any sound.
CHAPTER 14
Jessa paced the floor of the jailhouse while prattling her annoyance to herself. “Where are they?” They should have returned by now. She had glanced out the window at least four hundred times since yesterday after Sheriff Pike had ridden into town with Tom bleeding and doubled over in the saddle, looking gray as death. Apache were as mean as hornets.
“How could you?” She glared at her pa.
Sheriff Pike was leaned back in his chair while touching gently at the stitches above his eye. Flora swatted at his hand. She was nursing the injured men when Doc wasn’t there and tending to Martha, who seemed to have lost her mind and cried nonstop now that she had also lost Floyd, or so she believed.
Pa sat straight up and pushed away Flora’s hand from dabbing salve. “Girl…” He huffed. “This is the last time I’m gonna tell ya.” His shoulders held stiff, and his face puckered. “We didn’t leave ‘em. I saw that man of yours go down with an Apache overtop him, holdin’ a knife. That’s when Tom caught an arrow in the gut. It was either save him or go on foot down into that rocky gorge and try an’ save a man who’s just gonna hang anyway.”
“What about Floyd? He’s a deputy.” Jessa marched toward the door. She’d had enough. This waiting was rubbing her nerves raw. No way did she believe Mississippi was dead. He was too good with a gun.
“Don’t open that door.” Pike sprang to his feet. “It ain’t safe out there.”
They weren’t in any danger from the Apache in town. Her father was talking about Clint and Rascal. Both had gotten away. Clint escaped the fight with the Apache—her father had seen him hightailing it over a ridge but couldn’t tell if he’d been hurt.
Jessa looked around as though seeing what had befallen them for the first time. Tom, ashen in color, was asleep and had been that way since Doc patched him up last night. Her pa was also injured, but not badly. Stan was the only truly healthy man, and he was no gunman.
She, Flora, and Martha were also crammed in the jailhouse because Pa believed they were all safer there, supposing Rascal, then eventually Clint, would wonder about Flora and Martha, since he had seen them with Jessa. Who were they? Why were they with her? Did they, too, know the whereabouts of that money? There weren’t enough deputies to guard them at the hotel. Bernstein and a few other townsmen would have volunteered to pin on a badge, but her father didn’t want a war to erupt in the middle of the street. Bernstein was always too quick to act. Then he’d think it through after. It’d be too late once the shooting started. Someone innocent might get killed.
She turned away from the door, her fists smacking her hips. “Go after them.”
“Daughter. Floyd’s dead. He was at the bottom of that gorge, trying to stand off three of them red devils.” Pa pointed to Clint’s sketched face on a wanted poster. “That sumbitch was giving the Indians a hand by trying to pick us all off.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how either one of them boys could have survived. Right now, it’s more important to keep you ladies safe.”
Martha threw herself off her chair and onto her knees. She was bent forward at the waist into a tight ball. Her nose didn’t touch the floor only because her hands were wrapped around her face. A great heartsick cry shook the four walls, floor, and roof. No one moved, wrapped up so in that poor woman’s grief. Jessa had never seen such despair. They had to do something. No one knew for sure that the men were dead. Maybe they were out there fighting for their lives this very minute.
Flora hurried to cradle Martha around the shoulders in the middle of the floor. Jessa’s pa looked sorry for his thoughtless words and rubbed at his temples. Stan blew his nose, and in his eyes grew a great shine as he watched t
he two women. Tom was breathing with a wheeze, and that alone was struggle enough for him. Was Mississippi hurt that badly? Her father had said so, believed him to be dead. Jessa didn’t want to believe that, but what if Mississippi’s injuries were that bad? What if Pa was right and he was dead? Instead of her eyes welling up, her spine stiffened.
Pa’s horse was tied right in front of the jailhouse. In no more than ten steps, she could be out the door and in the saddle. She broke for the door. Her hand braced the knob. With one big yank, she threw the door open, and it smacked the outside wall. Hard stomping boots rumbled the boards under her. Her father was coming quick. She could feel his steamy breath on the back of her neck. One foot in the stirrup, she grabbed the saddle horn and thrust herself up as a big hand clamped her shoulder. For a second, she figured she’d gotten away with it. Yanked down, her foot slipped out of the stirrup, and that quick, her ass hit the ground. Dust puffed up around her, and she coughed.
“What the hell?” Pa wasn’t asking what she had been thinking. His eyes had narrowed, and he stared over her head toward the far end of the street as though he didn’t understand what he was seeing. “Git inside.” He took off running in that direction.
Jessa spun around as she stood. Was it Clint or Rascal, or had Curry returned with Governor Aurand?
Holy shit! Tears of joy sprang to her eyes, and she laughed. He had done it. Mississippi had survived. He had come home to her. Riding double with Floyd, who was on the back of the saddle, leaned forward, using Mississippi as a crutch to hold himself somewhat upright. He looked to be in the same piss-poor shape as Tom, maybe worse.
Jessa didn’t remember starting to run, but she was, her feet stepping off the paces fast. Though, the boots on her feet felt awkward. She wasn’t used to wearing shoes, and she was glad she hadn’t let Martha talk her into the ones with the heel. These were flat, good for running. She hiked up the new skirt and petticoat she was wearing, each stride landing her closer to the man she loved. Townsfolk gathered along the boardwalk, staring, whispering about the scraped-up and bleeding pair. An outlaw and a lawman holding one another up, and together they had kept themselves alive.
“Doc, come quick!” someone yelled.
Mississippi eased Floyd down off his horse into the arms of Pa and Doc, who had rushed out of his office the very instant the man on the street had hollered for him. They carried Floyd inside.
“Floyd!” came a worked-up and panicked voice from behind Jessa. Martha was racing toward Doc’s place. Those heels weren’t slowing her any.
As Mississippi stepped down off his horse, Jessa threw her arms around him. He was all she wanted, all she had thought about, and she buried her face into his shirt, hiding her tears. That wild scent, branded into him from days, weeks, years out on the trail, put a smile on her face. He made her weak in a good way, made her want to be more of a woman. Not that she wasn’t womanly, but the way she’d been living—on her own so long, doing solely for herself, her needs, her way… For a long spell, she hadn’t listened to anyone else’s opinion or concern about her life. She did what she wanted without regard for anyone, especially a man. After Booker and how badly her father had hurt her during that time, she’d hated men for a while and figured she didn’t need one. A hardness had settled into her, roughing her edges. Not too many could get close to her or seemed to want to. And Jessa had been okay with being alone until he came along.
Mississippi Lightning was his name. And she aimed to carry that name as her own, have babies and raise a family. Pa had called her stubborn more than a few times throughout the years. So had some others. She liked to say it was determination. Whatever had to be done to help Mississippi, she would do it.
They kissed in the middle of the street. She didn’t give a rat’s ass who saw them, and there were folks all over. Then he tied his horse, and they hurried into Doc’s place. Floyd was on the examination table, held on his side by Martha while Doc looked over the stitch job Mississippi had done. For the first time in a while, Martha wasn’t crying. In fact, she was sober-faced, her grip tightening on Floyd as his eyes rolled in his head. Then he blacked out. She bit her lip while waiting for any instruction from Doc. She had gotten Floyd back, barely alive, but he was breathing. She seemed to be willing to do what she had to in order to keep him that way.
“Martha, fetch that blue bottle and some gauze.” Doc was cutting off Floyd’s shirt. He turned and looked at the three of them. “The rest of you can wait out there.” He pointed with his chin toward the parlor.
It was too quiet in that other room where Doc, Floyd, and Martha were. The minutes endlessly ticked by. Voices in hushed tones filtered through the curtain. Then it opened. Doc was wiping blood off his hands onto his apron. Martha was standing by, a small smile on her face. The two seemed pleased.
“Well?” Sheriff Pike stood.
Mississippi rose from where he sat, and Jessa did likewise. They wanted to know if Floyd would pull through.
Martha’s grin grew until she glowed. “He’s gonna be just fine.” Her face all of a sudden melted into something stone cold, her focus aimed at Pike. “Sheriff, I ain’t going back to the jailhouse. I know the risk, but I’m staying here with Floyd.”
No one could blame her for wanting to be at Floyd’s side. He wouldn’t get a better nurse. Doc could probably use the help too. Butch was upstairs, and two men in such bad shape was an awful lot for any one person to tend to.
Martha retreated toward the room where she and Doc had just patched up Floyd and he was resting. At the door, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at Mississippi. “I haven’t forgiven you. Don’t know if I ever will.” She took a deep breath. “I suppose I can see a little of what Jessa sees in you.” Martha paused for a minute. “Thank you for helping Floyd.” She disappeared behind the curtain.
Mississippi nodded, although Martha had gone. No one else standing nearby said a word, but there was a look of relief about everyone’s faces that reflected their joy that Martha wasn’t going to lose man number two. It was fine of her to recognize that Mississippi could have left Floyd out there to die. He probably hadn’t expected a thanks, and by the way he had removed his hat, it was obvious he was truly humbled by it.
Jessa gave his arm a little squeeze. She was proud.
“Let me see that arm.” Doc began to untie the bandanna. Jessa hovered while he got stitches, and she fully understood Martha’s strong desire to tend her man. Doc pushed Jessa’s hands out of the way a few times while reaching in there, trying to help.
Pa had gone back to the jailhouse, and before Doc was done with the sewing, Stan came through the door.
“Sheriff Pike sent me.” It appeared Stan was now on guard at Doc’s.
He settled in with his gun next to the window. Martha wasn’t the prime target, but if Clint and Rascal believed she knew where the money was and her being away from the jailhouse and the sheriff, that made her an easier target. Doc finished the stitches, then wrapped a bandage over that part of Mississippi’s arm.
“Thanks, Doc.” Mississippi stood to leave and headed for the door. Jessa was at his side and knew his intention was to return to the jailhouse just as he was expected to do. As they stepped outside, she had another idea.
On the boardwalk, Jessa eyed Mississippi’s horse as he stepped up into the saddle. The livery was at the other end of town, and his thought was probably such that he would take care of his animal before going to the jailhouse. That wasn’t where her thoughts were leading her.
“Let’s leave.” She wanted away from there. They could ride for Mexico or somewhere he wasn’t wanted where they could start over, where they could forget all of this and have a so-called normal life.
He pulled her up behind him. She slipped her arms around him. He turned his horse and said nothing. The gelding trotted toward the jailhouse. Why? Why was he doing this? What man didn’t have a little yellow in him? Didn’t he want to live? Tears filled her eyes with the realization that he was staying. He wasn�
�t going to leave, to take her away as she had asked.
He reined in next to Sheriff Pike’s horse.
She didn’t move to get down. “I don’t want ya to die.” Her voice croaked.
Mississippi twisted in the saddle. “Well, it’s gonna happen, so you get yourself right with it.” He gave her a hand down.
“Why didn’t ya just run instead of coming back to town? I’d rather live with thinking the Apache got ya than having to watch you hang.” She couldn’t hold back the tears that welled up. She wiped a sleeve across her cheeks.
Before they got to the door, it opened, and her father ushered them in. Mississippi unbuckled his gun belt, then dropped it on the desk. “Floyd needed help or he would have died.”
“You sure it ain’t Martha, and you’re trying to make up for what ya done? What about me?” she snapped.
He nodded. “I won’t deny that’s part of it.”
Flora was in the corner, sponging at Tom’s beaded head. Her face was turned, watching them. Her father also was listening, but how could he not, being that they were all stuck in one room?
Mississippi eyeballed her from head to boot toes. “You got a blind spot. Reckon the next time, your pa should do the choosing on account of you ain’t no good at it.” He went into the cell and fell across the cot.
She slammed the cage door shut with a clang.
“By the way,” he muttered with his head deep in a gray pillow and his eyes shut, “you look real purdy in them clothes.” In the next breath, a snore rose out of him.
Jessa huffed and threw herself back, leaning heavily against the bars. She sank, her face in her hands. Tears dripped through her fingers. An arm slipped around her shoulders, and she looked up, expecting Flora. To her surprise, it was her father. He pulled her to his chest, and she clung there and cried.
“It’ll be okay, daughter.”
How could he say that? It wouldn’t be okay. He, her father, likely would be the one to hang Mississippi. Things couldn’t be worse.
Mississippi Page 25
