Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  Mississippi steered his gelding into the tree line with three horsemen thundering up behind him. He wheeled Peppy, pulled his rifle, and took aim. A bang rippled out across the grass. He’d kept his aim high. His bullet sailed over their heads. It would only take one of them to spook and run for cover. Likely, then the other two would follow. They continued to come a’helling.

  Mississippi wasn’t about to panic. Three against one. The odds weren’t in his favor. But they were on open ground, and he had tree cover. Surely, that fact was plainly recognized, and subsequently, they would know that each of them presented as a clear target. That thought should have sobered them into backing off, but it didn’t. Mississippi fired, kicking up dirt in front of their horses, and still, not one of them slowed. His next shot split the air between the shoulders of two of the men. Plenty of warning to get them to rein in. Their horses balked, but a few jerks on the reins and they were charging again.

  Seemed as if Mississippi had no choice. He wouldn’t kill unless he had to. He squeezed the trigger. His shot cut the arm of one man, who toppled over the rump of his horse and smacked the ground. There was no time for Mississippi to flee. Thirty yards, and the other two were eating up the ground between them. He could make out the whites of their eyes, their hate-filled glares. He had to make a stand. In the few seconds it would take him to turn and jump on his horse, they would shoot him in the back. They aimed to see him dead. He wasn’t going to die like a coward, running away. But he hoped to escape any killing.

  The ground under his feet shook as their mounts raced closer, their rifles in hand. A bullet ripped through the branches next to him. Mississippi squeezed the trigger. His bullet drilled into the neck of a horse instead of just wounding its rider. The animal went down, carrying his load with him. The man groggily staggered to his feet while holding a hand to his bleeding head. The heavy breathing of the only running horse steamed the air feet in front of Mississippi. It sent a surge of fear through him. A pistol cracked, and lead tore at Mississippi’s sleeve. Couldn’t have been but a few stretching horse lengths between him and that third man. Instinct took over. Mississippi’s trigger hand was steady, although every muscle in him was tight. The horse and rider were nearly over him. Guns boomed. Pieces of bark flew into his eyes, making him squint.

  “Dammit!” He couldn’t see clearly at all. Where was that posse man?

  A twig snapped. Mississippi blindly squeezed the trigger in the direction from which the sound had carried. A deep moan resonated in his ears. He’d gotten lucky. That gave him just enough time to climb awkwardly onto Peppy with the thought of hightailing it out of there. His eyes were watering something awful. Then something big hit the blunt side of his horse, and the gelding fell, unharmed. He got right onto his feet, but Mississippi was rolling. He jumped up, rubbing at his watery eyes. The panicked, riderless horse stopped a few feet away. It must have belonged to the fella Mississippi had shot, who then fell off in the field. By nature, horses were herd animals and prone to flee when sensing danger. That horse was scared, huddled near Mississippi’s gelding, who was accustomed to hearing gunfire.

  “Hold it right there, mister!”

  Mississippi dropped his hands away from his eyes in a natural way so the fool in front of him never realized lightning was about to strike. Mississippi drew, and his .44 barked. The fella dropped off his horse with a bullet lodged between his eyes. It wasn’t how Mississippi had wanted it, but he’d been backed into a corner with no other way out.

  “Drop that pistol.”

  The quivery voice came from behind Mississippi. He’d bet that was no lawman, or he would have gotten plugged without a warning. That was the folly of a quickly thrown-together posse. Sometimes men without backbone got roped in, thinking they were tougher than was true. There was fear in those sputtered words, and that gave Mississippi confidence that maybe he was getting out of this trouble. But this situation also scared the hell out of him. A rifle was aimed at his back, and a twitchy man could too easily make mistakes. Mississippi didn’t desire getting shot in the spine or anywhere else.

  He slowly turned, keeping his hands raised slightly, his .44 dangling on his trigger finger. He had no intention of moving too quick and accidentally scaring that wide-eyed sap into squeezing off a shot. The fella’s chest heaved. And in his badly tremoring hands, the mean end of a scatter gun aimed directly at Mississippi’s guts.

  “I said put that gun on the ground.”

  Both corners of Mississippi’s mouth curled into a daring sneer. “No.” He watched what little confidence the sap had drain out of his stature, and he shifted uneasily.

  “I’ll shoot ya,” the fella stammered.

  Mississippi chuckled. “That might be true, but I’ll kill you.” He didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t let himself get killed.

  The man’s face became ashen.

  Mississippi’s face sobered, stone cold. It was a show, the flaring nostrils and tight jaw. He’d done it so many times that it came natural. Backbone, not fear, was the card he was going to play. Though, scared he was. Who wouldn’t be at the thought of catching lead?

  They stood feet apart. Too close to miss a shot. Neither of them would come away without injury. It was a longshot, but Mississippi was about to bank on his mean, hard reputation as a so-called gunfighter and that of the gang to shoo this fella away.

  “I know your type. You’re all tough when shootin’ at a man’s back, especially when you have a couple others with ya.” He nodded toward the dead one. “Facing me one on one will only get ya kilt. You ever hear of a gunman that goes by the name of Mississippi Lightning?”

  The fella swallowed hard and shuddered, giving a slight, stiff nod.

  “I don’t wanna kill ya. I just want that money, which I don’t even have. One of them other boys got it, so I need to catch up with them and get my stake.” Talk was a distraction that only a tinhorn would fall for, and Mississippi had easily lowered his hands to his sides with his pistol now aimed at that fool. For being a known and hunted killer, he wasn’t bloodthirsty. Clint and any of those other boys would have blown this idiot to hell.

  “I’m gonna give ya a chance to live.” Mississippi jerked his head toward the riderless horse. “Git on that horse, turn your ass around, and ride back to wherever you lay your head down at night.”

  The man looked over at the horse waiting for a rider. The second mistake of a greenhorn, looking away from the gun pointed at him. He just stood there staring and actually reached up and scratched behind his ear.

  “If you’re contemplating the importance of that money and weighing the risk, then let me put it to ya this way. If you’re not on that horse an’ out of my sight in the next minute, I’m gonna floss them big ol’ buck teeth with a bullet an’ blow the back of your head off. Now git!”

  The fella lowered his rifle to his side and hustled toward the horse.

  When he had a leg over the saddle, Mississippi called to him. “You got yourself a woman an’ babies?”

  The man nodded while knotting his hands up in the reins, showing he was still jittery.

  “Don’t get any ideas about turnin’ around an’ comin’ back after that money, or I’ll make her a widow.”

  When the man had gone, Mississippi swung into the saddle. He’d had enough of killing and took every backwoods deer path and rabbit trail he could find until he crossed Bear Creek. Then he headed south for five or six miles, which led him through a small, green, tree-dotted canyon. On the other side, he let his horse drink in the Shallow Woman—a trickle of water between some curvy rocks that formed a natural basin about the size of a washtub. He filled his canteen and wondered if Butch had cashed in. Had any of the gang gotten away?

  Topper’s trade post sat nestled among a thick patch of ponderosa. The little place seemed too quiet. Topper had been a soiled dove before marrying one of her customers. She was always a loud and lively woman. No horses were tied out front, but Clint and the boys had likely hidden their mounts around
back. Mississippi would go have a look-see before going inside. It could be a trap, and he was too cautious a man to trust his surroundings without surveying them first.

  He walked his gelding underneath the dark shadows of thick and leafy branches around the side and to the rear of the log cabin. A horse snorted from somewhere out of sight. A few minutes later, he found Clint, Porter, and Jay Simpson’s mounts. Where was the blue roan that Butch rode? When they had scattered from each other while trying to slip away from the posse, Porter held the reins of the roan. Porter’s grulla was there, so why wasn’t Butch’s mare?

  When Mississippi left Peppy with the others, he’d thought briefly about going through the front door. That might be a mistake. Most of the boys had gotten plugged and would be edgy. Mississippi didn’t want to be mistaken as one of the posse, if they were still following. He was tall and lean and his footsteps light. That was good for either sneaking up on or away from someone, and he’d done both since riding with Clint. Clint was a mean drinker and most likely had a bottle in hand by now. Losing that hundred-thousand-dollar horse was sure to have everyone in a sore mood, especially after getting all shot up.

  Mississippi went to the back door and slipped inside, which put him in a tight-fitting storage room just off the kitchen. Plank shelving held glass canning jars. Packed inside the jars was an assortment of fruits and greens. If he happened to take a deep breath, his shoulders might rub one and knock it down. Bushel baskets of apples hid the flooring, sitting everywhere. What a trap. This place was a darn mess. No wonder no one was guarding the back door. It was practically a gambit. He stepped over some red delicious that had fallen out of a basket long before he’d gotten there.

  Voices drew him through the kitchen to the doorway where the curtain had been left partly open, leading into the main room that held all the store goods, blankets, canteens, boxes of bullets, and whiskey. A few tables and chairs centered the room for customers that wanted fed. Just outside the doorway where Mississippi stood was a long counter. That was where Topper rounded up all her customers wished to purchase, then crated or sacked it, depending on how the person was traveling, by wagon or horse. Clint was sitting at the window with a bottle of rye pressed to his lips and his Winchester across his lap. Topper was digging the lead out of Porter’s shoulder while Jay Simpson waited his turn and held a bloodstained rag over his hip. He, too, was sucking on a bottle.

  “Howdy, boys.” Mississippi threw his hands up.

  Clint coughed on his swallow as he fumbled to swing his rifle around. His beady eyes narrowed. It always ruffled him that Mississippi could walk up close without being heard, and it amused Mississippi to dig at him in those little annoying ways. Clint was a heavy fella, short in stature, but every thick inch of him was pure meanness. Porter had palmed his pistol, as had Jay after he’d dropped his bottle on the floor.

  “Damn you, Mississippi.” Jay bent with a grimace while holding his hip and snatched up what remained in the bottle.

  “Where’s Butch?” Mississippi looked around at everyone for some answer.

  Clint’s narrowed eyes turned on Porter, who shrank up a bit.

  “I sent Butch ahead after we lost the posse. We were within a mile of this place, so I thought it’d be okay. It looked as if he’d stopped bleeding. He’d perked up, was more awake, so I went back to find Rascal.” Porter’s lips tightened as Topper pulled a bullet out of him. Jay handed Porter the bottle, and he swallowed for a long time.

  “Don’t see your brother.” For all Mississippi cared, Rascal could’ve blown himself up on that train. Only reason he tolerated the halfwit was Porter.

  Porter was a lot of things: crude, ruthless, moved with a cougar-like prowl, and strangely had an affinity for love sonnets. He was also fast with a gun, maybe almost as fast as Mississippi. What he found truly interesting about Porter was that the man had been a Pinkerton before he’d one day decided he’d rather rob trains and banks. Out of the gang of men Mississippi rode with, Porter could be counted on to be levelheaded in a fight, even more so than Clint, the gang’s so-called leader who had made a big mistake when he’d planned for them to join Jay on that knob and pick off the posse on the open ground below. He’d also put Rascal in charge of the powder work, which had led to a lot of innocent dead people. Mississippi was none too happy about any of it.

  “I saw the print of his horse, but then that posse found me again an’ I had to run for it.” Porter was loyal to the point of stupidity when it came to that brother of his. Mississippi couldn’t relate. He had no siblings, and after being around Port and Rascal for the past two years, he was glad to be an only child.

  The hoofbeats of a horse trotting into the yard turned every head toward the two front windows on either side of the door. Rascal slid off his horse, tossing the reins loosely over the rail. He carried his rifle inside.

  “Whoo-wee, fellas, that sure was a close one.” Rascal plopped down in a chair.

  “Where ya been?” Porter snapped.

  “Got lost on my way here. Ran face to face into that posse. Gave ‘em the slip, though.” Rascal stupidly laughed.

  What the hell was he thinking? Didn’t he have a brain? The posse probably slowed up some, hung back, then followed him. Mississippi took two long strides, grabbed Rascal by the throat, swung him up, and pinned him to the wall, feet dangling. He choked for air and tried desperately to peel back Mississippi’s death grip.

  “You probably just led ‘em right to us.”

  The cold iron end of a pistol got shoved into Mississippi’s back. “Let him go,” Porter hissed.

  Mississippi didn’t doubt he would pull that trigger. He dropped Rascal on his ass, and he gasped and rubbed at his Adam’s apple.

  About then, Clint jolted to his feet from where he sat watching. He nodded with his chin toward the tree line out the window. “Someone’s out there, boys.”

  “Come on out. We got ya surrounded.” A warning shot rang out, and one of the windows shattered, throwing glass everywhere.

  For once, Mississippi hated the fact that he was right. Dammit. They’d corralled themselves inside the cabin, making the posse’s work easier for them. They had barely gotten away the first time, which had been luck. Running didn’t take skill. Now, the way they were trapped inside, skill alone would keep them from getting killed. They were, however, wanted men, skilled in readying themselves fast for a fight. They each took a window, covering every side of the cabin. Topper was hidden under one of the tables with a rifle in her hands. They needed to be smart and not panic, wait for an opportunity to show itself, and then they could make their move to escape. Mississippi’s breathing was steady, his eyes alert for movement, and his senses keenly tuned to every noise around him. That posse wouldn’t get in, but they could light the place.

  “We gotta git to the horses before they scatter ‘em,” Jay said, looking rattled.

  “We run out that door now, an’ it’ll be suicide.” Clint searched around as if the answer were going to jump at him.

  Mississippi didn’t know how this would play out with them being trapped, but everyone seemed to be forgetting their ace card. “Have patience, boys. We just need to wait for a sign from Buckhorn.”

  That was the name Topper’s man went by. He’d ridden out after they left and was to keep watch and signal if they were followed.

  Porter smirked. “I’ll bet everything he’s tucked between rocks somewhere an’ will provide us a good distraction.”

  That had precisely been Mississippi’s thinking, and no sooner had the others nodded in agreement than a shot fired, but not at the house. Someone outside returned fire. Then a volley of blasts echoed inside.

  Mississippi grinned.

  “Time to go, boys.” Mississippi threw open the back door, his rifle level on his hip. He squeezed off a shot.

  Their horses were still lathered, but there was no choice other than to run them.

  CHAPTER 2

  When they lost the posse three days later, high up
in the rockiest, roughest, and driest part of any mountain he’d ever crossed, Mississippi was exhausted and mighty testy, as were the others. They would soon have to return and pick up Butch’s trail. Who was to say Butch wasn’t hanging on well enough to take off with all the money? He was a tough, leathery old bastard. He’d pulled through bad bullet wounds a few times before this, and turning back meant maybe running into the posse.

  That thought troubled Mississippi. It wasn’t easy to focus on two things. Keeping the posse off their tails was bad enough, and if Butch did give the gang the slip, Mississippi had no intention of letting him get away with the cash. Neither did any of the other boys. They would hunt him.

  Besides that, sleepless nights on the run, not knowing these mountain trails well, and hoping his horse didn’t break a leg in a pocket of sunken earth or hole left Mississippi’s nerves constantly on edge. The thought of having to ride double scared him, more than he would ever let on. A horse couldn’t go far or fast while carrying two full-grown men. That animal would play out quick, and with the posse dogging them, Mississippi or any others in the gang who were put afoot because of a lame mount would be easy pickings.

  Days were longer than nights. When there was light in the sky, the posse was riding fast. Every time Mississippi could see in a clearing, he’d glance back and spot the dust in the air from the group still right on their tails. There was no time for a true rest. For a minute or two, they had been lucky enough to come across a little water, which the horses needed worse than the men.

  To the west and slightly north, their mounts warily trotted, heads hanging low and thinner than a few days ago. Mississippi’s backside thumped with each jarring stride. He wanted sleep, a week’s worth, and hot grub—good hot grub. He miserably chewed a piece of jerky.