Mississippi looked over his shoulder at the mousy clerk who was cleaning tea off the floor with a rag. Room number seven wasn’t safe for him at the moment and staying put wasn’t either. He needed a place that would hide a tall man quick.
The door of the hotel opened. In came the procession of widows and lawmen with their packages, all except Stan, who nervously eyeballed the clerk as if asking where in tarnation Mississippi had gotten to. Was he well hidden, or did he have a showdown waiting to happen in room number seven?
From the broom closet behind the counter, the door left open a crack, Mississippi watched as the patrons and their escorts disappeared into the hallway from the landing at the top of the stairs. While he was hiding from Curry’s men, where was Rascal?
A few minutes later, Curry’s deputies entered the dining room alone. Now it would be nice if they decided not to return for a second visit to room seven. It didn’t take a hungry man long to eat. Fifteen minutes to cook their grub. That gave Mississippi no more than half an hour at most.
No one else had come in. Was there a rear door that Rascal could slip in? Most places, particularly one as big as this, had a second entrance. There was probably a back stairwell used by whoever cleaned the place and maybe the waitstaff.
Mississippi eased out, and as he rounded the counter, the clerk, who was on his knees scrubbing with oomph at the stained rug, stopped and held up five fingers, then pointed at the stairs and, in a whispered tone, said one word, “Creaks.”
At the top, Mississippi hurried past the door with the gold-colored seven on it. Sure enough, there was another set of steps. He followed them into the kitchen. There was a woman slaving over the stove. Her back was turned, her face tilted down, and she was concentrating on her work. Steak and eggs seemed to be the lunch special, and she was serving up a whole lot of it. Smelled right tasty, and he was hungry.
What he spotted then was the door to the outside centered along the rear wall. Full fifty-pound sacks of flour, a bunch of them, and crates were stacked there, taller than the cook. With the wall lined thick with supplies, it nearly blocked the view of who might come or go through that door. Could Rascal have slithered in unseen?
Mississippi had been standing there close to a minute, and the woman hadn’t turned around, so it was possible. After all, she was concentrating on the stove, and that heat-bearing beast stood along the far wall, as did the pump for water. In the time since Rascal slipped into that alleyway, could he have gotten in the back door before Mississippi discovered it? Surely not. He wouldn’t have known what room Jessa was in, and he had seen the deputies with her. He’d be damn dumb to risk getting caught off guard in the hallway while hunting her room. Then again, damn dumb sounded a lot like Rascal.
Mississippi eased backward into the stairwell, then, by twos, hustled up toward room seven. There was one other possibility he had almost overlooked. Rascal could be hiding in one of the five vacant rooms. Three, four, eight, ten, and twelve, if he recalled correctly. It didn’t matter that those rooms should be locked. Any one of the gang, including Mississippi could pick a lock. Room eight was smack dab next to Jessa. Sometimes these places had thin walls, and voices or whole conversations could be overheard. Rascal might be sitting, waiting for just the right time to present himself.
Mississippi ever so slightly turned the knob while keeping himself off to the side. If Rascal took a shot, Mississippi didn’t want to eat lead. The door was locked. A man on the run couldn’t always get to a doctor or find one willing to help him, so Mississippi had taken to carrying needle and thread. The needle he’d fetched to stitch Jessa was still on him. He removed it from inside his hat band.
He slipped it into the keyhole, wiggled it just right, and click, the door opened a crack. There was no movement inside. But Rascal could be waiting quietly to waylay him. The Colt was in his hand now, and he pushed the door open.
Nothing. The room was empty. Well… there were furnishings: a bed, lamp, a couple chairs and a small table in one corner, and in another corner, a tall dresser. No one had recently been there. The bed covering was smooth and straight. Not a thing looked out of place. Maybe Rascal hadn’t come inside the hotel.
Fifteen minutes of Mississippi’s half hour was probably up, if not a few minutes more. Curry’s men might come back soon. There wasn’t time to check the other vacant rooms. This would have been the one if Rascal were there.
Mississippi tapped softly on door seven. Muffled voices, none distinguishable, then heavy footsteps toward the door. Mississippi’s gut tightened. Had Curry’s deputies come up earlier than he had anticipated? Who would he meet face to face? The door opened.
Stan’s eyes strangely widened. Was that a warning of some type? Otherwise, his face was somber, unlike the man. Just that one time in the barn, Mississippi had overheard Stan become fierce with Pike. That wasn’t the norm. Stan was a friendly soul, eager to help, and far from judgmental, or he’d have stayed shuck of a wanted man.
Although the door was open nearly halfway, no one else in the room could be seen, for they were behind the angle of it. No noise. Not a peep. Nor had even one of the women come to see who it was. That was all odd. Mississippi made no move to step inside. To do so might make him a target.
Stan appeared sweaty, his neck reddening. Had it been either or both of Curry’s men, they would have investigated Stan’s awkward pause and lack of words. It had been a long thirty seconds, which might not seem like a lot of time, but when you think about greeting someone and welcoming them in, that takes all of two breaths and that’s if you shake hands first. Stan had thought about it too long, and Mississippi took a step forward.
Rascal tore the door the rest of the way open, his gun aimed right between Mississippi’s eyes. He was turned in a way that allowed him to see everyone. “Git in here.”
Mississippi didn’t have any choice. Rascal snatched the Colt out of his hand and shoved it in his waistband. He had plenty of ammo to kill them all. Madly, he waved his pistol, shoving Stan and Mississippi over with the ladies who were teary-eyed and huddled together. Mississippi couldn’t afford to more than glance their way, and he’d done that. They appeared fine, other than scared. What he needed was for Rascal to look the wrong way, and Mississippi would take him down.
Maybe he could distract him, get under his skin a mite, unnerve him. “There’s two deputies sitting downstairs, eatin’ their lunch. Only take one of these ladies to scream, and they’d be up here in an awful hurry.”
Mississippi threw it out there for a hard bone of thought for Rascal to chew on. Although, Rascal didn’t scare too easily. He was too empty-headed to be afraid of much. In this case, he played his hand real smart. Rascal didn’t flinch, never took his eyes off Mississippi, and Mississippi gave him credit for that. It looked as if Rascal would get what he wanted: the secret whereabouts of that money.
“First one to scream will be the first to die.” Rascal bared his teeth, and there was no joke in his tone. He would kill every one of them just for the hell of it if he had a mind to.
“I’ll take ya to the money.” Mississippi didn’t know what he would do if Rascal chomped on that bait. Jessa had never told him where exactly. He only knew that it was in the basin somewhere. The other day, she’d come to the jailhouse, said she had something to tell him. Maybe that had been it, but they’d gotten interrupted when the widows had come in.
Between here and there were lots of miles, and anything could happen. Somehow, someway, things had to turn in his favor, but there was too much stacked against him. Maybe if Mississippi could just keep Rascal busy and distracted, Curry’s men would be there shortly.
Rascal shook his head, a vicious glint in his eyes. “Clint says you’re too risky to have around, or we need to stop that fast hand of yours. Can’t have you kill us.” He turned his wicked gaze on Jessa. “You’re coming with me.”
Mississippi stepped in front of the ladies, blocking any reach Rascal might make. “I don’t think so.”
&
nbsp; Stan’s hard gulp echoed in the room, mixing with the younger widow’s whimpering. Rascal laughed with the confidence of holding a pointed gun.
Bang-bang. Someone pounded on the door.
They all curiously eyed one another, thinking the same thing. Who was out there? Curry’s deputies? Mississippi could only hope so. Relief was the last feeling he’d ever thought a lawman would bring to him, but those deputies were the best chance for these ladies to get out of there without having a hole blasted in them. And that knocking was the only reason Mississippi hadn’t been shot. The sound of close-up gunfire would bring whoever was on the other side barging through, unless it was the clerk. Mississippi prayed it wasn’t. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. A lot of innocent people could die.
More knocking rattled the door. “Ms. Martha, you in there?”
It was a man’s voice, and not just any man. Indeed, it was one of Curry’s deputies, and since they seemed to be a tied-together pair—never saw one without the other—both deputies must be in the hallway.
Rascal was boxed in, his chest heaving, and Mississippi could almost see the smoke rolling out of his ears as he tried to think fast. He was in quite the fix. The gang had gotten out of tougher spots, but not Rascal alone. No escape except out the window, and falling two stories sure could bust up a man. Might break a leg or his back. He wasn’t going to run anyplace then. And Rascal had to be figuring that Clint wasn’t going to bail him out in any way if he were caught. Why would he? That would mean a hundred percent take for Clint… once he got the location from Jessa.
“Tell him you got a headache.” Rascal should’ve known better. A man who came courting aimed to see his pretty gal. If she was ailing, then he’d want to do for her, see that she was okay, treat her special so she would know he was concerned. The Florence Nightingale effect.
Ms. Martha, the younger widow of the two, cleared the lump in her throat, then said in a teary voice, “Sorry, Floyd. I’m not feeling well. Come back in a little while.”
What she said was smart. Downstairs was a dining room and a reception area with a couple benches. Chances were Floyd and his compadre would camp out there for a short spell, then be back.
Footsteps echoed down the hall toward the stairs. Rascal would have to make his move quick. Getting out of there would not be easy, especially with a captive. One that Rascal knew could be hellish feisty. It wouldn’t be a shock to see Jessa kicking or hitting or scratching the hell out of Rascal, perhaps biting him. And he couldn’t threaten to shoot anyone if she didn’t cooperate. One shot and those deputies would come running.
“Oh my.” The older widow fanned at her face, moving the stuffy air. They were all standing crammed in a corner. Her knees did a dip. The wink was faint, but the meaning was unmistakable. As she was closest to Stan, he reached out and caught her as she swooned.
“Get a chair.” Genuine concern radiated in Stan’s voice.
“I’ll get some water.” Martha ran for the water pitcher.
Jessa grabbed the nearest chair.
Rascal was so caught up in the commotion of it all that he failed to see what was really happening. Whether the others knew it, Mississippi did not know, but that old gal set him up just right. Mississippi lunged, buckling Rascal in half at the waist. Together they flew back, smacking off the bed, then hit the floor hard. In the rooms below, the ceiling had to have shaken, if not the lights. Something clunked on the floor beside them. Rascal’s pistol lay within reach, and they both had the same thought at the same time. One of them was going to die.
A shot fired. Martha screamed. Doors outside in the hallway, one or two at a time, snapped open. Stan stood with gun aimed at the ceiling, smoke rolling off the barrel. Rascal slugged Mississippi in the eye as they had halted tussling for a split second to look. Mississippi returned a punch, landing his knuckles against Rascal’s lips, and they rolled across the floor, bowling over a chair. Neither of them got the gun but had managed to send it spinning across the floor.
A second shot fired, and lead trimmed Mississippi’s hair above his ear. He risked a glance while inwardly cursing Stan for being a shit for firing. But that wasn’t who it was. It was Jessa aiming right at him.
What the hell was she trying to do, kill him? “Don’t shoot, woman!”
“I was trying for him.” She shook the barrel at Rascal, who landed a hard, flat punch to Mississippi’s chin.
With an almighty crack, the door was kicked open. Curry’s men shouldered into the room, breathless from the short spurt up the stairs. It took a split second for Mississippi to see the situation from their angle. What an opportunity. Before them and now standing center room, making easy targets, were two outlaws. Two good shots, and Curry would likely give them each a bonus. Mississippi dove away from Rascal while he broke for the window. Glass shattered before either of Curry’s men squeezed the trigger. Bullets drilled holes in the wall beyond where Rascal had stood. They then turned their guns on Mississippi. There was but one thing he could do.
“I ain’t armed.” His hands shot above his head in surrender, but he fully expected to catch lead, lots of it. His gut squeezed tight, and his heart might have stopped for a second or two.
“Don’t shoot!” Jessa screamed. “He saved us.” She spun toward Martha, grabbing her wrist, pulling her forward. “Tell them.”
There were tears running down Martha’s cheeks as she met Floyd’s gaze. “It’s true. He kept that other one from taking Jessa and maybe killing the rest of us.”
There arose a great thud, sounding like a short fall. At the window, Floyd shoved his gun through the jagged pieces and fired down toward the alleyway. His partner kept an aim on Mississippi. No return fire sounded.
Floyd spat out the window. “He’s on the run.”
Mississippi knew out that window and around the corner was nothing but trees. Rascal’s horse most likely was hidden there. What damn stinking bad luck.
Floyd, the deputy who seemed to be in charge of the two, kicked the wall. “Too bad the roof over that storage area caught his fall.”
Mississippi couldn’t believe it. Just when he’d thought for sure that Rascal was a dead man, breaking his neck during the fall and ending the danger to Jessa, luck worked against him and saved that bastard.
“I’m going after him.” Floyd ran out.
“You’re coming with me.” His partner slapped a pair of irons around Mississippi’s wrists.
“Wait just a minute thar, Tom.” Stan shoved his pistol into his holster. “Sheriff Pike let this boy out to catch that feller who just run off.”
“Looks to me like he let him go.” Tom rattled the chain that hung between the irons.
If it was meant to shake Mississippi, that fella was in for a big shock. Skinning his pistol wasn’t the only thing Mississippi was fast at. He swung his leg as if hoofing a ball with the inside portion of his boot, kicking Tom just above his ankle, and sent him falling and cursing onto the floor, landing flat on his back. The ladies gasped. No one had expected the sudden strike. Stan was wide-eyed. Mississippi squatted next to the man, who gulped after just having the wind knocked out of him. He poked him with a finger right in the forehead.
“I’ll be of more help out on the trails than I would be locked in a cell.” Mississippi took the key off Tom and unlocked his wrists, then handed the key over to the deputy.
“When this is over, you’re still gonna hang.”
Mississippi nodded. “I know, but I ain’t going until I see that she doesn’t.” It was Jessa’s neck he was worried about, and he understood clearly that he would be held accountable for his crimes.
“I ain’t giving ya a gun.” Tom did not accept Mississippi’s hand to get up.
“Jessa.” Mississippi held out his palm. It had been made clear when she’d shrieked not to shoot that her love for him hadn’t changed. He hoped it didn’t cause her to lose merit with the widows.
Jessa handed him the pistol, and he put it in his empty holster.
> “You’re gonna regret that, girl.”
“No. She won’t, Tom.” Mississippi backed up a few steps but was still squarely facing the riled deputy.
The others in the room cleared to the edges, staying back as far as they could. A whimper and a few sniffles came from one or two of the ladies. None of them knew exactly what was coming next. Maybe they suspected something since both men now had a gun. Tom’s pistol was in his hand, not aimed. Instead, it hung down at his side. He was no fool. Any half-decent lawman would know Mississippi’s reputation of being the fastest on the draw. Mississippi’s hand was ready, although it appeared natural at his side, not touching the butt of his pistol, but close. What he was doing was to make a point. Sometimes men didn’t believe until they had seen for themselves. This was one show Tom wouldn’t forget. Mississippi didn’t want to kill that deputy any more than the man wanted to die.
“See, Tom, this is how it is. You got your gun in your hand. Big advantage.” In less time than it took to wink, Mississippi drew.
Tom blinked a couple times real fast, as if he hadn’t seen right. His gun hand never reacted, didn’t move a twitch. It was still in the same senseless position. No one but Mississippi breathed.
Overconfidence could get a man killed. Some men didn’t have that instinct, that sense of knowing a split second before and acting upon it. Though, sometimes they thought they had that sense. Those usually ended up dead. With the realization that he wouldn’t have had a chance, Tom’s gun hand began to shake. Then it spread like a disease throughout the rest of his body. The women, all three of them, helped Tom to a chair, fanning air his way, offering him water. Stan didn’t say a word, though he winked at Mississippi.
Mississippi Page 23