Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  “Do ya think they’re still following us?” Rascal asked no one specifically.

  Mississippi smirked. “Why don’t ya ride back a ways an’ find out? Look for the dust.”

  He was ready to be shuck of that snappy pup. Tempers were edgy. They’d all seen men strung up. A rope was a right useful tool, typically not used for harm, but in the right or wrong hands, it could become a deadly weapon. None of them relished the thought of getting his neck stretched. And that posse wasn’t in the mood for talk. Jail wouldn’t be an option, nor a trial. People had been killed in that town. Men in the posse had lost their lives. If caught, a quick noose or a bullet was what any one of them would face.

  Mississippi didn’t believe for a minute that posse had given up. Maybe they had lost the trail so their dust wasn’t in sight, or maybe they knew a trail unknown to Clint and would come around and attack from the front or ambush them. Hard telling, at the moment, what that posse might do, but tossing in the towel wasn’t a consideration. Not in Mississippi’s mind anyway. That posse was out there, and sheer hate would drive them on. That thought made Mississippi weary. He’d fallen into this line of work. It wasn’t born in him like the others. He was tired, but he needed to keep all his senses alert, or he might end up in a noose.

  Rascal glanced at Porter, who grunted, shaking his head. Rascal skinned his iron anyway. Only, Mississippi came up faster, much faster. Rascal hadn’t even cleared leather. Porter chopped down with an arm, whacking Rascal’s gun hand, and the pistol hit the dirt.

  Mississippi laughed.

  Porter was white faced, but just for a split second. Then he lit into his brother with curses. “You dumbass.”

  He recognized generosity. Mississippi could’ve shot Rascal out of the saddle, killing him. Lightning wasn’t a name he’d acquired by being slow on the draw. Rascal steamed between the ears, red as ever. Pure stupidity would be the death of that kid someday. He didn’t recognize his own limits and overestimated his skill while underestimating that of his opponent. The young fool wasn’t seeing what his brother had done for him. They cursed wicked streaks at one another.

  “Shut up! Let’s go!” Clint swung a leg over the saddle and ended the squabble between the brothers.

  They had stopped down on the flat in a patch of flowering trees near a shallow trickle and watered the horses. The sky was gray with bulky dark clouds. A slight, cool breeze kicked up. Rain was coming. Butch’s trail might get washed away before they ever got back there to find it. Plus, that posse was somewhere between them and where they had last seen Butch.

  Scraped up, bleeding, and doggone tired, not one of them was in too good a shape for a fight, especially since they were outnumbered. One thing they all had in common was greed. That made them a strong pack. They had the same goal, and none of them liked the fact that the money was gone, disappeared with Butch.

  Porter had sent Butch on ahead with the cash to get out of there, away from the trouble with the posse. None of them had any reason to believe Butch would ride anywhere but to Topper’s, but he had. On purpose or not, none of them could say for sure. Maybe Butch had stopped bleeding, gotten his second wind. Maybe in the heat of the moment, his fear and greed took over and he lit a shuck with all that money, wanting every cent for himself. But on the other hand, he had been shot three times, leaked a lot of blood, and could have been only half conscious and missed Topper’s place. Butch’s horse could just be wandering. Neither theory gave Mississippi any relief.

  Butch, like the rest of them, was less than honest. It was a reasonable possibility that he had taken off with all the money. Sometimes it was hard to believe that Mississippi had let himself get roped into riding with this crew. Not once had he ever considered himself dumb, but that had been stupid and the biggest regret of his life. And unfortunately, now that he was known as a gunslinger, there wasn’t a way out for him.

  Days of rain had dampened their clothes, along with their spirits. Fat raindrops splatted the ground, freckling the horses’ legs with mud. Even their slickers had collected a miserable wetness. Underneath, Mississippi’s skin prickled. Off the brim of his hat, steady drips tapped his shoulders. Soaked, chilled, and on the verge of drilling Rascal full of lead if he didn’t soon quit bellyaching. He snarled about having wet feet and pruned hands. Cursed Jay for lack of supplies, who in return blamed that on the dead Chuck Connelly. A hungry man could turn mean real quick, and Mississippi was about there himself.

  They were all very aware that the downpour had likely washed away Butch’s trail. It would be a guessing game to find sign of which way he’d gone. Especially when they hadn’t returned by the same trail as when they’d fled from the posse. They circled around, a wide loop, in hopes of staying ahead of the posse and perhaps throwing them off their path. It took extra time, and Mississippi didn’t think it all that smart. The colder Butch’s trail got, the harder it would be to find him and, more important, the money.

  When they reined in a mile or so from the trade post, Porter confirmed with a nod that this was the spot. He had left Butch here, believing he would make it to Topper’s with the hundred thousand. Then he’d gone back after Rascal.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. Mississippi circled the gelding, searching for prints. Did he honestly expect to find sign of Butch? Disgusted with the whole situation when it could have been avoided, Mississippi shook his head. Why hadn’t Rascal followed orders back in that town? The creeks were flooded, the ground covered in mucky slop, and any tracks left by Butch’s mare or his blood drops had been washed away, long gone.

  “Hard to tell which way he went. Best we can do is guess.” Clint turned his horse, heading toward Topper’s.

  Mississippi wasn’t opposed to getting shuck of the wet weather for a spell. Dry his clothes, warm his stiff muscles by a fire, plus get some woman-cooked vittles. They had run out of coffee two days ago. Strong, hot coffee sure would make him feel more human. A shave and a steaming bath wouldn’t do him any harm either.

  At Topper’s, tied at the hitch rail, was a tall, sixteen-hand, knobby-kneed mule with a gray muzzle and bony swayed back. A weather-beaten, rickety buckboard waited to be loaded with supplies. Yoked but nibbling grass were two sorry-ass nags. Didn’t look as if either one could pull a sack of grain, let alone a wagon full. Probably a trapper down from the mountains, bartering his furs for cash or goods. Strange breed those trappers. Most didn’t like towns or people, keeping to themselves almost always. They lived by the law of the land, not man, a reason they stayed away from civilization.

  Mississippi smacked his wet hat against his leg just inside the door. Flames flickered in the fireplace, and warmth touched his skin. Boot tracks, lots of them, muddied the wood floor. Topper must have had a fair number of customers come and go of late. He tossed his slicker over the back of a chair. Two men wearing coon hats and buckskin shirts slopped stew on the table where they sat. Mississippi strolled to the bar, Rascal a step behind him, breathing down his neck, rubbing him the wrong way, possibly on purpose.

  Rascal bellied up, impatiently drumming his fingers atop the bar, waiting for a drink. Topper was nowhere.

  Her old man was kicked back, tilted against the wall in a chair at a table across the room, twanging on a mouth harp. Clint dropped his coat on the same table and sat down. Porter warmed his hands next to the fire. Jay hunkered nearby, soaking in the heat.

  Voices, both female, carried from behind a curtained doorway at the end of the bar. With a swish, the dull-gray drape opened. Topper, carrying a kettle of what was probably the same stew the trappers were eating and three loaves of bread on a plate, turned the bar into a buffet. She filled tankards with beer, gathered tin plates and utensils, and set them there. “Have at it, boys. I’ve been expectin’ ya.”

  A petite woman with wheat-colored hair hanging loose over her shoulders leaned against the doorframe opposite the curtain. She sipped at a cup of tea. Mint. The aroma was invigorating and so was the shapeliness of her figure. Eyes greener than spri
ng grass. She wore homespun clothes smudged with her daily work and moccasins on her feet. Mississippi grinned. That wasn’t usual—a white woman wearing moccasins. Mississippi had come across trappers that wore them, but never a lady.

  “Oh my, ain’t you just a sweet little thing?” Rascal dropped his fork on his plate, shoved aside the whole thing, and slipped behind the bar as though dancing a waltz. She backed away, bumping into a small table, rattling the assortment of whiskey bottles shelved there. Her tea sloshed over the rim. Just as she spun to fast-step it around the bar by the opposite way, Rascal grabbed an arm and swung her. The cup went flying, smashing on the floor.

  “Let go of me!” She wanted none of what he would call affection.

  The strum of the mouth harp sharply died. Rascal had her pinned, pressing himself against her. His hands traveled downward along her waist. Her back arched at a queer angle over the bar as she madly slapped at him.

  Mississippi struck with lightning speed. He grabbed a fistful of hair, knocking Rascal’s hat off. He slammed that disrespectful little shit’s face off the bar top and shoved him, stumbling backward into the wall where he fell. He held his nose, bleeding all down the front of his shirt.

  Rascal’s eyes narrowed. “I oughta kill you!” He jumped up off the floor, his fists balled at his sides and his nose dripping red.

  Mississippi’s eyes narrowed. “Ya callin’ me out?”

  Rascal blinked, and Mississippi’s pistol was in his hand, aimed straight between that twit’s eyes. “Apologize to the lady.” He wasn’t asking.

  “The hell I will! I’s just havin’ a little fun!”

  Mississippi had very little tolerance when it came to mistreating women, and for that matter, he had even less tolerance of Rascal. Mississippi’s pistol cracked inside the room, stinging everyone’s ears. His bullet burned Rascal’s cheek. Not enough to make him bleed, but plenty enough to scare him. Rascal grabbed his face. From the corner of Mississippi’s eye, he saw Porter stepping up to the bar at the far end.

  “Port, get your hands away from that gun belt. Don’t think I can’t take ya both.” Mississippi wasn’t challenging him, but stating a fact.

  Porter slowly raised his hands. “He’s feeling ornery. We all get the itch sometimes. Some of us more than others.” He’d make an excuse for anything that kid brother of his did.

  Molesting a woman was something Mississippi never put up with. “She ain’t here for whoring. He’s got a horse outside, and there’s a shed out back for privacy if he’s got the itch that bad.”

  Clint, Jay, and Topper all chuckled. Buckhorn picked a few strings of serenade music. A deep flush rushed into Rascal’s face.

  “I’m waitin’.” Mississippi held his aim.

  “Didn’t know ya weren’t a whore. Figured ya was.” Rascal pinched his bleeding nose.

  Topper slipped an arm around the young lady’s shoulders. “Well, sugar, that’s more of an apology than I’d expect from him.” She threw a rag off the bar top at Rascal. “Clean that blood off my floor.” Topper then faced Mississippi. “Lightnin’, put that gun away. That one ain’t worth wastin’ a bullet.”

  The trappers, who were both wan in color, dropped a twenty-dollar gold eagle on the table, left their empty plates sitting, picked up a couple crates full of supplies near the door in an all-fire hurry, then hauled ass toward their wagon. Strange, Topper didn’t conduct business with gold coins, never that he’d seen, and it was rare to see one among the hill people. Now townsfolk, that was different. They liked the jingle of a big, heavy coin in their pocket. It made them feel important, look prominent to their neighbors. Where had they gotten that money? No furs lying about. But furs stunk to high heaven. Topper had a shed out back where she kept those nasty things, unless it was full. Then she kept them inside the cabin.

  Topper set a beer on the bar in front of Mississippi. “This one’s on the house. Thanks for looking out for my girl.”

  Mississippi grinned. “My pleasure.” His eyes weren’t on Topper. If he had to guess, the girl was slightly younger than himself. He was twenty-two. She was maybe nineteen, twenty at most.

  “Thanks. I would’ve shot him myself, except my gun’s over there.” Her voice was soft, as was the look of her skin, though her words were sharp. She jerked her head toward a table in the corner. A polished Spencer carbine, which wasn’t as heavy as the Spencer repeating rifle, stood propped against a chair.

  Rascal straightened, done with rubbing the floor clean. He threw the rag at Topper and then stomped off toward his brother while ignoring the comment about her gun and not being afraid to use it. His jaw was set in a hard way, plainly showing his irritation.

  Inwardly, Mississippi smirked. He nodded. “Fine weapon.”

  She said nothing while straightening her clothing. One of her wrists was red where Rascal had first grabbed her. Her hands were steady as she picked up the shards of glass. Mississippi expected her to be badly shaken up or at least teary-eyed. Seemed odd that she wasn’t. Maybe she was used to cruel men. That thought bothered him. Why? He didn’t even know her name or anything about her, other than she liked mint tea. She was nothing to him. He’d probably never see her again after this day.

  He dished himself more stew while she gracefully retrieved a few items off the shelves. Topper scooped a scant amount of sugar into a burlap sack no bigger than what would hold marbles. Two boxes of rifle cartridges, a five-pound block of flour, a small tin of black pepper, and one red sucker, which she slipped between her lips, was added to the order on the counter.

  She didn’t glance his way or at anyone else, just went about her business without regard to those in the room, except she exchanged woman talk as Topper stacked blankets on a middle shelf.

  Kind of irked him. “When you’re done. Heat some bath water. I’ll need a razor too.” He sipped his coffee.

  When Topper finished, she and the mountain girl both disappeared behind the curtain into the kitchen. He’d just drunk the last swallow in his cup when they reappeared, both smiling, satisfied in the friendly company of the other. The girl still didn’t look at him. He inwardly grumbled.

  Topper patted his shoulder. “Your water’s ready, an’ while you’re in there, wipe that sourpuss look off your face.” She picked up the dirty dishes off the bar top, receiving help from a pretty little someone who carried the scent of honeysuckle in her yellow hair as she breezed by. When the girl picked up the plate in front of him, she flashed a quick smile. Something in him leaped.

  Rascal slammed his empty tankard atop the bar. “Get me another.” His cold eyes bored into her. She grabbed his cup, filling it with beer.

  Mississippi turned and glared. That boy was one wrong word, look, or anything from getting punched in the head.

  “Don’t.” Topper squeezed his arm. Her eyes shifted, signaling behind him. He guessed Porter was there. “She can take care of herself. Always has.”

  Mississippi turned and brushed past Porter and around the bar. If he hadn’t joined the gang a few years back, where would Mississippi be right now? It was a question he often asked himself. Stupid really. Who could go back and change their past? He had inadvertently joined Clint and the others, so here he was. Tired of being on the run, tired of being hungry while dodging the law, and tired of those sons of bitches he rode with.

  Behind the curtain was the kitchen, crowded by a large cookstove and butcher-block table. Pots and pans dangled on hooks from the ceiling. Every shelf was cram packed with short and tall crocks and jars, along with every spice known to man.

  The door creaked open, leading into a smaller room. There, a bed sat in one corner, neatly spread upon it a patchwork quilt of many colors. The razor he had asked for sat atop a small dressing table with two drawers. A tin cup of shaving cream and towels had been placed there for his use. Steam rose from the long copper tub. The room was cozy and inviting. It made him recall those bygone days when he lived at home with his folks and had a roof over his head and slept in bed every nigh
t. Those were the best days. Home and family.

  He stretched his shirt off over his head, tossed it aside onto the bed, then pulled off his boots. He dropped his pants and stepped into the soothing caress of the hot water. Instantly, he felt at peace.

  The rain stopped tinkling on the roof. Good. Soon, they could go after Butch. He slouched deeper into the tub. His muscles hadn’t been this relaxed in days, maybe a lifetime.

  When his eyes opened, his fingers and toes were wrinkled worse than prunes. He’d nodded off for a while but still felt tired. He shaved, dressed, then sprawled out on the bed and slept soundly.

  Hours later, his eyes opened. There was still gray light in the sky. Had to be close to evening. He stretched, strapped on his six-shooter, found some sweet bread loaded with raisins and honey in the kitchen, and then joined the others in the main room with a cup of coffee.

  Jay lay on the bear rug near the fire and sawed logs in a tone that quite possibly would wake the dead. Porter, his arms folded atop a table, pillowing his head, was also asleep. Slouched to the wee edge of his chair, legs stretched out, Clint rested one ankle over the other. Of course, there was a bottle in his hand. He got the shakes if he didn’t serve himself every so often. Buckhorn was riding just as low in his chair, and the two of them passed the bottle.

  Busied with needlework, Topper didn’t look up.

  The mountain girl was gone and so was Rascal. Mississippi set down his cup and went to the window. The mule was gone. Rascal’s horse wasn’t tied at the rail or in the corral with the other horses.

  Mississippi didn’t like how this was looking. There was a mighty powerful desire in him to check on that gal. Rascal had a mean streak, hateful even. He had once sliced the cheek of a whore, ear to mouth. She had spat at him, recalling to everyone in the bar that night how awful rough he’d been the time before, and she threw his two dollars back at him.

  Mississippi hadn’t been there. He’d heard about it days later from Jay, who hadn’t agreed with Rascal’s behavior. Lucky for Rascal, Mississippi hadn’t been there that night, or he would have beaten the starch out of him.