Mississippi

by J. B. Richard

  Out back was a tree line, and Curry’s men wasted no time getting a rope. Mississippi was hauled to his feet. Curry strolled toward him, ignoring the rain, a triumphant grin on his face as if to say he would enjoy this no matter what. The line got tossed over a limb. Two men held Mississippi’s arms as he struggled to reach for his gun. Taking out one or two of them would give him some satisfaction.

  Curry himself dropped the noose around Mississippi’s neck, then stepped back and smiled, admiring his handiwork. There were too few judges this side of the mighty Miss. It was a rare thing for a town to even have a circuit judge, not that Curry would have cared if Piketown had one. He was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Most townsfolk would at least appoint a fair man to preside over the proceedings. In this case, Curry had assigned himself judge, jury, and executioner. Not that Mississippi wouldn’t have been found guilty and hanged anyway, but a trial would give him a little more time to hear what was going on with Jessa.

  A rifle boomed into the air behind Curry. The lawman and his deputies all spun, their weapons springing up in hand. Sheriff Pike, feet hip-width apart and holding his long iron ready, was squarely facing Sheriff Curry. “I can’t let ya kill him.”

  “There’s seven of us. You gonna try and stop us?” Sheriff Curry was smugly overconfident.

  “I telegraphed the governor’s office.” Pike kept his rifle aimed and managed to pull a small slip of paper out of his vest pocket, holding it toward Curry. “This is Governor Aurand’s response. He’ll be here in a few days to talk to the prisoner.”

  Mississippi wanted to see that paper more than anyone. Why had Pike wired the governor? He had all but said requesting a pardon was a waste of time. Too few had ever been pardoned. Plus, Mississippi was no nickel and dime thief. The list of crimes behind his name were many. Being a known gunslinger wouldn’t help his case any, but if that note would keep him alive long enough to know Jessa and the baby were okay, then Mississippi could die with peace.

  Curry snatched the paper out of Pike’s hand. After he read it, he balled it and tossed it in a puddle. “How did you get the governor to come here?” He spit. “Don’t matter. The governor has a reputation to protect. He won’t want the people turning against him, and freeing a known killer will do just that.” He turned to his men. “Let’s go, boys.” Then he turned narrowed eyes on Mississippi. “Don’t get your hopes up. I am gonna hang ya.” Curry, with his men hustling after him, filed through the alleyway, leaving Mississippi standing with the rope around his neck.

  “How’s Jessa?” He shucked the rope.

  “Doc said she’s lucky to be alive.”

  Alive. The lone word echoed inside Mississippi’s head. He wanted to know, to hear that she was more than just alive. He’d hoped to hear that she was out of danger, that Doc had stopped the bleeding, that she would live. And not for just the next few minutes or an hour, but that she had a lifetime to look forward to, her and their baby.

  “What about the baby?” He was afraid of the answer.

  Pike humbly shook his head. “Doc wouldn’t say. He did hint that Jessa should recover.”

  Mississippi wanted to see her and started off in that direction.

  “Boy, where the hell do you think you’re going?” Pike took him by the arm. “There’s only one place you’ll be safe, and that is right in the lion’s den.”

  A minute later, Pike pushed open the jailhouse door and led Mississippi inside toward a cage. Curry and four of his men sat up stiffly, as if insulted. They had wanted a hanging. Instead, he was dangled under their noses, but they couldn’t touch him until the governor decided his fate.

  Curry was minus two deputies. Where had they gone?

  The lock clicked shut behind him. Mississippi flopped down onto the cot. It was easy to ignore the glares when all he could think about was Jessa. He was even able to block out the thumping in his leg.

  The door opened, and Stan walked in.

  Sheriff Pike pulled open a drawer and tossed him a badge. “Watch this prisoner ‘til I return. He don’t come out of that cell for nothing. This is my town, not Sheriff Curry’s.”

  Pike wasn’t saying it for Stan. Curry and his deputies heard every word, and it was a fair warning. No one protested, although Curry sneered as though Stan and his Winchester were a joke. Pike then walked out.

  Curry glanced over at the poster of Mississippi’s face on the wall. In bold letters, dead or alive, his hide was worth two thousand five hundred dollars. And Curry seemed only too happy to collect. He might get more reward than that. Clint’s and the boys’ faces and the prices on their heads were tacked up on the wall too, along with others who were all wanted. Mississippi turned away, ignoring Curry’s delighted sneering.

  For a room full of seven men, it was unusually quiet. Mississippi had enough thoughts to chew over, so he didn’t so much mind the stillness, but the ticking of the clock was working his nerves a bit.

  Two hours had gone by since Pike left. He felt like the man was going to check on Jessa and would be back to give him more news about her condition. And where were those deputies? What was Curry up to? No one rode around in the rain for pleasure. Those deputies out in that weather had a purpose. It definitely hadn’t been Curry’s men who’d done that shooting earlier on the ridge, or Mississippi would be dead. So who had saved them?

  The door opened. Sheriff Pike looked haggard, as if he’d aged fifty years. Something was wrong. Had Doc been wrong when he’d hinted to Pike about Jessa making a recovery? Mississippi jumped to his feet, though his injured leg hurt like the devil, and he wanted to scream for more than one reason but held it in. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the bars. His heart pounded. She had to have lived. That was all that mattered to him.

  “Git out, all of ya.” Pike let the door stand open.

  Stan was the only one who got to his feet. Curry’s men weren’t going to stir without their boss’s say-so.

  “Why should we?” Curry tipped back in his chair.

  “Because someone opened the gate at the livery, and your horses are running off,” Pike said dryly.

  That brought Curry and his men to their feet almighty fast. A manhunt on foot wasn’t worth the effort. The deputies tripped over and pushed one another to get out the door first.

  Curry glared at Pike. “Suppose that someone was you.”

  “I would never.” Pike raised his hand in mock oath and managed not to wickedly grin until Curry was out the door.

  Stan shut the door behind them all.

  Pike’s chin dropped, and his head hung in a miserable way. He said nothing, not a damn word, which gnawed at Mississippi’s guts, practically twisting him in half. It seemed that Pike was trying to figure out a way to say what he needed to. Sweat sprang up all over Mississippi. He was barely breathing. His ears were aching for news of Jessa. For God’s sake, Pike just needed to get it off his chest, to come straight out with it. Whatever the news, good or bad, Mississippi couldn’t stand not knowing. That was his woman and child.

  Instead of opening his mouth, Pike swung his arm and knocked papers flying off his desk. They scattered all over the floor. Mississippi rattled the bars, shaking the whole cage.

  Pike sorrowfully looked over at him, and he shook his head. There was wetness in his eyes. “Son, Jessa lost the baby.”

  Pike wearily brought the keys and unlocked the cell. Then he pointed for Mississippi to pull up a chair as he plopped down behind his desk. He opened a bottom drawer that required a hard tug. Two glasses and a bottle were plunked down between them. Pike poured them both a drink. “She ain’t handling it well… not that I blame her.”

  Mississippi gulped down a shot, then poured more whiskey. “I’d like to go see her.”

  “No.” Pike slammed down his glass. “Look outside.” It was dark, rainy, and a fog had now settled into the valley, making it almost impossible to see across the street. Perfect conditions for Curry or one of his men to plug Mississippi with lead, then slip into the dark uns
een.

  “Put your leg up here.” Pike pounded the desktop.

  Mississippi grimaced as he lifted his stiffened limb. God, did it hurt. And the bullet was still in there. Dammit. This day couldn’t get much worse. He rubbed at his temples. Pike stood, looking over the hole. Without warning, he tipped the bottle and poured whiskey into Mississippi’s wound. Mississippi let out a shrill holler. The sweat was really pouring out of him now. Good God, he thought he might faint.

  Pike appeared oblivious to Mississippi’s pain. The lawman kept his focus on the hole, then poured some more on it. “That should keep it clean ‘til morning when Doc can look at it.” He was quiet for a minute. “What happened out there?”

  Mississippi took a deep breath to first get his pain under control. “We got pinned down in the basin of the cauldron. Clint and them were above us on the ridge. Someone else was out there shooting too. I thought it was Curry or his men firing across from the other ridge, but I’m honestly not sure.” Mississippi took another deep breath and let it out. “I did kill Jay, so that’s one less you gotta worry about. And I’m fairly certain the Indians done Porter in.”

  “Did you go after the money? Is that where it’s at, in the basin? Taking time to dig it up, is that how they spotted ya?”

  Pike was plumb full of accusations, and Mississippi didn’t like it. In fact, those snide words sorely irritated him. “I couldn’t give a shit less about that damn money. We were on our way to the train station. Just like you and I had discussed, I was getting Jessa out of here.” Mississippi grabbed the bottle on the desk and poured himself another drink. “If you’re so worried about that cash, go dig it up. It’s out there somewhere.”

  “You mean to tell me she didn’t tell you the exact location?” Pike raised a questioning brow.

  “No, she did not. And I didn’t ask.”

  “Even if I wanted to recover that money, and I do at some point, I couldn’t risk it now.” Pike looked toward the window where the weather was ugly, miserable bad. The rain had started again. It drummed on the roof. “It’s too slick to take a horse up the mountain. The ground has to be soaked. That would make it a hellish slow ride the whole way out there into the basin and back. It might take better than a day. And I don’t think it would be smart right now to leave town. I don’t trust Curry or his men. I need you alive to tell Governor Aurand that Jessa had nothing to do with that stolen money. That she wasn’t working with ya.”

  “And you think he’ll believe that after Curry tells him that Jessa was carrying my child? This is a small town. Curry or one of his men is bound to find out.” Mississippi wasn’t trying to be pessimistic, but he could see how that would look bad for Jessa.

  “What did the governor say in his wire? You think I might get a pardon?” Mississippi was hopeful for Jessa’s sake. She wanted them to be man and wife, a family, and he was realizing more and more just how much he desired that too as he looked down at the symbol of their commitment around his wrist. It wasn’t official, but he’d like it to be someday.

  Jessa had lost the baby. He wasn’t overly optimistic that she wouldn’t lose him too. He was guilty, and she was the one suffering for all of it. So if there was any chance of being pardoned, even a very slim one, a chance that he and Jessa could be together, then he wasn’t going anywhere outside that door. He wanted to see her in the worst possible way, but Pike had been right when he indicated that Curry and his lowdown men would use whatever opportunity showed itself, like the foggy weather, as a shield to blow Mississippi’s head off.

  Pike shook his head. “Nothing of a pardon was mentioned. My one order was to keep you breathing. I suppose because your testimony is the best defense Jessa has.”

  Mississippi hobbled back into the cell.

  When Mississippi woke the next morning, Sheriff Pike stood at the window with his rifle down at his side. Stan, carrying his Winchester tight to him, slipped in, squeezing through as he barely opened the door, then slammed it shut. It was too late. The shouts from angry voices had followed him inside.

  “String him up,” they chanted.

  A rotten tomato splattered against the window. Stan barred the door. Curry and his men must have stirred things up until a lynch mob formed. The doorknob jiggled roughly. Then an angry pound of a fist and an angrier voice demanded Mississippi be turned over for hanging.

  “Stan, let him out.”

  Stan unlocked the cell. Mississippi couldn’t believe the sheriff was just going to hand him over after all that headbutting with Curry.

  Sheriff Pike tossed him a small key. “Your pistol is in the cabinet. You don’t shoot unless I tell ya, and it’s not to kill.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mississippi retrieved his gun belt, then joined Pike and Stan at the window.

  Forty men, at least, stood with guns, and some held torches. The day was an irritable rumbling, somber gray with bucketfuls dumping out of the sky. Fitting considering the dark moods of the fellers on the street. A riled mob was apt to do something stupid. None of Curry’s men were among them, so if any shooting did start, they were out of the line of fire and nowhere around to blame. It would look bad for Pike to shoot into his own townspeople if he couldn’t talk them down, and the way they were demanding blood, it looked as though guns would be the only answer.

  “Bernstein, you pugnacious sumbitch, back away from the door. I’m coming out.” Sheriff Pike glanced over at Stan. “If that mob gets past me, take him out the rear. But you watch. Curry and his men might expect that. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were waiting to shoot.”

  So Curry had played a right smart hand. He had lit a fire under the seat of these men, and Bernstein must have decided himself the leader of their little showing. There was a shuffling of feet on the boardwalk, and the mob stepped back into the street.

  “Bar the door behind me.” Pike then slipped out.

  Quickly, Stan locked her tight.

  Pike, who threw a big shadow even on a day when the sky was black, walked with ease and confidence to the edge of the porch boards. He faced the crowd that now had hushed, his rifle hung at his side. Being a veteran of the war with Mexico, his years as a ranger, skirmishes with Indians, then the war between the states, there was a half century full of fighting experience in that leathery-faced old man whose stiff backbone made him appear much taller than he was. And that cold reality was shrinking the nerve of those farmers and bookkeepers, because there were lots of uncomfortable looks flitting around between the mob members.

  In Mississippi’s life, people had given him a wide berth because of fear, but the command Pike was wielding right now was due to respect. Mississippi admired that. Pike, no doubt, could work the action on his rifle and kill a lot of them before the soft-faced plowboys and paper pushers took aim. Facing the man when he was behind a door seemed to be less threatening. Although he was just one man and there were quite a few bodies bunched on that street, for the moment, Sheriff Pike had them stalled.

  Bernstein held up a wanted poster with Mississippi’s face on it. Mississippi glanced at the wall near the door, knowing good and well that poster had been there before. It had been torn down, and an empty spot marked his place between Jesse James and Wes Hardin. Clint and Rascal were on that wall, but Porter’s and Butch’s were gone. He guessed they were presumed dead.

  “Hand him over. He’s a killer.” Bernstein was a salty-looking man with a scruffy beard that hung down over his protruding gut, and his bulky fat arms appeared too long for his short stature. He wavered a bit as he stood there, and the Winchester in his hands was held in a way that gave the impression that he’d rather shoot you than look at you.

  “I can smell liquor, Bernstein. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off before you get yourself shot?”

  Bernstein wasn’t listening to Sheriff Pike and lifted his foot to take a step. Pike’s rifle swung up. Bernstein was now looking into the mean end, and his foot immediately planted in the exact spot from which he’d lifted it just a second ago.

&
nbsp; “One step and I’ll shoot.” Pike looked out over the silent crowd. No one moved or dared to breathe, including Bernstein. “I’m under orders by Governor Aurand himself to detain this prisoner for questioning.”

  Confusion spread through the ranks. Even Bernstein raised a brow and looked questioningly at his companions. This was new information. Information that Curry had conveniently forgotten to share with Bernstein, who had almost followed through with Curry’s dirty work and nearly gotten his face blown off in the process. The rain now seemed to dampen their spirits. In ones or twos, the crowd of men began to dissipate.

  Bernstein scratched his beard. “Henry…” There was a shameful red coloring painted on Bernstein’s face as the man lowered his Winchester. This was his sheriff, and he’d turned his back on the man who protected this town and its people daily, the man who had helped to build this town. And the people there thought highly enough of Sheriff Pike that the town had been named after him. That said a lot about Henry Pike.

  “Abe, forget it.” Pike patted Bernstein’s shoulder.

  Pike tapped on the door, and Stan removed the bar. The sheriff took his seat behind the desk and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. Perhaps he was contemplating Curry’s reaction when he discovered Bernstein had been turned aside. Or maybe he was thinking about where Curry and his men had disappeared to. Who knew? Clint might beat Curry and take the next move first. Either way, Mississippi looked at it like he was a target.

  He unfastened his gun belt, dropped it in front of Pike, and limped back into the cell where he sprawled out on the cot and listened to the rain tapping on the roof. It wasn’t long until his mind drifted to Jessa.

  A few hours later, Stan brought food. Doc showed up with him and dug the lead out of Mississippi’s leg, which left him sick in his stomach and sweaty, so he’d lost his appetite. Pike ate every bit. At least he’d handed Mississippi the bottle of whiskey to suck on to take the edge off.