A bullet bit into the bark next to his head. Being injured didn’t keep his instincts from kicking in at the right time. His rifle swung up, and boom. Clint hollered, grabbed his leg, and dropped onto one knee, cursing the day Mississippi was born.
Mississippi still didn’t see that damnable stubborn woman of his. Why hadn’t she left?
“Over there!” That voice wasn’t Clint’s or Racal’s or Jessa’s. Curry had come with his men. That meant the governor was in town. Now, not only did Mississippi have to dodge getting shot by Clint and Rascal, but he had the posse hunting him too.
What was most important was Jessa. If he could get her to his horse, she might have a chance of riding out of there without getting shot. Mississippi had to find her. Likely, he would be found before that. Blood splotched the ground, showing his exact steps. Even an unseasoned tracker could find him. There was no hiding that red trail. He slipped deeper into the thicket in which he had stopped and then rested a few seconds.
He had to find her, had to keep looking. If he wasn’t moving, he couldn’t search. She was alone without protection. That thought scared the life right back into him, though pain stabbed through his ribs with each step. But he kept going, thinking only of her. Several times, he ducked and stayed still. Curry’s men were everywhere. A twig snapped behind him. He twisted around, ready to squeeze the trigger.
“Don’t shoot,” Jessa whispered hoarsely.
Her breathing came in ragged gasps. She thrust a pistol at him. How she had gotten it, he could only guess. When Rascal had fallen, the weapon must have spilled out of his holster. Being ready to fight, to draw, he wouldn’t have had the hammer strap in place. Mississippi shoved it into the back of his waistband, not wanting to get any of the blood that was all over the front of his shirt on the trigger. If he had to use it, he didn’t want his finger to slip.
She gently pawed at his bloodstained shirt, worry lining her face and clouding her eyes with a thick stream of tears. Only a woman could give such comfort at a time when rifles blasted every few minutes overhead.
He took her by the hands, forgetting the hellish pain he was in, and he held her still while looking into her scared eyes. “My horse is over there. Git to him. Don’t stop riding ‘til you can’t hear the shooting anymore.”
She feverishly shook her head. She wasn’t leaving without him.
“I ain’t making it out of here, not alive. You got to know that.” He pulled her off of him. “Go on now.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the gelding. “I need to know you’re safe.”
She wiped at her eyes, kissed his face, then slipped off and disappeared through the thicket.
He pulled himself to his feet. Each step, he staggered more. A clump of rocks on the ridge side forty yards above the cabin caught his eye. It was a good place to watch. Maybe he could spot Clint or Rascal. And if anyone trailed his blood spots, he would be leading them away from Jessa.
When he made it there, he was sorely out of breath and hadn’t stopped bleeding.
“Reckon we both had the same idea. Only, I was huntin’ you.”
Mississippi turned slowly to see Clint. His face was contorted into a hateful glare, and a polished .44 was aimed at Mississippi.
“Drop that rifle.” Clint sneered.
The gloat of victory hung on his husky voice. His eyes were on Mississippi’s empty holster, and there was a celebratory twinkle in them. Mississippi dropped the gun. He was weak and stood a hair more than half his full height. What made him think he could outdraw a man who already had a gun on him when he would have to reach around his back to grab his? It was doubtful that his speed would be there in his time of need, not when he was leaking so much blood.
Ten feet separated them. He had been preparing for this day for some time. He’d known the end was coming for him, for Clint, for their breed. Piketown wasn’t the first to turn vigilante. Folks wanted law and were becoming less tolerant of those who broke it.
“It’s been a helluva ride.”
Clint gave a nod.
Mississippi grinned confidently.
As far as he knew, Jessa had made it out of there. There wasn’t anything left to do but die. His gut squeezed with that sense of knowing what the man before him was thinking, what he was about to do. He didn’t have to see Clint’s finger ease back on the trigger.
“The famed Mississippi Lightning. And I’m gonna be the one to kill ‘im.” Clint’s laughter died out under the bang of his gun.
Lightning struck at the same time Mississippi’s pistol had gone off. Together, their gunfire sounded like one big boom.
Clint clutched the hole in his chest. Mississippi took one in the leg and dropped to his knees. He hammered back again, drilling Clint a second time in the chest. Clint fell back, smacked off a rock, then fell onto his face.
A boom rang out behind Mississippi. He twisted when the bullet plugged his back, and he stepped wrong and fell down between some rocks, dropping the pistol. His leg might have been broken. He’d heard a crack, but that awful sound could have come from him hitting a rock when he’d fallen. When he tried to move his leg, sweat popped out all over him, and that blackness that tried to overtake him earlier was back stronger than ever. His head swam. He was wedged between two big stones, a fish in a barrel. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t reach his gun, could hardly breathe, and he was fighting passing out.
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up into the sun, squinting his eyes to see Rascal, his shirt bloody and his face pale under the brim of his hat. His cold smile hadn’t changed. It had always been icy when it came to Mississippi. Rascal warily lifted his arm where blood stained his sleeve, and he aimed at Mississippi.
Without warning, a volley of gunfire rattled the mountainside. The rocks around Mississippi shook. Rascal twisted one way, then the other, four or five times, riddled with holes. Then it got quiet, and Rascal dropped. Those bullets could have only come from one thing—the posse. Curry had found them and would have him in a minute.
Boots clattered on the rocks while climbing the hillside to where he lay among the boulders, too weak to stand and too close to the end of his life to care. He was dragged out from between the stones by two men. One grabbed his right leg, and one grabbed the other. He was then yanked up and held on his boot toes by three or four men. If they let go, he would fall. His head dangled, his chin bobbing on his chest. Blood dribbled out of his nose, and drool strung down from his mouth. His skull banged, and there on the side of his crown, near his ear where he’d whacked his head, he could feel blood soaking his locks. His hat was knocked off as he was grabbed by a fistful of hair, and his head was thrust back. His eyes rolled in his head. Someone squeezed his face and forced his listless gaze onto Curry.
The man smiled with a curl of cruelty at the ends of his lips. “I told ya I would hang you.”
“Why bother?” one of Curry’s men said flatly, as though disappointed. “He’s gonna bleed out in another minute.”
“I want him to suffer.” Curry snarled. “Git a rope. And be quick about it.”
Since he was still half awake and breathing when Curry got his rope, Mississippi was dragged behind a horse down into the yard where Curry liked the look of the trees better. Sturdier, or so he said while smiling cruelly. When they were at the tree he had chosen, Curry loosed the loop that he’d used to drag Mississippi and slipped the twine up over Mississippi’s shoulders, snugging it around his throat. No time for a noose. He was in and out of consciousness, and if he passed out, he would spoil their fun. Curry pitched the rope over a branch, then put three men to that end to haul Mississippi up off the ground. The first yank pinched tight around his neck, instantly cutting off his wind. He gurgled out a choking gasp.
“Hold it right there, Curry.” Pike sat astride his horse, his Winchester in his hands. Men on either side of him had their guns readied.
The sight of that bunch must have thrown off the men Curry had set to hold the rope, because the line dropped
and Mississippi’s tiptoes touched the ground enough that he gained the ability to suck in a little air.
One of those fellas with Pike wore a tall black hat like President Lincoln had worn. He wasn’t holding a gun, but a folded piece of paper, and his bewildered gaze was fixed on Mississippi. It was the last thing Mississippi saw before passing out.
CHAPTER 16
When Mississippi opened his eyes, he got quite a start, which made pain streak through his entire body as he tried to sit up. The man who’d been wearing the tall hat was seated at a table near the window. His hair was neatly combed, and he wore a pressed suit, no wrinkles, unlike most men Mississippi was used to seeing. Those details made this man appear important. He probably was.
He looked over at Mississippi. “Settle down, son. Besides, you’re not in any condition to up and run anywhere.”
The man stood, straightened his coat, then carried his chair to the bedside. He said nothing as he sat and made himself comfortable. There were no lines on his face to make him appear unfriendly. Instead, he looked relaxed, as if they were old acquaintances. Had they met before? Mississippi couldn’t imagine where. This man was dressed fancy, too superior for anyone in Mississippi’s circle. Then it hit, and his stomach sank. Curry had escorted the governor to Piketown to sentence him.
“Governor Aurand?” There was a hesitance in Mississippi’s voice as a wave of nausea rushed over him. This was it. His death sentence was staring him in the face.
The man nodded. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
The gent gave him a minute to think. Racking his tired brain, Mississippi tried, but he could not come up with a picture in his mind of their meeting. Where would he rub elbows with the likes of this fella? Obviously, they wouldn’t be in the same places. Maybe they had crossed paths in some town, but certainly, being an outlaw, Mississippi hadn’t hobnobbed with wealthy elected officials.
“Sorry, I don’t.” He rubbed his aching head. “Suppose you’re here to sentence me to hang.”
Governor Aurand laughed. “Son, Sheriff Pike could have done that or let Curry do it.” He shook his head with a smile on his face. Then he handed Mississippi a piece of paper.
“What is it?”
“Read it and see for yourself.”
Three times he read it before it sank in. Who had asked for his pardon? Jessa?
A warm peacefulness spread through him like nothing he’d ever felt before. Jessa had gotten the miracle she’d been wishing for. Mississippi’s happiness must have shown all over his ever-brightening face as his smile grew wider until it reached from ear to ear. He wasn’t going to die. He read the letter again just because he could hardly believe.
“On the seventeenth day of August, in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-nine, governor of the territory of Wyoming, David M. Aurand, has declared pardon to the man known as Mississippi Lightning.” Mississippi stopped there and smiled at the paper in his hands. It was like holding gold.
Governor Aurand eased back in his chair. “Sheriff Pike wrote me about the trouble his daughter had gotten herself into with a certain outlaw by the name of Mississippi Lightning. He described Curry’s erratic behavior and that he feared for his daughter’s life. I wrote back and said I would come investigate.” The governor pulled a cigar out of his vest pocket. “Will it bother you?”
“No, sir.”
“Henry Pike and I have known each other since childhood, been good friends for a long time. I trust his judgment. Curry, I’ve only heard rumors about, none of them good.” He puffed smoke rings. “I wasn’t too worried about Jessa. Pike, when riled, can be a fierce man, and I knew he’d take care of his daughter. I came to save you. I owed you one.”
“How so?” Mississippi had no idea what he was talking about. Governor Aurand owed him for what? The man was starting to look slightly familiar, but Mississippi had lost a lot of blood. Could be he was just mixed up when he should’ve known.
“Her name was The Majesty.”
Mississippi grinned as recognition finally came to him. “A royal flush won you that last hand.”
The governor chuckled. “I believe I won every hand, and I never cheated.” His face sobered. “I thought a riverboat with the name of The Majesty would bring me luck, and she did at the gambling tables… until that night. I guess I was lucky you were there. Though, not so lucky for you. That’s where all this gunfighter business started, wasn’t it? If you hadn’t drawn and shot that hustler, he would have killed me and you would not have taken on the title of gunslinger. I could tell by the stunned look on your face that night. What you’d did was instinct, but you weren’t murderous, a so-called killer.”
Mississippi nodded. It was true. Mississippi would have stayed on the ship, talked to the local law, and explained, but Clint had been aboard The Majesty that night. Before the smoke had cleared, Clint had clapped him on the back and loudly, in front of the entire room, dubbed him Lightning, added to the nickname Mississippi that he had acquired earlier in his life. The horrid looks he’d gotten from all the strange faces, people who hadn’t directly seen up close what had truly happened. They hadn’t realized he was innocent of murder. It had horrified Mississippi, and he’d gotten scared and had run out of there with Clint.
Governor Aurand flicked a long ash off the end of his cigar. When he pressed it between his lips and breathed in, the blunt end glowed red. “I never really had the chance that night to thank you.” He stood and went to the window, staring down at the street. “I’ve wondered about you. Heard rumors and always wished I could help in some way.”
He turned and looked hard at Mississippi. “Young man, I have given you a pardon. It shall not be repeated. I hope you have learned better. If not, there is a girl downstairs who will be awfully disappointed.”
“I never killed no one in cold blood.” He thought he should say it. “I only ever drew when drawn on.”
“I believe you.” He rubbed out his cigar stub in an ashtray on the table. “I don’t want to ever hear the name Mississippi Lightning again. You will leave this town with your soon-to-be wife. Too many people here know who you were.” He grinned “And you will go under your given name.”
That made Mississippi chuckle. It had been rumored during the war when Ulysses S. Grant was a general, and afterward as the current president, that men close to Grant called him Sam. Although, the S in Ulysses S. Grant supposedly stood for Simpson, his mother’s maiden name.
“I know.” The governor laughed too. “It can’t be easy for a southern boy who wears the name Samuel Grant.”
“During the war between the states, the men in my division couldn’t stand it. Hence the name Mississippi.” He grinned. “Thought I might get ribbed about it forever.”
“I’m sure Ulysses, which is actually his middle name, will get a chuckle out of that. I’ll have to tell the president the next time I see him.” The governor then smirked. “Hiram is his given name.” Governor Aurand straightened himself. “I do wish the best for your future.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mississippi indicated the paper with a small wave.
“You’re welcome.” He clapped his hands once. “If we’re done here, there is a sweet young lady downstairs who will be mighty glad to hear that you’re awake. I’m sure she will want to see you.”
“How long have I been out?” Mississippi didn’t even know what day it was.
“A week. None of us were sure that you would pull through.” He stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be leaving on the stage tomorrow. Get well. Then don’t dawdle. Leave this place. Curry is unpredictable. He did nothing during my time here that would allow me to take his badge, so he could still be a threat. He’s sore that I pardoned you.” With that word of warning said, the door closed.
A minute later, it opened. Jessa almost danced into the room, all the while smiling at him. There was simply nothing more beautiful than her face.
Flora breezed in behind her.
“It was you that sh
ot that rope.” He had to know. That was a fifty-yard hit from the top of the jailhouse. Quite a few men would have missed that target.
Flora chuckled. “I have a little something to confess.” She stood near Jessa, who had taken a seat next to him on the bed. “William Dillard wasn’t my husband’s God-given name. His real name was Jacob Parker Hastings.”
Mississippi gave a low whistle.
Jessa curiously looked between the two. “Who is that?” She had no reason to know the name.
“J.P. Hastings, as I knew him, was one of the most feared sharpshooters the Union army had. Every southern boy knew his name. Rumor had it that before the war, his gun was for hire to big ranchers during range wars.”
Jessa ogled Flora. “You never told me.”
“That ain’t something ya make public.” Flora patted her shoulder. “He figured I should know how to shoot, so he taught me and I learned well.” The faraway look in her eyes told them that she was seeing her sweetheart at some good time in their life. “After the war, he gave up that way of making money, changed his name, and we lived quietly. He never got a pardon, not that we ever asked for one, so he kept watch over his shoulder every hour of the day, waiting for that someone to come hunting him. He was troubled a lot by his past. I believe he’s probably at peace now, being dead, though I do miss him. But to know he’s no longer haunted does give me a peace too.”
“I would’ve liked to have met him,” Mississippi said honestly.
“For as much killing as he’d done, he wasn’t a violent man. You remind me of him.” Her voice was soft with a hint of remembering. Tears made her eyes shine. “I’ll go make you something to eat.”
He and Jessa were alone then and kissed not once, but at least a dozen hungry times. She pulled back and eagerly smiled at him. “Take me home to that farm in Mississippi.”
“Yes, ma’am.” That sounded good, real good. But there was one thing he had to do first. “About my name, though… It’s Samuel.”
Mississippi Page 28
