“Take this.” Pa gently pulled her off, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather bracelet she’d taken off the other day. She snatched it, clutching it in her hands.
“Wipe your eyes, girl. That boy’s exhausted. He was probably up all night keeping watch over Floyd and listening for another attack. Hungrier than a dog is how he’ll wake.” Flora picked up Mississippi’s gun belt and strapped it on, adjusting the fit on her hips. “Jessa. If you want to be helpful, get off that floor, wipe them tears, and get a rifle.”
“Where do you two think you’re going?” Sheriff Pike looked none too pleased at the thought of them walking out that door.
Jessa picked a gun from the rack.
“I make a fine stew. We’ll be okay for the time it takes to cook a meal. It’s not my first time defending myself.” Flora led off out the door.
When Mississippi woke, it was to the rich smell of good food. He ate, rested a little longer, then ate some more. Tom had come awake and eaten a few bites. The lot of them were fairly quiet, other than spoons clinking on the tin plates. There was something thicker than Flora’s stew on their minds.
When would Clint and Rascal strike again? Their time to do so before Curry and his men returned was running out. Governor Aurand should be there soon. The rain had stopped a few days ago, and the sun should have dried the rutted roadways so they were passable. Clint had to be feeling that pinch, so his next move might be that of a desperate man. And Rascal had never once shown himself to be patient. He’d be chomping at Clint to act sooner rather than later. That could mean trouble for the whole town, big trouble.
Mississippi recalled a robbery down near Salt Lake, Utah, that the gang had pulled off, but only after Clint had set fire to a building in the middle of town. It had been around the supper hour when they struck. That lighted structure—maybe it had been a home—had occupants in it. Mississippi had been cornered on the other side of the street, several buildings away, by three men shooting at him and had not been aware at first of Clint’s actions.
The businesses and houses in that town had been built so close together that the threat of losing the entire row, or more, had turned every townsman to grabbing buckets and starting a water line. Others had run into the flaming building, windows exploding from the heat, and screams of horror had echoed through the street. Mississippi had fought his instincts to stay and help to make sure those people got out, but he’d wanted to live. And he would’ve been gunned down before getting close enough to help anyone.
The gang, including Mississippi, had gotten away, but he’d always wondered if everyone had escaped the flames. That had never sat well with him, and that day, he’d lost a great deal of respect for Clint. Actually, he’d started to hate him. But Mississippi, at that time, hadn’t been in any position to leave the protection of the gang. He’d been injured badly. Clint and the boys were necessary to dig the lead out of him and then tend to him as he recovered, which had made him feel as if he owed them. That wasn’t true anymore.
So before Clint did something catastrophic, like burn down the town to get his hands on Jessa, Mississippi and Pike needed to get what Clint was really after and lock the cash in the bank until it could be transported to where it belonged in Burnt Cabins. Clint might still try to light the town, which Mississippi would have to warn Pike about, but Jessa would no longer be a direct target.
“Where’s the money?” Mississippi looked directly at Jessa.
Everyone turned and stared at him as if an explosion had just gone off in the room. If that money was locked in an iron safe, behind four brick walls, and guarded by a few men like Bernstein, then the bank would become Clint and Rascal’s focus. They would have no reason to come after Jessa, except maybe revenge, but Mississippi would stand solid in the way of that.
Pike could oversee the bank part of the plan. He would just have to deputize Bernstein and a couple others and prepare them for the hellish fight that might come. But perhaps the fight wouldn’t have to come into town. Mississippi rubbed his chin. There might be a way to keep everyone there in Piketown out of the line of fire.
“What are you thinking?” Pike raised a brow.
“If we can git that money, we can use it as bait and draw Clint out into a trap somewhere between there and here.”
Pike affirmatively nodded.
“No.” Jessa dropped her knitting. “Then they’ll hang you.”
He knew she was still wishfully thinking there was some way out for him. That just wasn’t so.
He touched her hair, rolling the ends between his fingers. “Jessa. There’s nothing that can be done that will keep the law from hanging me. That day is coming. I know it. Your pa knows it. Everyone else in this room knows it, so please. I want to do something right. Tell me where that money is.” He weakly grinned, and tears filled her eyes as she threw her arms around him and cried into the front of his shirt.
Flora sniffled.
Pike came around the desk, hesitantly resting a hand on Jessa’s shoulder. “He’s right, darlin’. If Curry has his way, Governor Aurand won’t wait long before he sentences this boy to hang. Let him do this. Let us get that money.”
Mississippi knew the general location of the cash, yes, but not where the X marked the spot. Only she did. He lifted her chin, and she looked into his eyes. He held his breath and waited for an answer.
Jessa turned on her father. “I’ll cut ya a deal.”
Both of Pike’s brows shot up. He scratched at his head. Mississippi was also curious. What was she planning?
“I’ll tell him.” She nodded toward Mississippi. “Then when you have the money, he gets his horse and goes free before the governor arrives.”
Mississippi peeled Jessa off him, holding her at arm’s length. “Woman! I ain’t no coward. You ought to know that by now.” He pointed a finger at her. “You’re asking me to run, and I’ve already told you no.”
She wiped at her eyes. She was wearing her love on her sleeve, but he wouldn’t turn chickenshit for anyone.
Pike pulled up a chair for her. “I think you should give the governor a chance to speak. He ain’t the judgmental man you might think.” Pike seemed confident about something the rest of them were clueless about. “A gunman saved his life once. It’s a story he tells quite often. He’d been gambling aboard a steamer, The Majesty.”
Small world. Mississippi was baffled. The Majesty was a ship that cruised up and down the mighty Miss. It was luxurious. Not a spot he’d frequented, but he had gambled there a few times himself. Strangely, it was the very place he’d become a gunfighter and coined the name Mississippi Lightning.
Jessa had plopped into the chair. She adamantly shook her head. “No, Pa.”
Pike squatted, patting Jessa’s knee. “Daughter, I’ll do this for ya. You go on and tell him. We’ll ride together and fetch the money. If he wants to escape, I’ll let him, but he will be hunted down, likely shot in the process, without a fighting chance. Too many men have died not to have justice. But that’ll be his choice. If he comes back”—Pike stood—“then you git off his ass about it.”
She wiped a sleeve across her eyes. Mississippi was rather dumbfounded as they talked around him as though he weren’t right there. Not that he was considering an escape, but Pike was right. He would be hunted for the rest of his days. Lots of lives had been lost, too many for anyone to forget. The law, kin, widows, a community—none of them were that forgiving. And he didn’t expect them to be. He recalled Martha after he’d returned with Floyd. As glad as she was to have that man back in her arms, she hadn’t forgiven Mississippi. Death of a loved one was a loss that a body sometimes never recovered from. He understood that.
As Jessa rose, he bent down. Her lips pressed to his ear and whispered, “Forty paces from the remains of the wagon, to the west. There’s a stand of pines. A big one, dead, stands taller than the others. It’s in the middle of that bunch. At the roots of that dead tree on the south-facing side. I buried the cash there. The b
ranches of the other trees are thick and full. It’s hard to get in there between them.”
He nodded as Pike handed him his gun belt, and Mississippi strapped it around his waist.
There came a banging on the door. “Let me in.” It was Doc.
Pike turned the key in the lock. Doc shuffled in with his head hanging low and his shoulders slumped. His hair was askew. The usually tailored lines of his suit were disheveled. Dark bags had puffed up under his eyes since last Mississippi had seen the man. It appeared he hadn’t slept all night.
Had Floyd taken a turn for the worse? Mississippi’s gut tightened. Poor Martha. But Doc had said Floyd would recover, and it couldn’t have been that Clint or Rascal had taken Martha. In that case, Doc would have been in a hurry.
“It’s your friend.” Doc leaned on the desk as though the words he was about to say were so heavy that he couldn’t bear them himself. “I’m sorry, boy. He’s dead.”
Mississippi sank into a chair. Butch had made it so far. He’d hung on longer than any two men would have. After all this time, he’d finally given in to his wounds. It was just hard to believe. Mississippi liked him. Butch had been a son of a bitch at times, but he never cheated at cards and always paid up on his debt. He had always treated Mississippi squarely.
“There’s something I gotta do.” The money could wait. “Where’s the undertaker’s place?” Mississippi followed Doc out the door, Jessa behind them by a step.
They headed along the boardwalk toward the far end of town. As they neared the end building, a sign sticking out like a nose over a door swung in the breeze.
UNDERTAKER
Embalming 50 Cents Extra
That wasn’t the only thing that made the open air not so refreshing for Mississippi. Coffins, three of them, stood propped against the front of the building. The man who’d built them was probably just advertising his work, but to Mississippi, it was a reminder that for now, he was still breathing and Clint and Rascal were still alive. Not that he gave a hoot about them, but soon, each one of them would be shoved into a wood box just like those he was miserably staring at.
Doc knocked once on the door, then turned the knob. They filed inside. Mississippi wasn’t sure if he felt sick or angry at how his life had turned out. Jessa must have sensed his uneasiness and gave his hand a quick, hard squeeze. She was just never going to give up that he was going to live through this mess.
Doc turned in front of a grave-looking man with a pale, wrinkled face, as though his skin had never been touched by sunlight. He appeared as a ghostly apparition wearing clothing that barely hung on his bones.
Doc’s gaze wavered from one to the other of them. “Mississippi, this is Horace Beck. Horace, Mississippi Lightning.”
“Hello.” Horace Beck’s drawn-out, shivery voice fit the bill of creepy. The perfect image of an undertaker.
Mississippi ignored the attempt at pleasantry. He was feeling sour, and this odd duck was only making it worse. He pulled some bills out of his pocket. “I need a coffin.”
“Step up here, and I’ll measure you.”
The ghostly voice sent a shiver up Mississippi’s spine. Jessa gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. Doc grimaced at the blunt insult or insinuation, however one wanted to look at it.
“It ain’t for me,” Mississippi said dryly as he fought the urge to grab that inconsiderate ass and jam him all balled up into one of those boxes he’d built. For God’s sake, Jessa was right there, and it wasn’t as if the entire town didn’t know they were a couple. They’d kissed in the middle of the street just a day ago. Did this fella have any respect for the lady?
Horace straightened his suit coat. “Oh, really. Ain’t you one of that gang? Rumor has it you’ll be hanged. Might as well measure ya while you’re here.” He actually grinned, baring yellow teeth. He seemed to believe he was doing Mississippi a favor. Unbelievable.
Jessa sniffled. Mississippi restrained himself from knocking out that kooky bird.
Doc loudly cleared his voice. Maybe he felt the heat of Mississippi’s temper rising. “Horace, the man we need a coffin for is about six feet, slightly shorter maybe.”
“I have one in the back that should do.” Horace led them into another room.
Coffins of varying height leaned against the walls. A few that were being crafted stood in the middle. Hammer and nails lay on the floor next to a heap of boards.
“That one.” He pointed with his bony corpse-like finger.
Instead of toting it to Doc’s place, they had decided to carry Butch there. The alleyway behind all the stores was notably the best route, so as not to attract unwanted attention. No one was supposed to find out that Doc had been hiding a wanted man.
Surprisingly, Curry had never searched Doc’s house. Even if he had, Butch had lost considerable weight after weeks of illness and now barely resembled the face on his wanted poster. But Mississippi still believed it a good idea to hide what details they could from the townsfolk. Something like hiding a fugitive might cause Doc trouble if folks got riled up about it. Especially if any of their own got hurt.
Clint and Rascal were out there somewhere, and Curry and his crew were due back any day. Since this had started, the town hadn’t been able to really relax, so people were on edge. Tempers could spark. Mississippi didn’t want to see Doc catch the brunt of any misplaced anger.
After Mississippi paid, they tidied Butch the best they could, then carried him downstairs. He was a heavy son of a gun, although he was a good bit smaller than he’d been in life. They loaded his body into the back of Doc’s wagon. Mississippi took the reins, seated next to Jessa, and Doc crawled aboard. Mississippi slapped leather to the team.
When they had Butch in the coffin and loaded into Doc’s wagon for the second time, they headed for a sprawling hilltop just outside of town, where the grass wasn’t too tall. Mississippi picked a spot under a maple where he reckoned Butch, who’d lots of times grumbled about the heat, would enjoy his eternal resting place in the shade.
An hour later, with Jessa standing near him and wiping at her eyes and Doc waiting patiently at the wagon, Mississippi tossed the last scoop of dirt. Butch was mounded over, and Mississippi packed the sod with his shovel.
“You son of a bitch. I’m gonna miss ya.” Then Mississippi silently said his peace, that he wished they’d have known each other in a different time, under other circumstances, maybe just been neighbors. All the while, he ignored Doc’s presence and listened to Jessa crying, not for Butch, but for Mississippi.
She stepped up to his side, almost leaning against him, and took a hand in hers. “I’m still hoping for a miracle.” She then choked on a sob. “But if it don’t come… where would you like me to have you planted?” Her voice quivered so badly she’d barely gotten out the words.
“I suppose right here next to Butch will do just fine.”
She sadly nodded.
He hated to see her so distraught and stupidly decided to make light of what was bothering her and him too. “Just don’t bury that asshole Rascal next to me.” He gave her a little grin.
She wiped at her eyes. “Don’t you worry. I’ll drag his worthless carcass out into the middle of the mountains and let the coyotes eat him.”
“That’s my girl.” Mississippi kissed her head.
They turned toward Doc, who quietly sat at the reins, waiting for them. In no time, they were back in town, and Mississippi hoofed it toward the jailhouse where Pike was waiting for him. Jessa almost had to run to keep pace.
This all would end today.
CHAPTER 15
When they rode out of town, Mississippi figured they were being watched from somewhere. Clint and Rascal no doubt were pondering why a lawman and Mississippi would be riding together. There was but one reason for the alliance, and those two would eventually land on it. The money. Fifty thousand dollars. It was a lot to lose or gain.
Clint was probably thinking that Mississippi was leading them to the cash so he could, in return, s
ave his own hide and stick them with the fault. That wasn’t so, but that’s how Clint would see it, and Rascal would believe anything Clint said. Had Mississippi become a traitor? Sort of looked that way, but the truth was he had just come to his senses. That line between right and wrong had become sharply visible to him, whereas before, he had been blind to it.
Sweat trickled along his hairline. On the skyline of the mountain, he pulled up on the reins. He lifted his hat, swiped his hand over his brow, then flicked off the wet.
Pike reined in, then took a swallow out of his canteen. He pressed the cap back into place. “Figured we’d see something of ‘em by now.”
Pike was right. They were within a few miles of Devil’s Cauldron, where Clint and Rascal had taken one half of the hundred thousand that day Clint had shot Porter and had every intention of killing Jessa too. So it only made sense, since they had found Porter and Jessa digging the money up in that area, that they would then scour the vicinity for the other half. But no hoofprints or other sign of Clint or Rascal being near could be found.
Maybe an ambush would come once Mississippi and Pike had the money dug up. It was doubtful that the spot Jessa had described would be stumbled upon haphazardly, even if Clint and Rascal had scrutinized every inch of the area. That particular location had sounded like a hard spot to pinpoint, and she’d spelled out a map for Mississippi.
Clint hadn’t made another attempt to steal Jessa, so maybe he’d figured that someone at some point soon would come there to dig up the other part, whether that was Jessa or Pike or Mississippi. Umbrellaing all that was the certain fact that no lawman would want to leave fifty thousand dollars just lying around. Pike would be looking to return the money as fast as possible, even though Curry was out of town and that meant less manpower. Clint was probably hoping for that. Plus, Curry had shot at all of the gang at Jessa’s cabin the day they had trailed the hoofprints belonging to Butch’s horse right to her door. And she’d been with them when Curry and his deputies had ridden up. The lead had been flying in her direction too. It was a safe hunch that Clint was betting on Jessa to tell Pike instead of waiting for Curry to return. An ambush was the likeliest option, but Mississippi would not underestimate his opponent.
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