Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  At a cautious pace, their horses one behind the other, they weaved through the trees, avoiding the thick, brushy spots where their stirrups or clothing might get caught and make noise. There was a light breeze blowing down off the rim into the basin, which would carry any sound they made into the ears of their enemies. And that wasn’t just Clint and Rascal. The Apache were out there too.

  The remains of Topper’s wagon were easy to spot. Mississippi slid off his horse, keeping the reins in hand. He stepped off thirty paces. Jessa had said forty, but her stride was much shorter than his. That would make a difference. Missing the mark even by a foot could be a big headache. He had no desire to dig more than one hole before he found what he was looking for. The quicker they got back to town, the better.

  Clint’s other option was still Jessa. Stan was guarding her at the jailhouse while Flora had gone to check in on Martha. Tom was there too, but his wounds had left him awful weak. Mostly, he slept. His reflexes wouldn’t be what they were before. He would only be a small help to Stan, but it did give Mississippi some comfort to know two armed men were with Jessa.

  Mississippi turned west at the thirty-pace mark as Jessa had instructed him. Before him was a dense patch of evergreens. Only when looking up toward the tippy-top branches could he distinguish the dead pine, the one Jessa had described as the exact spot, standing in the middle of the copse of strong, healthy trees. He pushed in among the thickly intertwined branches until he reached the center. At the bottom of the dead one, which stood only because it was leaning against the others, the ground had been recently toiled, then packed. Her moccasin was imprinted perfectly in the dirt. This was it. He sank in the spade.

  She hadn’t buried the cash all that deep. He’d dug only two or three feet when the tip struck the filled sack. It was all there. Fifty thousand dollars. He closed the bag. That money had changed his life. It had led him to Jessa. Otherwise, he might not have crossed her path. Greed still coursed through his veins, but his desire wasn’t for wealth in the form of gold coins or greenbacks. Time, that was what he was greedy for. Time with Jessa. And no mistake, that time was running out.

  He handed the money over to Pike, then swung into the saddle. It occurred to him then what Pike had meant when he said escaping was Mississippi’s choice. The remark was really a question of integrity, one Pike already knew the answer to, as did Mississippi. It would be easy to light out of there, and he’d have a day’s head start on any posse. Governor Aurand’s stage, if it was running on time, would not arrive in Piketown until tomorrow or the next day. Mississippi could be long gone. It would be easy on his body to make the journey, but it wouldn’t be easy on his mind or his heart.

  They crossed over the tip of the mountain. Mississippi soaked in the stillness of the woods. It would probably be the last time he’d see it or enjoy the comfort of his horse, as he likely wouldn’t sit on Peppy again except to be hanged. Birds twittered softly, singing their love songs, which flowed on the light, caressing breeze that tickled his face. It was peaceful, and he’d expected to be shot at.

  Where were Clint and Rascal? Until those two were locked up and Jessa was safe, Mississippi wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t sure how to manage that when the governor would be there soon. What had Pike said? That Mississippi should hear out Governor Aurand. Why? Did he have a chance of busting rocks the rest of his life rather than hanging? Prison labor might be worse than dying.

  “Reckon you’ve made up your mind.” Pike grinned. In the distance were the rooftops of the town’s buildings. “Never thought you’d leave. I’ll give that to ya, boy. You ain’t no coward.”

  Though, he was a dead man. There was neither courage nor cowardice in that. It wasn’t his decision anymore. The first time he drew a gun and killed a man, his fate had been sealed.

  They rode two wide down the middle of the street. Outside the jailhouse, a crowd had gathered. What was going on? They reined in with a jerk, jumped off their horses, then pushed through the people to the door. It hung wide open. Everyone peered inside at Stan, who was on the floor in a puddle of blood. Aw, no. One look and it was obvious that he was dead. His eyes were open but vacant.

  “Dammit,” Mississippi cursed under this breath. Guilt hit him. He’d known this could happen. So had Pike. They’d gone together anyway, two gun-ready men, and they had left Stan, who had been a livery owner, not an honest-to-God deputy. Nor had he ever truly shown the skills to be one. He’d gotten drafted into wearing that badge. That wasn’t so much Mississippi’s fault, but he was partly responsible for Stan’s death. In hindsight, Pike should have stayed behind and Stan gone with Mississippi.

  Flora was crying, on her knees next to Stan. Doc was there too, looking bewildered, staring at his useless hands. There was simply nothing he could do for a man who had a bullet drilled between his eyes. Stan was dead before he hit the floor.

  Clint or Rascal had killed Tom. Senseless. He hadn’t been well, healthy enough to squeeze a trigger, but judging by where his gun lay on the table next to the cot, he’d been defenseless. Those who had been inside must have somehow been taken by surprise. Tom had been shot in his sick bed.

  How could Mississippi have overlooked their wickedness for so long? One look at Stan’s round, cheery face and anyone could have seen that he was a big softy. Clint could have just locked him up instead of killing him. Even more unsettling was Tom’s death. That was the lowest Clint had ever sunk.

  Where the hell was Jessa? He frantically looked at all the faces. Panic raced through him. No. Dear God, no. Clint had her.

  “He’s one of them,” someone in the crowd bellowed, and others roared.

  The townsfolk were riled. One of their own and a deputy was killed right under their noses. Some of them stormed in, and two men grabbed Mississippi’s arms. A third man snatched his pistol out of his holster. In a wink, a lynch mob had formed, and he was being dragged toward the door.

  Pike’s rifle boomed inside the room. Pieces of ceiling showered down white chips of horsehair plaster. It was as if time stood still. No one dared to move.

  Pike’s Winchester was aimed into the mob. “Leave him. He’s been with me.”

  The two men holding Mississippi looked at Bernstein. His eyes narrowed. “You been catering to that boy ‘cause of Jessa. It ain’t right. He’s an outlaw. A killer the same as those men who killed Stan.” Bernstein glanced at the dull-eyed livery owner with the hole in his head. “Stan was a good man.”

  “He was.” Pike nodded.

  Mississippi couldn’t be hanged, and that’s what lynch mobs did. He had to get to Jessa. He twisted and yanked, trying to break free. Someone in the bunch of angry citizens stepped forward and punched him in the gut. The blow knocked the wind out of Mississippi, doubling him over. He hadn’t time to draw in breath when he caught five knuckles on the chin, which threw his head back.

  “Let him loose,” Pike thundered. “He’ll be judged when the governor arrives.”

  “We ain’t gonna sit for this.” Bernstein’s glare shifted from Pike to Mississippi. “Maybe those others will take off once they see that we strung this one up. I doubt the governor will care.”

  There were too many of them for Pike to hold off or to even get them under control, snorting mad as they were, and grumbling voices pillared up behind Bernstein. All of a sudden, the room was crowded with one large opinion: Mississippi should be hanged.

  Jessa could only lead Clint around by the nose for so long before he would realize she was stalling. Then once he grasped why—that the money was gone—he would kill her. There was no one in that moment of desperate time who could slip out and go after her. Floyd was at Doc’s, laid up with his injuries, basically incapacitated. Tom and Stan were dead, and Pike’s own people were turning against him. There was no possible way for Pike to stand off Bernstein and his mob and go riding after Jessa.

  Mississippi threw his weight back, held up by the two men on either side of him gripping his arms, and he kicked out with both le
gs at Bernstein. But he missed when the man stepped aside as a rush of men took Pike. Pike’s rifle was knocked out of his hands as they ran him back, lifting him almost off his feet. Thrown into one of the cells, Sheriff Pike was locked up. Mississippi was struck in the chest with the butt of a rifle by yet another man, a warning to settle. He gasped, hardly able to breathe.

  Bernstein held the keys. “Get a rope,” he hollered out, and someone in the mob took off out the door to do just that.

  Doc and Flora, who both stood aside, silent and still, seemed to be overlooked in all matters taking place. In Flora’s hand, held down along her side and nearly hidden by her flowing skirt, was Pike’s Winchester. Now what was she gonna do with that? Mississippi didn’t want to see her do something stupid and get herself shot. These townsfolk were insanely mad. Anything could happen.

  Mississippi was dragged out the door. Someone tied his hands, and obviously, that person had never been part of a posse, because the fool tied them in front of him where maybe he could use them if he got close enough to grab a gun. But no such chance showed itself. Then by the ass of his pants and the scruff of his neck, he was thrown onto his horse. The gelding was led to stand under a tall tree at the edge of town.

  The sun seemed hotter than ever as he uneasily shifted his weight, making the leather under his seat creak. Or maybe the damn heat was an indication of where he’d be spending eternity. The line got tossed over a sturdy branch. With one hard tug that choked him, the rope was whipped around the tree trunk and tied off.

  Horace stepped forward. “You should’ve let me measure ya. I don’t have a coffin taller than six feet.” He unscrupulously eyeballed Mississippi’s length. “Suppose I could take off your boots. Those are nice boots too.” He scratched his knobby chin. “I might be able to sell them. Bet I could get ten dollars. That rig on your hip will fetch a good price. Too bad it’s empty. Be worth more with the gun of Mississippi Lightning.”

  Horace splendidly grinned while greedily rubbing his hands together, talking more to himself than anyone, and Mississippi’s ears had their fill of how his death would provide the bone bag with plunder.

  “Git out the way,” Bernstein snapped at Horace, but before he could skedaddle, Mississippi kicked his boot right up under Horace’s chin, which snapped his head back so hard it lifted him off his feet, landing him into Bernstein, who then stumbled back, hit three others, and a ripple effect of dominoed men took place.

  A shot fired, not up close, but slightly in the distance. The twine above his head split. Every eye in that mob faced him atop his horse as he faced the town. Though, he was looking into the sun, so he had to squint to see. Was that Flora on the flat roof of the jailhouse? A second shot rang out and kicked up dirt at Bernstein’s feet. Before the dumbstruck man could react, from somewhere else, a third shot zinged over the mob, but nowhere near Mississippi. Must have been Doc from the other side of the street.

  “It’s the other ones,” someone in the crowd yelled.

  Panic hit the lot of them, and men dove every which way for cover. This was his chance to save Jessa.

  Mississippi madly sank spurs into Peppy’s sides. The gelding leaped forward, knocking a few men rolling. Shots nipped at his heels as he raced away. When he was a little better than a mile out of town, he reined in, then squirmed his hands until he untied the damn knot that held his wrists together. His horse was panting. The gelding had been on the go most of the day. His heavy breathing was a sign of waning stamina. The animal wouldn’t hold up in a chase.

  There was no dust in the air, so Bernstein must not have formed a posse, not yet anyway.

  Perhaps Flora and Doc had sprung Pike, and now Bernstein was facing him. At least the pressure was off Mississippi for the moment. Boy oh boy, he wished he had his Colt. His rifle had been left alongside his saddle on his horse. No one in that mob had thought to remove it. Lucky for him, but one gun wasn’t much to face Clint and Rascal. They were loaded for bear, pistol and rifles, and Clint carried an extra hog leg in one of his saddlebags. Mississippi wasn’t as fast with his rifle either, and he’d been counting on his speed to leverage the risk of facing two deadly men.

  He picked up their trail. It wasn’t hard at all because they weren’t trying to hide where they were headed. How stupid. Caution was a thing a wanted man always had to carry with him. Did Clint not think a posse would pursue the girl? Pike definitely, and maybe even Bernstein and the others, would be coming fast. That town was stirred up worse than a hornet’s nest. The folks wanted blood and had almost gotten his.

  Mississippi started up into the Blacklog mountain range. His mount was still breathing heavy, so he eased up on the pace and let the gelding catch his breath. The path before him was empty other than the hoofprints of three horses, Jessa being on one of them. On the top, Mississippi reined in and looked over his shoulder, watching his back trail for a minute. Dust was there where it hadn’t been a half hour ago. Too much dirt hung in the air to be only Pike. He had company. Seemed like a lot of them. Within the hour they—Clint, Rascal, him, and Jessa—and that posse would all be bunched in at her cabin. At least that was where these hoofprints he was following seemed to be leading him.

  Was Jessa thinking that with Topper’s trade post sign over the door of the cabin, she could lie her way out of this? It wouldn’t be unlikely that while she’d been in town, some trapper or Indian had found the place empty, then helped themselves to a few things. She could tell Clint the cash had been stolen, that she’d hidden it there, but now it was gone. Would Clint swallow such a farce? Doubtful if there was no evidence like unfamiliar horse tracks. The recipe brewing was one for death. No doubt Mississippi would catch a lethal taste of it.

  The dust behind him drew closer. He had barely slipped the noose twice. No man had the kind of luck that would save him from a third death sentence. Did he have time to get Jessa out of there?

  Peppy’s gait was quick along the path to the cabin. Mississippi hoped Clint and Rascal would be focused on getting the money, since they hadn’t even taken time to try and hide their trail. It might give him a chance to sneak in close and get Jessa out of the way before the shooting started. He pulled up reins among the trees on the ridge side, thirty yards above the cabin where the entire place could be watched.

  “We’re gonna be rich.” Rascal’s giddy voice floated in the air. The three of them stood near the corral. Rascal had a shovel in his hands, waiting.

  Mississippi left his horse and crept closer on foot. That posse had to be in the mountains by now, probably not far behind him. Their horses would have been much fresher than his. It didn’t give him much time to put Jessa somewhere safe.

  “Where’s the money, woman?” Clint snapped and raised his fist.

  “I forget exactly.” She turned her face into her shoulder and cowered.

  Mississippi stepped out of the bushes. “I have it.”

  Clint whipped around while pulling Jessa in close, shielding himself. Rascal had a crazy look in his eyes. Call it greed or the want to kill. Whatever it was, he dropped the spade and went for his pistol. Maybe he had seen the empty holster on Mississippi’s hip. How could the fool have missed the readied rifle in his hands? At that range, twenty feet at most, a blast from a rifle would scatter a man. Mississippi squeezed the trigger.

  A thunderous boom shook the walls of the yard. Seconds later, Rascal was being thrown backward onto the ground, his shoulder bleeding. Rascal’s pistol returned a crack. It seemed luck was with him. There had been no aim when Rascal squeezed the trigger, due to his falling, but somehow he’d managed to throw a slug into Mississippi’s side, which felt like a hot poker skewering his flesh. A deep groan bleated out of his throat as he doubled over, grabbing where he was bleeding, causing his aim to lower. He damn near dropped his gun. This was an advantage Clint would not overlook.

  His pistol came up. Jessa jabbed an elbow into Clint’s gut as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet flew off course by a few inches and hit Mississippi’s sho
ulder instead of plugging his heart. The blow spun him, and he fell. Jessa screamed somewhere behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rascal getting to his feet. Mississippi rolled into the brush with his rifle tucked in his arms and squeezed off a quick shot. His bullet skimmed the brim of Rascal’s hat just above his ear. Rascal spun away, stumbling, and threw himself behind the water trough.

  Mississippi sharply waved his rifle toward his horse. “Jessa, git out of here!”

  She took off running.

  Just then, Clint’s gun blasted. Fragments of brush sprinkled down over Mississippi’s shoulders. Thank God he’d drawn Clint’s fire. Jessa disappeared into the woods. Hopefully, she would be quick to find Peppy.

  It wasn’t easy because he could hardly breathe, but he got to his feet. Blood soaked his shirt, and the burn of the hot lead made him woozy. He couldn’t stay there in one place, so he moved with lots of effort while holding pressure on his side. Even so, blood spilled through his fingers. His eyes wanted to go black a few times. Each time that darkness began to overtake him, he stopped, leaned against a tree, and took a couple deep breaths until it subsided. What if one of those times it didn’t go away? As long as Jessa was on his horse and gone.

  That sound made when clothing gets scratched on brush perked up his ears. They had come into the bramble after him. Not twenty feet away, Clint stepped quietly amid the bushes, gun held ready. Yet he hadn’t seen Mississippi. If he moved, the motion would be detected, and foolishly, his rifle was at his side. He had let it fall while focusing on breathing so as not to pass out.

  “Mississippi, run!” It was Jessa, choked up and sounding fragile as if she’d break if he got killed. Where the hell was she? She should have been on his horse and skedaddling.