Lone Star 05 Read online

  “I want to know everything,” Jessie insisted. “Everything.”

  The way Elkin told the story, it sounded as lurid as a Beadle dime novel. Thomas Starbuck, aged twenty (as near as the authorities could determine)—also known as Tom Starr, Tom Buck, Starr Buckley, Tom Buckley, and Buck Thompson—had already carved a deadly reputation for himself in Nevada, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah.

  About two years previously, he was said to have killed a hard-luck miner outside of Virginia City and robbed the poor man of his only earthly belongings: a lame mule, a canteen, and some worn-out picks and shovels. Angry at the paltry returns for his effort, the young man mutilated the corpse and dumped it at the town limits and rode on.

  He next turned up in Tonopah, at the time a comparative boomtown and an important junction for travel and trade. He bragged about his previous exploits, embellishing them liberally, and wound up in a gunfight with a man he was said to have cheated at poker. He killed the man with a stolen gun and rode out of town on a stolen horse. A hastily organized, though unenthusiastic posse failed to turn up a trace of him after several days, and returned home.

  The kid crossed into Arizona, surfacing in Yuma, swaggering through the streets with a brace of pistols strapped around his waist. Before he had been there twenty-four hours, he held up a local trunk line office, escaping with over three hundred dollars, cash money. This time the sheriff was rousted off his butt to pursue the young bandit—or at least a deputy was. The kid slipped out of town, the hapless deputy followed, and the kid doubled back and bushwhacked the law officer, shooting him dead. He repeated his trick of bringing the body back to town; this time he was bold enough to leave it right outside the sheriff’s headquarters during the night. Then he disappeared without a trace, to spend his hard-earned loot.

  He was rootless, apparently hungry for fame, and treacherous. Killings and holdups all over the place were credited to him—from Roswell, New Mexico Territory, to Reno, Nevada—and his formidable reputation grew. He was everywhere and nowhere at once, until some lawmen began to believe he did not exist at all, that he was a legend, a fiction maintained by folks who couldn’t otherwise solve ordinary crimes in their towns.

  Also, by this time the young man had collected a few aliases and established a pattern. He was a gambler and a cheater. He was a braggart, and thought of himself as a topnotch gunslick. He boasted that he never missed with his Remington .44 Army Model revolver, and there were damned few who were willing to call his bluff. He killed a pair of sheepherding brothers in northern Arizona before crossing the Utah border less than a month prior to his capture in the Mormon stronghold of Skyler.

  The climax of his bloody career came in Mexican Hat, Utah, on the San Juan River in the southeast corner of the territory. It seems the kid was broke, having lost heavily to a professional cardplayer who wasn’t cowed by his rough manners and who called his bluffs. Young Starbuck wasn’t used to such treatment. After all, he had dealt death to a dozen men already and he didn’t have to take guff from any man.

  The gambler coolly collected his winnings,. returned to his room, and asked the management of the hostelry to send up some feminine companionship. The kid overheard the request and sneaked around to the hotel’s back door to intercept the girl; he knocked her out cold and put on her clothes himself, concealing his weapons inside the blouse and pulling a veil over his dirty face.

  He easily gained entry into the gambler’s chamber and shot the man dead, naked on his bed. Even the citizens of a hard-bitten town like Mexican Hat didn’t sit still for such a crime. They turned out to a man to track the boy down and lynch him. But the clever youth eluded them successfully, fleeing north into the mountains. By this time, having identified the culprit from a host of wanted circulars, the town marshal wisely telegraphed ahead to the northern towns, warning them of his possible arrival.

  He vanished for several months, then turned up in Skyler, loitering outside an assaying company and asking questions about its operation. The next day he struck. As Elkin now related the event to Jessie:

  “One of my men happened to be in the office when young Starbuck came in, brandishing his sixguns like a Mexican bandit. He says the boy demanded money and provisions, saying that he was returning to Texas, to his father’s ranch, to claim his birthright. A rather confusing declaration, according to those present. He just started spouting off about how he was Alex Starbuck’s rightful heir and no one would cheat him out of his inheritance. No one knew quite what to make of him. But it gave someone the chance to slip out and alert the town authorities.”

  Elkin went on to describe how a phalanx of men with long guns and stern faces met the criminal outside and escorted him straight to the jailhouse. He went without a struggle, all the while proclaiming his heritage to anyone who would listen.

  Jessie asked, “In his previous rampages—in other territories—did he make the same claim?”

  Elkin shrugged. “We don’t know that. This is the first time it has ever been reported at any Starbuck office. And as you know, the company has outposts all over the West. I’ve wired the law agencies in the territories, and the U.S. marshal’s offices in Denver and San Francisco. So far, nothing they have on him mentions anything about it, so it seems it’s the first time he’s made the claim out loud.”

  Jessie was puzzled. “Who sent this message?” she asked, holding up the yellow paper from the telegraph office. “If you already know about the kid—”

  “Why, I—as I said, I have my own sources there who informed me as soon as happened. I never thought ... perhaps some good-hearted citizen sent it. How is it signed?”

  “‘A Concerned Friend.’”

  “That is strange,” Elkin acknowledged, biting on his cigar.

  Jessie was bursting with a million more questions, but she held them in, rising from her chair. “I’m pleased you brought this matter to my attention,” she told Elkin. “I’ll look into it myself. Ki and I that is. This telegram says the boy is wanted for ‘numerous crimes including murder.’ That means lawmen from everywhere will want to get hold of him.”

  Elkin nodded. “If the people in Skyler don’t hang him first. These Mormons believe in the old eye-for-an-eye brand of law. They’ll be happy to finish the job the other towns started.”

  “Then we’d better move now,” Jessie said. “Ki, please see to our horses while I compose a telegram. May I use your desk, Mr. Elkin?”

  She took a pen and pondered the message, then wrote rapidly. “And will you see this is properly delivered?” she asked the director.

  “I’ll do more than that,” he said. “I’ll take you to dinner and we can discuss this whole thing further. I’d very much like to see that you are well taken care of before you leave,” he added with a wide smile.

  “Fine,” she replied. “It’s too bad I’ll have to postpone my tour of the mining operation.”

  “We’ll be here when you get back,” Elkin assured her.

  Chapter 2

  Leaving Jessie to finish her business with Elkin and dine with him later, Ki saw to their horses at the livery, picking out a third animal to take along. He also bought food and supplies, including extra cartridges for her.

  Although he loved and respected Jessie Starbuck, Ki was a solitary man; he preferred to spend at least part of each day alone. This time he used for contemplation, for the nourishment of his warrior’s soul. If possible, he preferred the hour of sunset, but today it took him until dusk to gather the needed provisions and store them—leaving no time for himself. He was restless. And before he went back to the hotel, he stopped by the Starbuck Metals & Mining office again. It was just a feeling he had.

  The golden-haired girl was working there, alone. She looked up from her desk at the tall, strange-looking man who had so intrigued her earlier that day. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

  “Thank you, but I stopped in to see if everything was secure here. There was so much talk of robbery today, I wanted to be certain the office
—and you—were safe.”

  “I’m about to close up here, anyway,” she said. Her eyes traced his lean contours from head to toe. She liked what she saw and wondered how to tell him she did. What a queer-looking man he was, and yet so handsome....

  Just then, three men strode into the building. Ki did not like their looks. They wore their dirty hats low over their eyes, and one man stayed by the front door, looking out into the street, as the other two ambled over toward Ki and the girl.

  “Evenin‘, mister,” the taller man said. His green cotton shirt was stained with food and sweat, and he had nearly worn his faded trousers to the skin by wiping his hands on his thighs. He wore a revolver—it looked like a walnut-butted Smith & Wesson American—low on his left side, in a cracked leather holster. He addressed his greeting to the Oriental man who stood unblinking, watching him.

  The second man, shorter and stooped and armed with an old rusty pistol, giggled, and tobacco spittle rolled down his stubbled chin. His greasy hair stuck out like wires beneath his hat.

  “Shut up, Harv,” the taller man warned him.

  “You gentlemen have business here?” Ki asked, knowing the answer.

  “That’s right. You might say we do, mister.” He looked Ki over, sizing him up, taking in his alien facial features, his erect posture, his slender build. Without looking back, he called to the man at the door, “How’s she look outside, Benjie?”

  “Right, Dan,” came the cryptic reply from the watcher, a wide-shouldered, bowlegged man. Ki noticed that this fellow carried a rifle, holding it discreetly along his leg.

  All in all, these boys spelled trouble. Ki signaled to the girl, whose eyes were bright with fear, to remain quiet and calm. He did not want her to draw more attention to herself than was necessary; he wanted the men’s energies focused on him. That way, he could take them out without endangering her. Who knew what they’d do with such a beautiful young woman if they got the slightest chance.

  “This office is closed,” he said, to keep the conversation civil. “No more business today, gentlemen.” He tensed, awaiting their reply.

  “Just one more item a’ business,” the tall man said, smiling and displaying gapped yellow teeth. Seeing that Ki was not carrying a gun, he drew his own. “We’ll start by takin’ the cash, mister. You can help the pretty lady gather it up.”

  The stooped bandit cackled insanely, pushing his hat back to reveal a brutish face, his eyes locked on the blonde girl’s heaving chest. She was pinioned to her seat with fright, and the halfwit relished the power he had over her. He scratched at his crotch lewdly.

  “No,” Ki said quietly.

  “Listen here, Chinaman,” Dan spat. He drew out his gun. “Do as yer betters tell you, or else—”

  The man’s words were cut off as Ki stepped calmly forward and chopped with a knife-hand at the hardcase’s wrist. The revolver clattered to the floor and the man howled in pain at his broken right wrist. He stood there, stunned to inaction.

  The outlaw at the door turned to see what had happened, swinging his long gun around. He watched mutely as the Oriental-looking man did damage to his friend.

  Surprising Ki with his quickness, Dan dove for his gun. He fetched it up in his left hand and rolled away from Ki, avoiding a kick to his head. In the meantime, the smaller, stooped man leaped onto Ki’s back.

  With the girl looking on, Harv rode him like a cowboy busting a young bronc. His crazy eyes went wide, and a crooked smile crossed his ugly face. But Ki swung around and dumped the outlaw onto a nearby desk, thumping him hard against the wood and scattering papers everywhere.

  The first man was up now, leveling the Smith & Wesson at Ki. “Keep a keen watch, Benjie,” he called out to the man at the door. “Me and Harv will take care of this slant-eyed asshole.”

  Without waiting for an attack, Ki launched a vicious sideways kick, breaking the leader’s other wrist and knocking the gun clear across the room. He followed this up with a swift mawashi-kubi-geri roundhouse kick to the neck. The outlaw’s mouth opened in a silent scream, emitting only a gurgle, and the man slumped to the floor.

  Harv had taken a while to react, unsure how to handle this whirling demon. Now he brought his pistol up and waved it uncertainly at Ki. It was an ancient percussion weapon, and Ki doubted that it would even fire—but he took no chances. Stiffening the knuckles of the first two fingers of his right hand, he straightened his arm in an upward jab at the center of the crazy robber’s face, demolishing the bone and cartilage of the man’s nose. Blood gushed forth, and Harv screamed and flailed wildly at Ki, who jumped aside, spun, and delivered a ushiro geri backwards kick to Harv’s solar plexus. The plug-ugly collapsed, retching.

  Benjie, his rifle carefully aimed at the weaving apparition that was destroying his partners, left his post at the door and circled around the room. He stayed out of Ki’s kicking range and, as Harv took his punishment, reached the girl. He put the end of the long, cold barrel of his rifle to her neck and ordered her to her feet.

  Ki turned, holding his stance, tensed like a mountain lion awaiting his chance to spring. But he dared not make any sudden moves with the hardcase’s gun to the girl’s neck. Her face was pale and she trembled, figuring her life was about over.

  “Help me ...” she managed.

  “Shut up, bitch!” Benjie barked, and prodded her with the gun barrel. “Start movin’ for that door!”

  Ki quickly assessed the situation and found it not to his liking. As the girl was forced toward the door he made no sudden moves, but did not take his eyes off the outlaw. The two others lay unconscious at his feet and he didn’t worry about their interference.

  Using the girl as a shield, Benjie moved in careful steps toward the door. He kept the rifle in its threatening position, ready to shoot her in the neck if Ki dared to try and stop him.

  “Don’t try nothin’ stupid,” he advised Ki. “She’ll get it—and I mean it. I ain’t afraid to kill her, Chinaman.”

  The girl, white as a ghost, trembled with fear.

  Ki waited for his chance. He kept his arms at his sides and took a small step in their direction. His stance was not threatening, nor did he make as if he would attack Benjie and the hostage girl. “Think it over,” he said in an even tone. “Let her go and be on your way. Otherwise you’ll end up dead.”

  “Shut up. I owe you for what you done to my partners.” Benjie and the girl were at the door now. “You come after me and this one gets a bullet in her head. Understand, coolie?”

  With that, Benjie pulled the girl outside with him, still keeping her body between Ki and himself. The sun slanted in from the west, casting long shadows on the street. Benjie dragged her off the plankwalk, glancing around wildly to see if there was anyone around to challenge him. A few townspeople were on the street, and they froze at the sight of the man holding a gun on the girl. “Stay where you are!” Benjie shouted. No one moved. He backed toward the horses that were tethered to the hitch rail outside the Starbuck building.

  Ki appeared at the door. In his hand was a gleaming, razor-sharp shuriken throwing star which he had retrieved from inside his many-pocketed vest. His hand covered the weapon so that the outlaw could not see it.

  “Do not try for the horses,” he said to Benjie. His voice was low and steady, but it carried across the several yards that separated him from the two moving forms. He needed to distract the outlaw, to create an opportunity for the girl to get out of the way.

  The young woman sensed what she had to do. When Benjie turned his head to locate his mount, she fell to the ground. Ki was ready for this, the steel star poised to fly from his hand.

  The hardcase, startled, dropped the gun barrel and squeezed off a shot. The girl rolled just an inch from where the slug buried itself in an explosion of dust. Seeing he had missed, Benjie changed his mind and leveled the rifle, trying to get a bead on Ki in the doorway. But he was too late.

  Ki had released the shuriken with a whiplike motion. It spun through the air in a
flash, almost invisible. It caught the outlaw in the side of his neck, slicing through skin, muscle, and blood vessels. The sharp tines bit into the man’s carotid artery, and warm blood spurted forth. With a stifled cry, he went down, and died where he fell.

  Ki went to the girl and helped her to her feet. She brushed the dust off her dress and thanked him. Relief and gratitude flooded her heart.

  The town marshal came on the scene in time to supervise the removal of Benjie’s body and to see to the two men inside. He listened to the girl’s story of what had happened, and with a sidelong sizing-up of the dark, foreign-looking stranger, he then went away and left them alone. Soon the gathered towns-folk drifted away as well.

  “What’s your name?” Ki asked the girl.

  “Barbara. Barbara MacKenzie.” Her hair shone in the setting sun, and he breathed in her fragrance. “What is yours?”

  “I am Ki.”

  “That’s a funny name for—” She broke off, embarrassed, her pretty face reddening. “I mean to say, it sure is a different kind of name. But then, you are a different kind of man, Mr. Ki.”

  “Simply Ki.” He looked at her frankly, without either the open leer or self-effacing gallantry she was used to from men, being a pretty girl in a lonely Western town. “You are as beautiful as the rose. The blossom that unfolds in many soft petals.”

  “You sure do talk nice, Ki,” the girl said, the color still high in her cheeks. “But remember, the rose has thorns.”

  “The rose, then, is both a woman and a warrior.”

  “I never thought of it like that,” said Barbara. “Are you always thinking and comparing things so?”

  “It is my nature, and my training,” Ki replied. “To appreciate beauty is to have another cause for which to fight. Many think there is shame in cultivating that appreciation. I do not. I find beauty in many things—a flower in the garden, a well crafted sword in a skilled samurai’s hands.”