Lone Star 01

Table of Contents

 

 

“Ki ... Ki ...” Daphne cried, while her naked flesh began to tingle with renewed excitement.

 

Then she suddenly screamed, freezing rigid. Ki twisted his head sideways to see what had shocked her into mental terror.

 

 

“I thought I heard that squawk of yours,” Volpes snarled.

 

 

“I—I'm sorry,” she whined. “I'll never do—”

 

“You're right, you won‘t!” Volpes loomed menacingly over them. He pivoted, and drew his pistol as Ki flew into action...

 

 

LONGARM AND THE LONE STAR LEGEND

LONE STAR AND THE OPIUM RUSTLERS

LONE STAR AND THE BORDER BANDITS

LONE STAR ON THE TREACHERY TRAIL

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with
the author

 

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove edition / September 1982

 

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: Jove Publications, Inc.,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10016.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-16885-1

 

 

Jove books are published by Jove Publications, Inc.,
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.

Chapter 1

The sudden spring storm broke with a thunderclap across southeastern Wyoming. Descending out of Canada and through Montana like a last savage howl of winter, the gale swept in on ugly, bloated clouds and torrential rains, darkening the sky until only a flashing lacework of lightning revealed the looming peaks of the Laramie Range and its wind-whipped foothills, thick with saltbush, cottonwood, and mountain mahogany.

The North Laramie River was a twisting, whorling tide, swelling from the abrupt and unexpected runoff. Paralleling and occasionally crossing the river was a rutted, muddy trail that connected Uva and Garrett and the few smaller cow towns in between, and slowly churning westward along it was a Special Pontiac closed wagon, pulled by two Jenny Lind-bridled Morgans. Obliquely slashing rain beat against the wagon's seasoned wood sides and heavy duck roof, and savagely gusting wind tore at its rubberized curtains that were rolled down and fastened front and rear. And despite its wide stance—seven feet long by three feet wide, with a five-foot track—and its easy-rolling, forty-two-inch high Sarven's Patent wheels, its team constantly had to shift and thrust to keep the wagon on course through the gumbo.

The body of the wagon was painted a ruby-wine color with vermillion striping, making it resemble the sort of rig a snake-oil drummer might use to ply his elixirs. The two who were riding on the buffed leather-upholstered front seat, however, were anything but traveling medicine men.

Concentrating with the reins in both hands was a lean man in his early thirties, his blue-gray suit swathed in an oilskin slicker, his Stetson tugged low against the weather. Shadowed by the hatbrim, his features bore that handsome quality which appeals to women who like their men tempered by experience and bronzed by sun. There was a seriousness about him, too, the glint of chilled steel in his almond eyes and a terseness to his thin lips—all of which would have indicated to a close and knowledgeable observer that one of this man's parents had been Oriental; and that the mating of East and West had produced a proud, rugged, quiet yet determined individual who blended the best of both worlds. He fit well the name he'd adopted when he'd arrived in America:
Ki,
the Japanese word for the vital energy that suffuses all living things, and the mastery of which is the true warrior's life-work.

His passenger was a tall, lissome woman in her twenties; her father had hired Ki to be her companion and guardian some years before. Like Ki, Jessica Starbuck was wearing a rain slicker, its yellowish color almost matching her long coppery-blonde hair, which she'd tucked up under the crown of her brown Stetson. And although the slicker was buttoned at the neck and completely covered her green tweed jacket and skirt, it did little to conceal her firm, jutting breasts and sensuously rounded thighs and buttocks. Her mother, Sarah, had been a redheaded beauty who'd passed to her daughter a long-limbed, lushly molded figure covered in flesh as creamy and flawless as ivory, and a cameo face with a pert nose and more than a hint of feline audacity to her wide-set green eyes. Yet Jessie's father, Alex Starbuck, had given a steadfastness to her dimpled chin and a shrewd if sometimes humorous twist to her lips. Even though both parents were dead—murdered and subsequently avenged—in a very real sense they lived on, embodied in the spirit and actions of their only offspring.

And whatever might be claimed about Jessie Starbuck's spirit and actions, hawking patent snake oil out of a wagon couldn't be included. She'd had the wagon custom-built and fancied up to her specifications; she had to take the blame or credit if its purpose was mistaken. But other than a few personal belongings, which barely filled the small leather trunk wedged behind the seat, there was nothing in the wagon that she felt was hers—except that generally, everything bought in the name of Starbuck was hers.

Nonetheless, Jessie had wanted the wagon along, and had freighted it with them when she and Ki had taken the Union Pacific to Cheyenne four days ago. After spending the first night in the bustling territorial capital, they had hired the harness team and begun a grueling upcountry trek, stopping the second night at Underwood and the third night at Wheatland, before reaching Uva and turning west. They'd traveled well over a hundred miles, and estimated they still had another ten or so to go before arriving at their destination, the small valley cow town of Eucher Butte.

It would be there, at Eucher Butte, that the wagon would come in handy, if it didn't prove to be downright lifesaving. Because, for all practical purposes, the wagon belonged to Ki, and it was where, in racks and cabinets, he stored some of his considerable collection of lethal weapons.

Sired in Japan by an American “barbarian” who'd taken for his wife a Japanese woman of nobility, Ki had been orphaned at an early age. A half-breed outcast, shamed yet stubborn, he had apprenticed himself to one of the last samurai, Hirata, who for a decade drilled Ki in unarmed combat, and trained him in the use of
kyujutsu, kenjutsu, bojutsu, jojutsu,
and
shuriken-jutsu
—the martial arts of bow and arrow, sword, staff, stick, and throwing knife—as well as in even more exotic techniques and devices.

Such were the weapons, in their numerous variations, that Ki stowed in the otherwise innocuous-appearing wagon. Others he kept on his person, like the
shuriken,
steel disks in the shape of razor-sharp stars, attached in spring-loaded releases to his wrists. Still others, such as his
katana,
the sword left to him by Hirata, Ki preferred to leave behind in the safety of the huge Starbuck ranch in Texas.

Packed with death as the wagon was, its purpose was not to start wars, but to end them as swiftly and victoriously as possible. Neither Ki nor Jessica relished violence. Yet, as Hirata had taught Ki, and Ki in turn had taught Jessica: “To fight with another is wrong, but to lose a fight with another over principles you deem honorable is worse.” They had no intention of losing any fight forced upon them.

Ki snapped the traces smartly, goading the Morgans into lunging against their hames and collars. The wagon swayed, lurching on its elliptical springs, its oil lamps shining blurred and dim through the sheets of driven rain. Forked shards of lightning did more to illuminate the trail ahead, and Ki was able to glimpse in their intermittent flashes where the ribbon of mud crested a ridge overlooking the river, and avoided a bouldered cliff by crossing over to the other side on a narrow plank bridge. The North Laramie, deep in its cutbanks, roared in an angry torrent, chunks of trees and uprooted bushes sweeping past, bucking and weaving, careening and jamming against the bridge supports before plummeting on down through the white-water channel.

Jessie, seeing the bridge shuddering from the impact of the water and debris, called over the fury of the storm: “You think it's safe enough to cross?”

Ki shrugged. “No way to tell, unless we stop and inspect it,” he answered, as the team headed into the curve. “Do you want to?”

“Let's chance it. The bridge isn't very long, maybe fifty feet or so, and we're relatively light.” She started to smile and then laughed out loud. “Remember this morning, when I wondered if it might rain before we reached Eucher Butte?”

“I remember. You hoped it would.”

“Well, don't hold it against me. I was in the mood for a little breezy sprinkle, not a downpour. Now I hope it'll just go away.”

“It should. It's moving south pretty fast and—”

“Look out!”

But Ki was already aware of the danger, having spotted it a split second before Jessica's shouted warning. The wagon was slewing and skidding around the sharp turn leading to the bridge; the roadbed was poorly banked and wickedly slippery from rain. Ki rode the footbrake and snugged the reins, the treacherous, storm-masked angle requiring all his attention and dexterity.

And the two men emerging onto the trail in front of them undoubtedly knew it. Garbed in nondescript slickers and sodden hats, they raised repeating carbines to their shoulders and began firing a head-on fusillade at the onrushing wagon. In the same instant, two other men rose from the boulders flanking the curve, and started shooting from each side as fast as they could trigger and lever.

“Duck!” Ki yelled, kicking off the brake and lashing the reins, hunching as low as he could while salvoes of lead punctured the curtain behind them and riddled the wooden body with splintering holes. The ambushers had chosen well, he realized fleetingly; they'd planned on the rocks here to give them shelter while hemming in the trail, and had counted on his having his hands literally full just keeping the wagon from toppling over—too full to be able to fight back.