Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  There was a sharp snap of a twig, which sounded louder in the quiet of trying to stay hidden. Brush crackled. It was too big to be a man walking toward him. Blue, not the pale color of the sky, but a rich dark color, flashed between the trees. One man among them had taken to wearing bold shirts. Astride his horse, Jay Simpson came into view no more than twenty feet away. Blood stained his shoulder. His gaze pointed down, searching the ground, so he hadn’t yet seen them. That man was one of three who’d shot at a woman, a pregnant woman.

  Mississippi gave a sharp whistle. Jay’s head snapped up, his eyes widening. In that instant, he knew, fumbling to raise his gun. Mississippi’s Colt popped. The buffalo gun dropped from Jay’s white-knuckled grip. With a hole in his chest, right through his wicked heart, he fell off his horse, dead before he hit the ground.

  “Jay! Did ya get him?” Rascal hollered from somewhere unseen.

  Mississippi put spurs to the gelding abreast the rim, a half-conscious Jessa in tow. Shouts came from behind them, followed by gunfire. Bullets ripped apart the branches all around them, and a few kicked up dirt near his horse’s hooves. Bean squealed, his hind legs buckling, rolling onto his side, sending Jessa tumbling head over tin cup down the mountainside. Mississippi’s gut clenched as she cleared a path through the prickly bushes. Frozen in time, it seemed he wasn’t moving, though he chased after her, his horse racing headlong down the slope. She kept going, hitting a tree that he felt all through his middle while he ducked the slugs slinging past him.

  A second tree caught her at the waist, bending her in half around the trunk. She’d finally stopped rolling and now lay in a dusty, unkempt heap, her hair matted with blood and mussed in every which direction, her eyes not yet open. Was she breathing? Fear raced through him, making his heart pound hard, but he couldn’t seem to breathe.

  He jumped off his horse with his rifle in hand and quickly knelt at her side. Blood streamed down her face from a nasty gash above her brow, and both her elbows were bleeding. She hadn’t moved at first, so he didn’t know if she was alive until she coughed out a puff of dirt.

  Her eyes fluttered open, but barely a slit. “Save Bean.” It was a desperate plea of longing, her voice so weak and sounding like someone had brushed it with a curry comb. Surely, she knew nothing could be done for Bean.

  Bean stood, then fell. He’d been shot several times and now lay on the ground, kicking and snorting. Jessa frantically, in a feeble state, pushed at Mississippi as if he’d go back and save that mule before he took care of her. She was determined to see to Bean, who had stopped thrashing and lifted his head, then flopped once again against the rocky soil. His strength was fading along with his life.

  Clint and Rascal were charging fast, pistols held ready, and the long strides of their horses were eating up ground hellish quick along the path that Jessa had blazed when she’d rolled straight down the hillside. Bleeding, she dragged herself across the ground toward her beloved Bean. There was nothing weak about her love for that damn mule.

  Bean blew, and the sound was more like a miserable cry of pain. Mississippi did what made sense to him. That animal was suffering, and she wouldn’t leave the area if Bean was alive. Jessa didn’t even seem to notice that she was bleeding, and after that awful tumble, what of the health of their unborn child?

  Clint and Rascal were now within twenty-five yards. The thunder of their horses shook the ground. Clint fired. Dirt kicked up not a foot from Jessa. Mississippi was fighting down panic. His hands shook, which he could not recall ever happening, at least not during a gunfight. Mississippi took aim at Bean and squeezed the trigger.

  Jessa’s eyes stretched wide and filled with big elephant tears. “Damn you, Mississippi.” She cuffed him upside the shoulder. She wasn’t fully grasping the commitment of wearing that bracelet. That mule was nothing to him but Jessa’s pet. She and the baby were his responsibility. He needed to get them to Doc. Even before saying I do, his mind had switched off of himself and flipped solely onto them.

  “I can’t believe you killed Bean.” Jessa slapped at him a second time as he fired at Clint, who was now just a short twenty feet away, practically on top of them. And Rascal was a running horse step behind.

  Jessa’s strike caused the barrel of Mississippi’s gun to drop by an inch and threw off his aim. His bullet smacked Clint’s mare in the chest instead of killing him. The mare stumbled, then fell, tossing Clint over its ears. He landed on his face and rolled down through the rocks and trees, groaning loudly as he went. Rascal ignored the fallen mare needing to be put out of its misery, jerked his horse, and galloped after Clint. Holy hell, that had been too close. Mississippi blew out all the air he’d been holding in his lungs.

  He did the only thing he could for the injured mare, and the boom of his rifle echoed through the mountain. If Curry was anywhere around, all that gunfire would surely lead him right to them. Dammit. And they were down a mount. There was no time to waste. They needed to hightail it out of there before they were caught or maybe got shot at again.

  Twigs snapped and bush crunched down below, fifty some yards off from where Mississippi stood on the mountainside. Clint was still doing somersaults with Rascal running his horse close behind.

  A sniffle caught in Mississippi’s ears, and he turned. Jessa had her hands cupped over her tear-streaked face. She pitifully sobbed over the loss of her mule, choking on every other stifled breath. Aw, damn. It wasn’t any great shock that she was upset, but he hoped there weren’t any hard feelings, that she wouldn’t hold it against him. He would not make any excuses for what he’d felt he had to do. His way was kinder than letting that poor animal miserably suffer until it died, which could have been an hour or more. She would never have wanted that for Bean. Surely, at some point, she would understand he’d done what had to be done, once she wasn’t so beside herself. It was the same mercy he’d shown to Clint’s mare. After Jessa calmed down and had time to think about it, Mississippi hoped he would be forgiven.

  “I’m sorry.” It was all he could say. He scooped her off the ground, pulled them both onto his horse, then headed toward Piketown.

  In the back of his mind, he was wondering who had shot from that peak, although he was grateful. For now, Clint and Rascal were off their backs, but they would rally. Then there would be hell to pay.

  Was it possible for Pike to keep Jessa safe from Curry? She needed Doc’s attention, and for the moment, town seemed the safest place for her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Within the hour, they were out of the mountains. Jessa was gray-faced and moaning uncomfortably, cradled in his arms, and menacing black clouds rolled in overhead. Thunder rumbled in the near distance. That storm would be there soon. A few drops of wetness splattered Mississippi’s face. All of a sudden, a wicked bright vein of lightning streaked down, flexing its muscles. It split the ground with a staggering crack, and then the wind kicked up hard and blew like a freight train screaming full steam down the tracks. Rain began to fall in earnest.

  Jessa had stopped bleeding, though she needed the lead dug out and patched up before infection set in. And it could almighty quick, particularly due to the fact that she was covered in dirt after tumbling off Bean. A thread of clothing, anything foreign that got in one of those holes, could produce pus and fever and bring about a bad end.

  The thought of her suffering more than she already was produced a queasiness that rose up into Mississippi’s throat and burned. His insides quivered. Look at poor Butch, riddled with seeping holes, barely hanging on by a hair. He’d been that way for weeks, not even aware of his surroundings. Suffering so long was a no-good way to die. And what about the baby? All that blood loss. Was that little life inside her going to make it? There was a time for everything, including life and death, and right then, he prayed. Was God listening, though? He’d done so much wrong. How could he be forgiven?

  The gelding turned, heading into a thick patch of evergreens as though he’d made up Mississippi’s mind. It was ten miles to Piket
own. In that stormy weather, they weren’t going anywhere quick, even more so riding double. He supposed they were safe enough. Clint and Rascal would also be riding double, which no doubt slowed them. And unless Curry was plumb out of his damn head, he would be sitting somewhere, keeping dry, waiting out the storm.

  The ground between the evergreens was dry. Above them, the thick-needled branches acted as a canopy, keeping the rain from dripping on their heads. Mississippi unfolded his ground blanket, then eased Jessa down off his horse.

  “I’m scared.” Her arms were folded around her belly. “I lost Libby. I can’t lose this one.”

  What was she talking about? Who was Libby? This one, she’d said… Did she have a baby sometime back before conceiving theirs? Confusion must have contorted his face, for she looked away in shame, cheeks reddening.

  “You brought it up. Now tell me.”

  She sniffled, then wiped at her eyes. “His name was Booker. He stepped off the stage in Piketown, wearing the shiniest black shoes I’d ever seen.”

  Appearances meant something to some folks. Mississippi had never set store by it. Jessa was poor, though, owned practically nothing that he’d seen. The moccasins on her feet were homemade, not fancy lady shoes. Women, he suspected, dreamed of fancy wears. A fella with expensive shoes when every other man within five hundred miles wore boots, dirty from hard, grungy work, could fetch a girl’s attention.

  “He was a gambler, an extremely good one.”

  So this Booker was who she had been comparing him to the night she’d told Pike he wasn’t a gambler. A card shark, huh? A lowlife swindler. Even though Mississippi himself was an outlaw and had robbed a number of banks, there was something cold indeed about a man who could sit down at a table all friendly like, smile across the way, and plainly cheat you red-handed. At least Mississippi didn’t hide his intention. Sitting down to a card table with a true gambler was like inviting a snake to strike. Mississippi would rather cut its head off, especially in this case. Jealousy stirred him into half a boil.

  “I fell straight into hopeless love, and what he saw in me was an opportunity. I should’ve knowed it. Booker wanted nothing that wasn’t high class, and I certainly ain’t that.”

  History was probably chock-full of women who could tell the same story. Maybe the details differed a little. A powerful man taking advantage of those who were weaker. Mississippi looked down at the Colt on his hip. His strength was in his gun skills, which were vastly different from Booker’s skills, but just the same, he had once used that power for personal gain. No more. This change that had come over him… He wished it had come years earlier. And it pissed him off even more that some ass had shrewdly dangled her from his marionette strings, just pulling her along.

  “You’re everything a man could need in a woman.”

  She grinned. “Well, he didn’t think so. I was attractive only because my pa was the sheriff. Booker figured he could run his crooked game without worry.”

  Card sharks were trouble for little towns, big ones too. No honest, hard-working cowpoke would stand for having his money cheated away. That could lead to a fight, maybe shooting. No sheriff would want that. Had Sheriff Pike run Booker out of town and Jessa threw in and went?

  “Pa caught Booker cheating one night. Walked him to the edge of town with the barrel of his Spencer shoved in his back and told him to git.”

  Sheriff Pike was obviously not a man to be trifled with. It made Mississippi think of the warning he’d gotten to stay out of town or get hanged. But Jessa could start bleeding again, maybe even bleed out. She needed Doc. Mississippi would do right by her, even if that meant them being in town, which would certainly rub Pike the wrong way.

  “Booker chose that moment, in front of nearly half the town, to tell Pa that I was having a baby.” She cradled her belly. “That changed Pa’s mind. Booker could stay. He would marry me. And he had to run an honest game of cards.” Fresh tears flooded her eyes. “Booker agreed until we got back to the hotel room. He knew a doctor in Denver that could take care of the problem, suggesting it only because he was also aware that if he left town without me, my father would hunt him down.”

  Mississippi focused his eyes on her wounds, seeing if the bullet went through, trying not to let his anger show. That son of a bitch Booker had wanted to take her away to have the baby so-called taken care of, and all the while, Jessa was dreaming of marriage and happiness. What Mississippi wouldn’t have given to have a few minutes alone with that scumbag. But he needed to rid himself of murderous thoughts. Jessa was in a teary state, and he didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was.

  Sheriff Pike’s argument for Mississippi to take Jessa and flee made more sense. He didn’t want his daughter to suffer through the same heartache twice. Mississippi wanting to hunt Clint and knowing he might not survive was the same, in the sheriff’s eyes, as him leaving her high and dry. Mississippi pulled his knife, sliced off part of his shirt tail, and gingerly packed the hole in her shoulder. He grimaced each time she did, and his stomach turned queasy.

  She took a deep breath, likely to handle her pain, then went on. “When it came time to go, to leave Piketown, I got scared and refused. Booker belted me across the face with the back of his hand. We argued, and he kept hitting me. By luck, Stan was outside the livery and heard the ruckus inside. Booker drew on him as Stan ran through the door. Thank God he didn’t shoot him.” Jessa gnashed her jaws, her face wrinkling up hard. The other hole, the one near her hip, was bleeding again. “He went and got my father, but when Pa got there, Booker was gone.”

  “Surely, he didn’t just let him go.” Mississippi stiffened while cutting a second strip of shirt and began to plug the seeping bullet hole in her hip.

  He was fighting his hands from balling into fists. He wanted to punch someone’s head off. Not hers, of course. He could hear in her quivery voice the lovesickness she had felt at that time, even after Booker had done those awful things. It made him believe that old saying that love was blind. He, on the other hand, was seeing red. Take a breath, he told himself.

  Her teeth were gritted together as he packed the wound, and she shook her head. “Pa never told me what exactly happened between them. All I know is that Pa carried Booker back into town facedown over his saddle.”

  That didn’t explain why Jessa was supposedly run out of town. But Pike had certainly done right by Jessa as far as Booker was concerned. Mississippi nodded, giving the lawman ample credit for that. Maybe they might have a chance to get along a little bit, though if it had been Mississippi, there wouldn’t have been enough of a body left to bring back to town by the time he’d finished with him.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if it was rumor or truth that Pike had chased her away from Piketown. But judging by her coloring, which had become ashen, and her ragged breathing, this was no time to dawdle with questions—questions that did need answering, but the storm had let up. Clint and Rascal were likely on the move, and Jessa couldn’t go anywhere fast. Her pain suddenly had her balled up and crying harder.

  “What is it?” This new pain seemed like something more, and he felt helpless. He’d done what he could to plug the bullet holes. He did have a needle and thread in the band of his hat. If his hands stopped shaking, he could stitch that cut above her eye. He lifted an arm to fetch it but stopped midway.

  Jessa had reached down under her skirt. When she brought her hand out from between her legs, there was blood on her fingers, and not just a smear. A lot of bright red covered her palm. Were they losing the baby? Wetness filled his eyes, though inwardly, a stern voice told him this was no time to fall apart. He scooped her up, wrapped in the ground blanket.

  What should have taken them only an hour took them three in the slopping mud and drizzling rain. Finally, they reached the edge of Piketown. Peppy moved forward down the middle of street. In a few short breaths, they’d be seen, probably recognized, and he would be hanged and never know what became of Jessa and the baby.

>   Horses dotted the hitch rail, heads low, looking miserable standing tied in the shower. A few folks scurried from one building to another along the boardwalk with their faces down and holding their coats over their heads. Sheriff Pike stood up from a chair out in front of the jailhouse. Two of Curry’s deputies were there playing checkers. They looked up and wore the same stunned look as Pike. He hustled off the porch, his eyes fixed on Jessa. She was clinging desperately to Mississippi and crying. She just kept shaking her head no. She didn’t want him there, didn’t want him to leave her. She knew what coming into town meant for him. Maybe her pa could get her out of this trouble, but Mississippi was a dead man.

  Pike stopped short of Mississippi’s horse. Curry’s deputies were up and running toward them.

  “Get her to Doc.” Mississippi wasn’t afraid to face what was coming to him.

  Pike reached out, and Mississippi pulled Jessa off him, handing her over. Though, she hadn’t made it easy, pawing at him the whole time. It took all his strength not to react. Curry’s deputies grabbed him off his horse, shoving him toward the jailhouse. That forced step was too rushed, and his wounded leg buckled, throwing him facedown in the dirt. His knees sank in a puddle, splattering mud all over his clothing and face. Being pushed around was not something he typically tolerated. Only, his mind wasn’t on himself. He twisted around in time to see Pike carrying Jessa at a fast clip, nearly running with her, toward Doc’s.

  “Get up!” One of the deputies whacked him in the back with the butt of a rifle.

  Mississippi swiftly lunged off the ground, tackling one deputy around the waist. They hit the slop, rolling through a deep puddle. He got in a few good punches, fists burning, before being surrounded by lawmen who were all on the fight. With a mighty thump, he got waylaid by some hard-cracking knuckles. Then he was dragged, half conscious and bleeding out of one ear, down the alleyway between the jailhouse and another building.