Lone Star 01 Read online

  Ki slapped the reins, sending the team into a protesting gallop. The bridge began twisting, undulating from the mounting force pushing at its pilings, its creaking now growing almost intolerably loud.

  There was a wrenching shake as the creaking was drowned out by a sundering roar. The bridge swayed, then dipped, the railings splintering and the deck buckling, dropping apart. The planks fractured in bunches, falling, leaving a gaping hole.

  The team plunged through the hole, taking the wagon with it.

  Chapter 2

  The wagon tilted, upending beneath them. Ki scarcely had time to grip Jessica by one arm before they were hurled, tumbling, out into space and plummeted toward the raging river below. The wagon fell like a stone, shattering in the wreckage of bridge supports and driftwood. But thrown free, Jessica and Ki struck open water on the downriver side, dropping deep underwater and striking submerged rocks.

  Dazed and gasping, they surfaced, only to be caught by the surging current. They swam with hard strokes, hampered by their slickers, hardly able to keep from being swept toward a series of sawtoothed boulders through which the river was cascading in deadly, foaming rapids. Half drowned, one hand still clinging to her arm, Ki helped Jessica fight out of the tugging current toward the bank, frantically trying to miss the flotsam of bridge beams, wagon parts, and running gear that were churning around them.

  They were less than ten yards from the north bank when a side panel of the wagon reared out of the surface and rammed into Jessica. Ki’s grasp was torn loose, and Jessica was thrust, rolling, back into the irresistible hold of the swirling flow. Ki made a lunge for her, but Jessica was already gone, plunging with the side panel toward the bone-smashing, whirling rapids.

  Ki dove after her, swimming now with the current in an effort to intercept Jessica. He reached out, missed, stroked, and reached again, fingers tightening on the collar of her slicker. Then he battled one-handedly for the bank again. Taxing his muscles to the utmost, almost losing her again in his frenzied struggle, Ki managed to maneuver them out of the torrent. His boots scraped against stone, and he dug in for a better footing, half climbing, half crawling into a shallow break.

  The backwash in this break in the bank created a whirling eddy, and two or three swimming strokes took them to the river’s edge. The rain had turned the earth there into a grease-slick ooze, and it was only by clutching at an overhanging limb of a cottonwood that Ki was able at last to drag them both out of the cold rushing water.

  Jessica lay on her back, arms flung out, eyes closed, soundless.

  Ki knelt and placed his ear to her chest. “You’re breathing.”

  “Of course I’m breathing,” Jessie whispered hoarsely, still not moving. “Wait a minute, it’s all I can do right now.”

  A few moments later, Jessie slowly sat up. She coughed, threw up a small quantity of water, then gingerly felt her left shoulder, where the edge of the wagon panel had struck her.

  “Are you all right?” Ki asked.

  “I think so,” she replied, wincing. “It’s bruised or maybe wrenched a little, but nothing feels broken.”

  They rested there for a time, sucking air into their aching lungs, while the storm battered down and the angry river lapped at their feet. Upriver to their right, the rubbled bridge thrust skeletally toward the dismal sky. Downriver, the rapids were collecting the remains of the wagon and the plump carcasses of the team, along with bridge supports and planks, and much of the same mountainous pile of uprooted brush and trees that had collapsed the span. But the rocks were tougher, withstanding the ravaging pressure.

  Jessie was the first to speak. “Gone, Ki, all gone.”

  “Nothing that can’t be replaced.”

  “I know, Ki, but your weapons ...”

  “It’s not good to become too dependent on weapons. They’re merely tools to help in one’s task. There are other tools, other ways. Don’t worry, the task will be done.”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “And our first task,” Ki continued affably, standing and offering a hand to Jessica, “must be to find shelter.”

  Again Jessica nodded, rising and starting with him up the bank to the trail. When he paused on the way to smile encouragingly at her, she managed to respond with a weak smile of her own, sensing that Ki was trying to appear more optimistic than he actually felt. She herself mainly felt anger. As she stumbled over rocks and slipped on the muddy earth, her anger mounted with every step she took, an anger that grew into a grim, purposeful determination to settle the score, barehanded if need be, just as soon as they could reach Eucher Butte.

  Angling back upriver toward the bridge, they came to the trail and began following it west again. They trudged slowly, partly from fatigue, partly through caution. The fourth gunman wasn’t a threat; he was stuck on the other side of the river and probably thought they were dead. But the unexpected ambush had made them wary, alerting them to the fact that they were known to be traveling this way, at this time. And considering that their only weapons were Ki’s shuriken and one remaining cartridge in Jessica’s derringer, which miraculously had come through entangled in a pocket of her slicker, they both figured that, for now, discretion was a better part of valor.

  The trail went along the spine of a low ridge for a while, then came to a plateau overlooking a long stretch of valley ahead. Off to their left, across a weedy field, jutted the angular silhouette of a deserted cabin. From a distance it appeared that some of the roof was missing and the door was sagging on its hinges, but the walls were still standing, and would provide needed protection from the wind and rain. Already Ki could feel a chill seeping through his veins, and though Jessica was uncomplaining, she couldn’t keep herself from shivering.

  They hastened across the field to the cabin, and went inside; then, propping the door closed, they looked about the dim, musty interior. A crumbling fireplace was built against the far wall, the storm echoing mournfully down its tall chimney. The remnants of a wooden stool and bedframe were cluttering one corner, luckily under a portion of the remaining roof, and when Ki checked the broken pieces, he found them to be rotten and relatively dry.

  Swiftly they scraped up the trash and old leaves that littered the floor, piling it all with the broken furniture in the fireplace hearth. Opening his slicker, Ki took from his suit jacket his waterproof box of block matches, and after a few tries, he managed to light a fire.

  Satisfied, he stood for a moment with Jessica in front of the warming flames. Then he said, “I’ll be back in a short while.”

  “You’re leaving? No, Ki, not without me—”

  “Stay here, Jessie, and get dry. After that dunking you took, you’d risk catching pneumonia if you went out again.”

  “And you couldn‘t, too? Ki, where are you going?”

  Ki, already at the door, merely answered with a soft, knowing smile. Then, closing the door behind him, he stepped out into the cold, rain-lashing storm. The first task was done; now for the second.

  He set off in a steady run back toward the river. It distressed him to leave Jessica filled with questions and doubts; but to have explained, he felt, would have resulted either in her refusing to let him go, or her insisting on coming along. It would have taken too long to persuade her otherwise, and time was of the essence. Alone, he could make better time. Indeed, if he’d been alone before, he wouldn’t have left the river; only the priority of finding shelter for Jessica had compelled him to act as he had.

  Arriving at the ruined bridge, he angled downriver, veering down the bank and sprinting along the water’s edge to the rapids. The turbulent river was swirling against the rocks, spuming over the haphazard dam of debris that was trapped, higher and thicker than ever, like bits of food between the teeth of a giant. Without hesitating, Ki ripped off his slicker, suit jacket, and Wellington boots, and dove in.

  The rampaging current carried him toward the nearer of the two channels that formed a fork on either side of the jutting boulders. Swimming furiou
sly, he propelled himself toward the middle of the river, and a moment later he was flung violently against the choking mound of debris. The shock of his impact dislodged one of the dead Morgans, which squeezed between the rocks and was carried away.

  Frigid hands clawing for a hold, Ki lifted himself out of the water and onto the rough, scrubby branches of a yellow pine. Balancing gingerly, testing for weight and shifting before each step, he carefully eased among the debris and rocks, poking deep and clearing away, searching to recover what might remain of theirs.

  Time, precious time. If he’d been able to begin his hunt earlier, when the shattered wagon had first washed up against the rocks, he’d have had a better chance of finding things. If he’d waited much longer than he had, it would have been hopeless. Every minute, the raging tide was adding new debris, pushing forward what was there already, covering over the old and grinding it up, then prying it loose and sending it swirling away, lost forever.

  He spent almost an hour in his search, digging with his hands and clinging precariously with his feet. His weapons were gone. Those made of wood, like his bows and arrows and nunchaku sticks, had undoubtedly floated away immediately. Those of metal, like his sai swords and studded mail gloves, simply had sunk to the bottom. And his explosive devices would be beyond use, even if he discovered any—which he didn’t.

  But with a sigh of relief, Ki managed to locate Jessica’s bulky trunk. Its top was crushed and one side was stove in, and its Excelsior lock was snapped open and twisted awry. Its two hefty leather straps still held it closed, however, though tree roots were wedged between them and the lid, making it difficult to haul from the debris.

  At the other end of the rapids, where the carcass of the second Morgan remained hooked to the harness, Ki discovered his own Bellows case. This took even greater effort to extract, caught as it was in the venturi of two boulders, and firmly held underwater by the leaden foreleg of the dead horse. Launching himself into the water, Ki prodded and shoved and wrenched, struggling to keep from being sucked through the geysering vortex between the boulders. For a seemingly endless time, the case refused to budge, only the fact that it was made of impervious “alligator keratol” saving it from breaking apart in Ki’s levering tug-of-war with the rocks. Stubbornly Ki kept working, determined to reclaim the case, which not only contained a change of clothing, but his prized multipocket vest and an emergency assortment of smaller weapons—throwing daggers, spare shuriken, and the like.

  At last he maneuvered his case free. Thrusting it and himself out of the water, he carried it across to where he’d upended Jessica’s trunk to drain, at the edge of the debris closest to the bank. Then, taking a deep breath and an iron grip on the case, he slid back into the river and began an agonizing one-handed crawl toward the shore. He fought the current, counting each off-balance stroke in his mind, savoring each yard he gained. Grabbing at slick tufts of grass growing along the bank, he tossed the sodden case up onto the ground.

  Again, hesitating only long enough to fill his lungs, Ki dove back to the rapids to retrieve the trunk. It was larger and heavier than his case, weighing him down like a wa terlogged anchor as he hugged it with his left hand and braced himself against the river’s brutal rush.

  The current pummeled him, tossing him into a dangerous tangent. Despite himself, despite his years of training and experience, a sensation of dread seeped through Ki as he forged again toward the bank. He’d made a mistake, a fatal error, tackling too great and awkward a load this time, and he was going to be swept away and drowned. He forced down his panic, calling on the last of his inner resources to strain forward, wrestling with the pitching, sinking trunk. He could not die this way, it would not happen, it was not a true thing.

  God, but it was, it was. His chest was throbbing, aching, and there was a ringing in his ears, and for an instant he thought the feel of stone and sediment under his feet was a hallucination. Ki clawed onwards, knowing that if it was a mirage, it really didn’t make any difference. It was all over but the swallowing.

  Kicking, frantic to relieve the pressure in his lungs, he reached the shallows, head reeling and stomach knotting with convulsions. Water boiled against his thighs as he straightened, choking and gagging, and shoved the trunk the last few feet to the bank. Wading, he dragged it to the safety of a sloping ledge and slumped beside it. His strength was sapped. He lay there, momentarily helpless, while with wracking coughs he dispelled muddy river water from his lungs.

  When he felt somewhat recovered, Ki carted the trunk up to where he’d dumped the case, and tilted both on end to drain them. Slowly he collected his jacket, slicker, and boots, and after dressing he waited a bit longer, recouping more of his flagging energy. Then, balancing the cumbersome trunk on his back, holding it steady with one hand, he picked up the case in his other hand and set off up the bank toward the trail.

  Chapter 3

  Ki’s return to the cabin was steady but sluggish, the storm flailing about him. Gradually the wind lowered, and in time the rain lessened into a chilling drizzle. The overcast parted, drifting southward, but now the sky was dark with late evening. Stars began to glimmer here and there, and a pale quarter moon was a blurry crescent in the blue-black dome surrounding it.

  Ki savored the washed freshness of the crisp evening breeze. He made little effort to avoid detection, walking openly along the center strip of the trail, bending low with the weight of his load, moving by sheer reflex. If he was attacked now, he doubted he had enough strength left to fight, and he was becoming so numbed with exhaustion that he was almost past the point of caring.

  Eventually he reached the field, and saw smoke spiraling from the chimney of the cabin. Heartened, he quickened his pace. When he arrived, he put down his case long enough to open the door, then stepped inside.

  The interior was bathed in a ruddy glow from the fireplace blaze. Jessica stood with her back to the fire, steam wisping from her tweed riding jacket and skirt, her blonde hair plastered wetly to her head. When she saw Ki enter, she rushed forward to help him, her green eyes widening with relief and surprise.

  “Ki! How on earth did you—”

  “Never mind how,” Ki gasped, dropping her trunk and the case next to the hearth. “It needed to be done, and it was.”

  “No, it didn’t. You said yourself everything was replaceable.”

  “So I first thought. Then I remembered your father’s book.”

  Jessica paused, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re right, Ki, I’d brought it along. But it was still a horrid chance for you to take, and I’m not sure it was worth the risk of losing you as well.”

  “Ah, but you didn‘t, Jessie. I’m here, the book is here, and a lot of other things are here that we’d better get to drying.”

  “And one of those things is you,” Jessica said pointedly. “I’ll unpack, it’s the least I can do, while you shuck some of those sopping wet clothes and rest by the fire. And, Ki?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Ki smiled wearily in acknowledgement, and gladly accepted her suggestion. He stripped off his slicker, suit jacket, and black ankle-high boots again, adding to them now his socks, sky-blue shirt, and string tie, leaving himself clad only in his drenched trousers.

  He settled comfortably, cross-legged, before the crackling fire, and started breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. When he’d slowed his inhalation/exhalation cycle to ten breaths a minute, he cupped his right ear with the palm of his left hand, and concentrated on one thought: relaxation. After five minutes, he switched to the other hand and ear. After another five, he crossed his arms and covered both ears, still breathing inaudibly, his tongue adhering to the roof of his mouth. And in that position he remained.

  Meanwhile, Jessie was busily emptying his case. She laid out his denim jeans, collarless shirt, rope-soled cloth slippers, and brown leather vest near the hearth and wiped and cleaned his weapons with the hem of her skirt. Then she arranged the case so that it too
would dry. Nothing, she was relieved to find, appeared ruined.

  Then she turned to her trunk. Opening it, she realized bleakly that it was beyond salvation and would have to be replaced. Blessedly, it had stayed together enough to protect the contents. Most of her extra clothes were ruined, but her wide brown belt was fine, and there wasn’t much damage that could be done to her well-worn jeans and matching denim jacket—except maybe to shrink some more, and they already fit her as snugly as a second skin.

  Resting on the trunk’s linen-lined set-up tray was her custom .38 Colt revolver, still in its waxed holster, along with a gun-cleaning kit, a cut-crystal perfume atomizer, and a few other feminine trinkets. These she set aside, lifting the tray’s bottom, which acted as the lid of a second compartment underneath. She removed a letter and a black calfskin-bound pocket notebook, silently thanking Ki again for having endangered his life to recover them.

  Taking the letter and book to the hearth, she propped them up to dry. Then, on second thought, she picked up the letter again to see if the soaking had made it illegible. The notebook worried her less; she knew its entries were in india ink, having frequently studied the pages of names, dates, and places since her father, the author of the notebook’s contents, had died, leaving it in a hidden compartment of his old rolltop desk.

  The letter was on a single sheet of tablet paper, and though some of its writing was smeared a little, it had been protected by the envelope. Postmarked six weeks ago at Eucher Butte, it had been penned with exquisite script in stilted, formal language:

  To Whom It May Concern: