Lone Star 03 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  SKINNY DIPPING

  A band of horsemen was crossing the ford.

  “We’d better get our clothes on and get out of here,” Farnam said.

  “We don’t have time,” Jessie snapped. “Come on, Joe! Let’s hit them now before they see us!”

  Her movement caught the eye of one of the riders. A shout rang out as she reached, naked, for her rifle.

  “Damn!” Farnam leaped past Jessie to get his own gun. “We’ve got a fight on our hands now!”

  LONE STAR

  Also in the LONE STAR series from Jove

  LONGARM AND THE LONE STAR LEGEND

  LONE STAR ON THE TREACHERY TRAIL

  LONE STAR AND THE OPIUM RUSTLERS

  LONE STAR AND THE KANSAS WOLVES

  LONE STAR AND THE UTAH KID

  LONE STAR AND THE LAND GRABBERS

  LONE STAR IN THE TALL TIMBER

  LONE STAR AND THE SHOWDOWNERS

  LONE STAR AND THE HARDROCK PAYOFF

  LONE STAR AND THE RENEGADE COMANCHES

  LONE STAR ON OUTLAW MOUNTAIN

  LONE STAR AND THE GOLD RAIDERS

  LONE STAR AND THE BORDER BANDITS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with

  the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / September 1982

  Fourth printing / June 1983

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1982 by Jove Publications, Inc.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-16887-5

  Jove books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016.

  The words “A JOVE BOOK” and the “J” with sunburst

  are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Chapter 1

  “You don’t really need to ride the fencelines today, Ki,” Jessie Starbuck said. “I’m sure Ed’s kept everything in good shape while we were gone.”

  “Of course he has,” Ki agreed. “Ed’s a good strawboss. I never worry when he’s in charge while we’re away.”

  “Then rest today, Ki,” Jessie suggested. “The fence will still be there tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m not tired, Jessie.” Ki paused and added, “Besides, when I ride line, I see more than the barbwire. I see the sun and the sky and the range.” He lowered his head for a moment and then looked up at Jessie again, his dark eyes glowing between the almond-shaped ovals of their lids. “Sometimes I even think I see more than what I’m looking at. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes,” Jessie replied thoughtfully.

  She understood Ki’s need for an occasional period of solitude. Line-riding gave him time to meditate with the Japanese half of his ancestry and to reconcile it with the American half. Her eyes swept the broad, ridge-broken range that stretched in a seemingly endless expanse away from the buildings and horse corrals of the Circle Star. In the slanting light of the early-morning sun, the sparse prairie grasses that covered the earth rippled gently in response to the small breeze.

  Without looking at Ki, Jessie went on, “Alex taught me that there’s a lot more to this place than someone can take in at a glance.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to go with me?”

  “No. I’m going to stay here this time. Besides ...”

  Ki nodded when Jessie stopped short. Just as Jessie understood his feelings, Ki grasped what she did not want to put into words. Riding the fenceline would take him past the ravine where Alex Starbuck had died, cut down by a hail of bullets from the guns of a band of hired assassins. Even now, the place of her father’s death was still the one spot on the ranch that Jessie avoided going near.

  “I’ll be back in plenty of time for supper,” he said. He lifted one hand in a half-wave, half-salute as he wheeled his horse and started at a fast walk away from the corral.

  During the periods when both he and Jessie were at the ranch, Ki took his duties as foreman very seriously, and on any Texas ranch in the 1880s, keeping fences in shape was a job that had no end. Though barbwire had been in use for several years before Alex Starbuck began fencing the Circle Star range, it was widely disliked.

  In the time that had passed since then, barbwire had gained respect, but no liking. Fences were still cut by trail-drive hands, who resented the detours they had to make around what had been open range. Footloose cowpunchers in search of jobs snipped the strands so they could travel in a straight line from ranch to ranch. Rustlers cut big sections out of fences when they were making off with a stolen herd.

  Ki counted himself lucky when he’d ridden half the morning without having to tighten a sagging strand or splice a cut. He’d made mental notes of two or three skewed fence-posts that would need attention later, but his ride had been uninterrupted until he saw that company was ahead.

  Less than three miles away, where a solitary mesquite bush had struggled through enough dry summers to attain the status of a tree, a half-dozen cowhands were riding across the range. Their course was at a right angle to the Circle Star fence. Ki looked along the line of wire; even at that distance he could see where the barbwire strands sagged to the ground between two of the widely spaced posts that separated Starbuck range from that of its south-western neighbor, the Lazy G. Touching his toe to the flank of his horse, Ki speeded up.

  It was obvious to Ki that if he could see the Lazy G hands, they could see him. Holding his irritation in check, he followed the custom of the country and waved a greeting to the riders. When he received no wave in reply, Ki frowned and toed his mount into a distance-eating lope.

  He’d covered half the distance to the approaching band when the riders veered suddenly and headed for the old mesquite. Ki saw that he was too far away to cut off the trespassers before they reached the tree, and he changed his direction to meet them. The cowhands were closer to the mesquite than Ki was, but he was near enough by now to see details. One of the six riders was gagged with a bandanna. The man’s wrists were lashed to his saddlehorn, and his horse was being led by one of the other riders.

  Ki could see only one reason why a bunch of hands would be escorting a bound and gagged man to the only big tree within twenty miles. He kicked his horse to a gallop.

  In spite of his speed, the cowhands reached the tree first. Ki was still two hundred yards away when one of the Lazy G men began uncoiling his lariat. By the time Ki got within calling distance of the tree, the man holding the lariat had made a loop and dropped it over the neck of the helpless prisoner.

  “Ho!” Ki shouted. “Stop what you are now doing!”

  His words had the effect Ki hoped they would. The cowhands around the prisoner suspended their preparations for the hanging, and wheeled their horses to face Ki. He reined in when less than a dozen yards separated him from the stony-faced group. Though all the horses the cowpunchers rode bore the Lazy G brand, Ki found himself facing strangers.

  “I do not need to ask what you men are planning to do,” Ki said. He kept his voice lo
w, pitched just high enough to carry to them. Long ago, Ki had observed that forcing a man to listen to a softly pitched voice drew his attention more effectively than did an angry shout.

  “Who in hell are you, busting in like you got a right to stop us doing whatever we feel like?” one of the group snarled.

  Ki looked closely at the men. He hadn’t seen them on the Lazy G range before, but that wasn’t unusual, for he and Jessie were often away from the Circle Star, and sometimes for long periods. Cowhands on the neighboring ranches as well as on the Starbuck spread had a common affliction: itchy feet. They came unannounced, worked until they’d earned enough money to carry them somewhere else, and moved on.

  “I am the foreman of the Circle Star,” Ki said. “You are on Starbuck land, so you will listen to me.”

  “Like hell we will! This sonofabitching rustler’s going to be decorating that mesquite tree before he’s five minutes older!”

  Another of the cowhands, who’d been studying Ki’s features, said, “Hey, you’re some kind of greaser, but you damn sure ain’t no Mex.”

  Ki ignored the remark. He looked from one to another of the five men, trying to read in their glowering faces how firmly they were committed to their purpose. At the same time, the Lazy G hands were studying him, trying to determine what kind of man he was. Ki’s dress was just different enough from theirs to arouse their curiosity. He wore the same kind of faded jeans and the same kind of loosely fitting cotton twill shirt, and like all but one of them, Ki had on a vest over his shirt.

  There the resemblance stopped. Ki’s vest was leather, with creases and scuffed areas that denoted age and long use. Instead of the high-heeled, pointed-toed boots the Lazy G hands wore to a man, Ki’s feet were shod in canvas slippers with rope soles. All the cowhands had on broad-brimmed Stetsons. Ki wore no hat, but had a sweat-stained cloth band tied around his head below his thick, glossy black hair. His slightly flattened nose and the epicanthic folds that gave an almond shape to his opaque black eyes betrayed his Japanese blood.

  Ki waited until the Lazy G men had finished scrutinizing him before asking in the same low tone he’d used before, “Which of you is in charge?”

  “We’re all in charge, greaser,” the man who’d spoken first replied contemptuously. “But seeing as Clem Petty called my name out first when he sent us to cut calves outta the nursery range, I guess I’m sorta the strawboss.”

  “Then order your companions to remove the noose from that man,” Ki told him, nodding toward the prisoner. “Miss Starbuck would not wish to have a helpless person murdered on the Circle Star.”

  “Bullshit!” the strawboss snorted. “This ain’t no murder, it’s a execution!”

  “That’s handing it to him straight, Snag!” one of the Lazy G hands put in. “Don’t take no lip from the greaser!”

  “Hell, he ain’t no greaser,” another said. “He’s some kind of a Chinee.”

  “By God, you’re right, Ossie,” the strawboss agreed.

  Another of the Lazy G hands said, “Hell, he won’t give us no trouble.” His face twisted into an ugly grin. “I ain’t seen a chink yet that was any good in a fight, lessen he had him a butcher knife or a cleaver. But I say we just don’t pay him no mind, and finish what we come here to do.”

  “I’m with you, Fletch!” another of them seconded. “Go on, Snag. Tell him to get outta our way so we can get on with the rat-killing!”

  When Snag did not speak at once, Ki broke the silence. He said calmly, “I now have three of your names to give to your foreman. I’m sure that Clem Petty would want all your names, so if you others would like to introduce yourselves—”

  “Well, lah-di-dah!” Fletch broke in with an exaggerated simper. “This here chink talks just like a dude!”

  “Claims he’s gonna tell Clem on us, too,” Snag said. “Now don’t that scare you fellows?”

  “It don’t spook me, Snag,” Ossie said. “How about you, Miller?”

  “Oh, I’m about to pee my pants, I’m so scared,” replied the man whom Ossie had addressed. He turned to the cowhand who had not yet spoken. “Pete, we ain’t heard from you. How about it?”

  “Whatever you aim to do, count me in,” the fifth man said.

  From the corner of his eye, Ki saw an almost imperceptible movement of Snag’s hand. He gave no sign that he noticed the strawboss, but gazed instead at the prisoner, whose eyes had been moving from one to another of his captors, but who could not speak because of the bandanna that gagged him.

  “Perhaps if I knew why you are preparing to kill this man, I might not consider you murderers,” Ki suggested. He still did not look at Snag, but kept his eyes on the prisoner.

  “Now that ain’t one goddamn bit of your business, chink,” Stag retorted. “You’re just going to shut up and set right where you are while we finish what we come here to do.”

  Snag swept his revolver from its holster as he spoke. Ki said nothing. He sat motionless, staring at the threatening muzzle of the strawboss’s pistol.

  When he finally spoke, Ki’s voice was disarmingly gentle. He said, “You do not need to threaten me with your gun. You are five and I am one. And as you can see, I have neither rifle nor pistol.”

  Ki was careful not to say that he was weaponless, even though he was sure that the Lazy G men would have laughed at the simple devices he was carrying.

  “By God, that’s right,” Pete said. “He ain’t got a gun of no kind. Hell, Snag, we can do whatever we got a mind to. The Chinee won’t give us no trouble.”

  Ossie spoke/up. “Shit, Snag, we ain’t gettin’ noplace listening to this chink. He’s a slick talker, I give you that, but let’s do what we come here for and get it over with.”

  “Are you sure that is what you should do?” Ki asked Ossie. “By hanging that man”—he nodded toward the prisoner—“ you make yourself into a murderer. Unless you can prove to a judge that you were justified in killing him, prove that he is indeed a cattle thief, the law will hold you guilty.”

  Snag said quickly, “The law’s got to catch us first to do that. And for all we know, you and that fellow over there’s in cahoots. Both of you could be rustlers working together, the way you’re sticking up for him.”

  “You’re talking good sense now, Snag,” Fletch said. “Maybe we better string him up with the young one. If we done that, we wouldn’t have to worry about no witnesses.”

  “And what do you think Miss Starbuck would do if you were to kill one of her men?” Ki asked. “She would not forgive that, any more than she would overlook your trespassing on Starbuck land to hang a man who might be innocent.”

  “By God, Snag!” Miller said quickly, “I’d plumb forgot who this chink says he’s working for! Now listen, I don’t wanta get on the wrong side of anybody named Starbuck!”

  “Me neither,” Pete seconded. “What I’ve heard about that Starbuck woman, she can be a real hellion!”

  “Hellion or not, we come here to hang a rustler,” Snag told his companions. “Now let’s do it and quit worrying about it! We know damn well we’re right! No Starbuck nor nobody else is going to do nothing, after we’re finished!”

  Ki saw that he must play for time, and not just to let the tempers of the Lazy G hands cool down. He’d learned a psychological quirk that had saved him several times in the past. When a man who was not accustomed to gunplay drew a weapon, he was very conscious of its weight during the first few seconds it was in his hand. Then, as he became used to holding the gun, his muscles adjusted to its heft, and he would let the weapon wander off target.

  “Well, chink?” the strawboss demanded. “You got anything else to say for yourself before we go ahead?”

  “I have said nothing for myself, and will not speak of my own feelings,” Ki replied in a totally unruffled voice. “I have spoken in behalf of this man you brought here to kill. I ask you again, why are you doing this?”

  “Because the sneaking son of a bitch is a rustler!” Fletch put in. “Damn it, Chinaman, i
f you’re who you claim to be, you know damn well that when a rustler’s caught he gets strung up from the closest tree!”

  “I also know that rustlers work in gangs,” Ki said. “There would have been a fight between you and a gang, if there were rustlers anywhere close by. I have been close to this place for quite some time and have not heard shooting.”

  “Well, we ain’t been in no gunfight,” Snag admitted. “But that don’t change things one way or the other. We caught this snake sneaking around and he’s getting what he deserves.”

  “Perhaps it is my stupidity which keeps me from understanding,” Ki said apologetically. “But I am puzzled. A moment ago you said you knew your prisoner was a rustler. Now you tell me that you only caught him sneaking around.”

  “Ah, shit!” Ossie exploded. “All of us has been around ranches long enough to tell a rustler when we see one!”

  “But how?” Ki asked again. “How can you say a man is a thief unless you have caught him stealing? Was this man driving some Lazy G cattle away?”

  For a moment the cowhands exchanged glances, and then Snag said to Ki, “He didn’t have no steers when we nabbed him. But we got all the proof we need that he’s a rustler, all right.”

  “If you have proof, suppose you tell me what it is,” Ki suggested. “So far you’ve said nothing that proves anything.”

  “All right!” Snag snapped. “Ossie, show this damn pesky Chinee what we found in that rustler’s saddlebags.”

  Ossie turned around in his saddle, rummaged in the leather bags behind it for a moment, then came up with an iron rod about eighteen inches long. One end of the rod terminated in a short, tapered curve. The other end had been bent into a ring. Ossie held up the length of metal for Ki to look at.

  Ki had recognized the metal object at once. It was called a “running iron” by the cowhands, because with a little skillful manipulation by an expert, the burned-in lines of a brand on a steer’s hindquarters could be run together to change the brand’s meaning.