Lone Star 05 (11 page)

“What in the name of all that's holy is going on here?” stormed Joshua Carpenter as he hobbled forward with his staff, his Mosaic beard quivering. He looked from the downed man to Ki. “You, sir—are you responsible for this?”

Ki bridled at the suggestion, but held his temper. “I share the responsibility with that man,” he said, pointing to the defeated Mormon. “Although I was simply aiding a young lady who, as all could see, was being beaten unmercifully.”

Joshua Carpenter raised his dark eyebrows. “The young lady is this man's wife, I take it.” As he spoke, he looked Ki over carefully, sizing up the Japanese intruder. Something about him told Carpenter not to underestimate his skill.

“She is,” Ki said. He glanced at Mueller, who stood observing the scene silently. His blue eyes ranged over the people gathered there. Ki detected the slight bulge of a concealed weapon under Mueller's left arm.

“As such, she is his property!” Carpenter declared emphatically. “Your interference was uncalled for. I could have you thrown in jail for assaulting one of my people.”

“He swung the first blow,” Ki stated simply. “There are witnesses, including his other wives.”

Mueller stiffied a grin. He too estimated this Oriental to be potentially quite dangerous. Mueller knew of the samurai, the men who lived by the exacting
bushido
code, for he had traveled to Nippon himself on a trade mission once. He remembered seeing exhibitions of
kenjutsu
and
kyujutsu,.
swordsmanship and archery, and the deadly grace with which the warriors wielded their weapons. No, it would not do to ignore the potential threat of this man Ki. In fact, it might be well to eliminate him altogether, Mueller thought.

Carpenter was fuming, stamping his good left foot. “By heaven, I'll not suffer strangers to tread God's holy soil and disobey the word of the Lord and beat upon his servants!” In a wild rage, he dressed down the samurai, who listened impassively. “What do you have to say for yourself, man?”

“I have nothing to say,” Ki replied.

At that point Mueller said to Ki, “You ride with Miss Starbuck, don't you? My name is Mueller.” He did not offer a gloved hand.

“I am Ki. I ride with Miss Starbuck—wherever she goes. I oppose those who oppose her.”

“And you too seek custody of the prisoner Thomas Starbuck?”

“We will see that the boy receives a fair trial—according to American law.”

“American law—bah!” the Mormon leader spat. “American law drove my people out here in the first place. We make our own law here—and the murderer will be punished according to our law.”

“Mr. Carpenter,” Mueller said, “I remind you of my offer. I shall see that he is appropriately punished—in return for a generous contribution to your town.”

Ki looked from one man to the other, his ears pricking up at this new piece of information.

“The Lord cast the money-changers from the temple, Mr. Mueller,” the Mormon said crisply. “And our Prophet, Joseph Smith, was killed for money—for money and for hate. No, I'll think a bit more on your
generous
offer.”

“I'm sure you will,” Mueller noted icily.

“You fight and bargain over the prisoner?” Ki put in. “He must be brought to a court of law in Provo. The judges there will sentence him. There is no other way.”

Around the three men, the crowd still swelled, drawn there by Ki's fight with Solomon Morris. The women tending to the fallen Morris brought him to his feet. One wife summoned a wagon to take him and the several wives aboard and away.

The pretty young girl whom Morris had beaten held back from the rest, stepping over to Ki when they weren't looking. “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes dropping quickly to the ground. Then she went off with the others and joined them in the wagon as it was swallowed by the night.

Joshua Carpenter raised his fists to the heavens and implored God to save him from women. “Since Eve, they have confounded and corrupted men and been the cause of wars and plagues. A good man is beaten because he dared punish one of his own wives! The ways of this world are sinful, O Lord,” he prayed. “Protect my good people from evil, I beg you!”

“Ah, women,” mused Mueller, not struck by the deep theological tragedy Carpenter was experiencing. “Your mistress, Miss Starbuck, is a fine-looking woman, Mr. Ki. I should like to meet her again sometime.”

“I am not certain she shares your wish to meet again,” Ki said stiffly.

“I hope I did not offend the lady when we last spoke,” Mueller oozed. His eyes glittered like ice. “But she must disabuse herself of the notion that she will win young Starbuck's freedom. If anyone does so, it shall be I—for only I can use the boy properly before he meets his well-deserved end.”

Ki did not understand Mueller's cruel words, realizing there was some hidden meaning behind them. But he knew now that Mueller, perhaps more than Carpenter and the Mormon towns-folk, was Jessie's deadly enemy—and the haughty German likely must die if Jessie were to live.

As if he were reading Ki's thoughts, the Prussian businessman said, “And she might be interested to know I have hired two gentlemen to escort the prisoner upon his release into my custody. Messrs. Fagan and McKittrick, who, along with my two other associates, will insure his safety.”

“The bounty hunters.”

Carpenter interrupted, “Those bloodhounds? Of course, they'd do anything for filthy money—and the filthier the better. May the Lord have mercy upon his children!”

“Indeed—bounty hunters and bloodhounds. For money, they shall keep the boy alive—for a while, until he has served his purpose.”

“Stop this talk, Mueller,” Carpenter said. He thrust out his lower lip as he spoke. His eyes, glowing like hot coals, betrayed the intensity of his beliefs. His bushy eyebrows almost met above those eyes; the lines that crisscrossed his forehead numbered as many as his triumphs over the devil. Joshua Carpenter was a holy man, a rabble-rouser, a politician, a husband to many women, a father to many children—he was all of these things wrapped up in a single, bearded firebrand.

He went on, “You'll have the Starbuck boy only when and if I allow it. You are the devil's servant as much as this queer-looking fellow here.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Ki. “In league with that she-demon who claims to be the killer's sister! Perhaps I ought to hang her too!” ,

He limped off, his anger washing away with him like the tides. It was no picnic being the Lord's watchdog.

“He's right, you know,” the German said through his teeth. “And whence she goes, thither thou goest.”

Ki found him insufferable, this pompous blond-haired dandy. Mueller represented the cartel, of that Ki was certain. He had to be put aside, out of Jessie's way, before he harmed or hindered her. And that he surely intended to do. Ki watched as Mueller looked after Carpenter. He was tempted to plunge a knife between those German shoulder blades right then and there.

Mueller turned and smiled slyly at Ki. “The Mormons will turn Starbuck over to me. Of that you can be certain. I am prepared to donate a large sum of money to their town, and they are in no position to refuse.”

Ki did not doubt Mueller's capacity for bribery and coercion. But he knew that Carpenter and the others subscribed to their own brand of frontier justice, and they would probably string up the prisoner themselves. They were peculiar that way.

“These people do what they want. They do not believe in money, but in their God,” Ki said. “You cannot buy them.”

“You can buy anyone—any American, that is,” Mueller countered. “That much I have found in my travels through this country.” Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Perhaps you too can be bought, Mr. Ki. How much would you take to join me and leave your Miss Starbuck? Surely you have a price.”

“I spit on your money, Mueller,” Ki replied coldly.

“Such is your right. In this country, men have many rights and privileges. A fine country for businessmen such as myself. And I doubt that you will be spitting on my money, Mr. Ki—I'll not give you the opportunity.”

The Prussian pulled his compact figure up to his full height. The close-cropped bristles of hair on his head stood stiffly. “And your Miss Starbuck will be interested to know about the two men I have hired, as I told Carpenter. I'm sure you will convey that information to her.” Mueller spoke with the supreme confidence of one accustomed to being obeyed, respected, feared.

Ki did not answer him. Anything he might say, Mueller would twist and turn to his own ends. A man like Mueller lived by manipulating others. Ki saw him only as Jessie's enemy, and thus longed to break his neck or run him through with his lethally sharp
katana
blade. If he was patient, perhaps he would get his chance, though he imagined that Mueller was the type of coward who would precipitate a showdown, then let others do his fighting for him.

“Inscrutable as other members of your race? Well, Mr. Ki, I'll leave you to your meditations. Give my regards to your mistress.” Then Mueller turned and walked away.

Ki felt the anger rising within him once again. He forced it down with difficulty. Now was not the time to allow rage to govern his actions. This was one of the most troublesome aspects of the
bushido
code, one he had never fully mastered. To control oneself was to control everything around one. But all power arose from within and must, like the kernel of life in a seed, grow outward. In combat or in repose, the warrior presented the same face to the world and tapped the same source of power. But within Ki, the bile churned. He hated any man who threatened Jessie Starbuck, and he was sworn to protect her. He would never let harm befall her, even if it meant his own death.

As he moved away from the scene of his battle with Morris, thinking to take the provisons back to the hotel, he heard the booming report of a gun, then another. His acute ears picked up the direction of the sound and he ran toward it. Past the emporium and the blacksmith's shed, he pivoted around the comer and up the main street. To the courthouse, he realized. And then he heard a third gunshot.

As he ran, he prayed that Jessie Starbuck was not involved. If she was hurt—someone would pay!

 

Moments earlier, two figures had approached the courthouse stealthily, moving in the dark shadows across the street. Their features obscured from the view of any passersby, they were well armed: one carried a sawed-off Greener ten-gauge scattergun, the other an old .50-caliber Sharps carbine. And around his shoulder the first man had coiled a length of rope.

They were Calvin Hodges and Mel Monkston, agents of the Union National Detective Agency, working out of Reno, Nevada. And they, like several others in Skyler, were there to break out one Thomas Starbuck and bring him back to pay for his crimes.

Hodges had a pale, pitted face and washed-out blue eyes; nearly six feet tall, he weighed just one hundred fifty pounds and his skinny arms dangled almost to his knees. What teeth he had left were stained brown from the tobacco he always chewed, a habit he had picked up not too long ago. He wore a gray, sweat-stained, wide-brimmed hat, a green bandanna, and dingy riding clothes; and besides the Greener goose gun, he toted a Remington revolver in his belt holster.

Monkston compared to his partner like night to day. A beefy, florid-faced veteran of the private-detective business, he was, at forty, a rather stylish dresser. He sported a neat derby, pushed well back on his balding head, a Chicago-made suit he'd ordered through the mail and had altered to fit him perfectly, and a tight-fitting blue vest with little brass buttons.

When they had saddled him with Hodges in Reno, Monkston had been livid. He'd never known an asshole as dumb as the skinny kid with the savage pockmarks on his face. But he had worked with worse partners, and he'd get by on this job—if Hodges could see through those watery eyes to shoot straight and didn't aim the big gun in the wrong direction.

Monkston took the fifty feet of hemp rope—the kind lynch mobs preferred—from Hodges and shouldered it himself. The rope was not to hang the prisoner, but to bind him on the long ride back to Reno. And Monkston also carried a sidearm—a well-oiled Colt Peacemaker with a cut-down four-inch barrel for effective close-up work. The big Sharps would take care of a buffalo or a bank robber or anything else over forty yards away.

“Whaddaya say, Mel?” Hodges said in a hoarse whisper.

“I say keep your mouth shut,” the older man hissed sharply. “Just keep your eyes peeled for those nosy Mormon gents and do what I tell you.”

“Sure, Mel.”

“That way, neither one of us will get killed.”

It never paid to go off half-cocked after your quarry. A good detective, like any good tracker, was a thinking man who read sign and kept his canteen full, prepared for any eventuality.

He watched the front doors of the courthouse. Any minute, the marshal and one of his guards would go out to fetch their supper, leaving a third man, the deputy, alone inside.

It was past sunset and almost dark enough to take a piss in the middle of the street without being seen. Still, Monkston hoped Hodges didn't get any such notion. He waited patiently for the marshal. And when he and the other man came out, Monkston was ready.

His voice barely audible, inches from Hodges's ear, he said, “When they turn the comer, that corner there, you follow me. We're going right through the front door, just like we have business there—”

“We
do
have business, Mel,” the skinny young detective drooled.

“Just listen.” Monkston held a finger to the other's lips. He stuck his head out from behind the building where they stood and saw the two officers disappear around the appointed corner. “Don't talk. Follow me and we'll get this over with.”