Lone Star 01

by Ellis, Wesley

  “We’ll handle it like before,” Jessica added. “Nobody make any move until you hear us fire one shot.”

  “Say,” a crewman asked, “who gave the signal last time?”

  Silence. Deputy Oakes sat like a stone in the saddle.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Daryl said. “Just remember, when it comes, hit hard with all you’ve got. They’ll be slinging a heap of lead, I imagine, but we’ve got surprise on our side. Understand?”

  A low muttering of agreement answered him.

  Jessica and Daryl veered toward the right, making sure the deputy was trailing close by. The crews spread out in an angular line, then advanced cautiously toward the ranch.

  The Block-Two-Dot was not as quiet or dark as it had been the night Jessica had first seen it. Light glimmered from the bunkhouse and barn, and the main house windows were ablaze with lamps. A big freight wagon was in the yard, and men were carrying wooden crates out of the house and stacking them in the wagon bed. Another group was loafing next to the wagon, smoking cigarettes and watching the loading, while still other men were saddling horses in the corral.

  Puzzled, Daryl turned to Jessica. “What’re they doing?”

  “Getting ready to pull out,” Jessica said quietly. “I don’t know how Ryker learned about our raid on the pocket—maybe one of the rustlers slipped through our trap, or one of his crewmen was riding there and saw what was happening—but that’s got to be it. He’s pulling up stakes, and we got here in the nick of time.”

  “Then let’s hit ‘em,” Daryl said impatiently. He spurred his buckskin forward, triggering his revolver to signal the others.

  Instantly the crewmen surged into action along their line facing the ranch. The long crescent of thundering guns swept in like an avenging tidal wave toward the Block-Two-Dot yard.

  Ryker’s renegade ranch hands, as vicious and callous an outlaw breed as the rustlers, were caught unawares. With yells of shock and pain, they turned to defend their exposed flanks, some digging in to fire a deadly answer to the riders’ challenge, while others dove behind the wagon or into the buildings, blasting back against the onslaught of grimly determined men.

  The line charged into the yard, turning the ranch into an inferno of pounding hoofs, rearing horses, roaring guns. Twice Ryker’s crew recoiled in wild pandemonium. Twice it managed to rally in its frantic effort to bust out of this ring of death. The attack became a close-quarter melee of pistols and knives and hand-to-hand struggles with those caught out in the yard and grounds, while, with neither conscience nor mercy, volley after volley riddled those trapped inside the bunkhouse and other outbuildings.

  The Block-Two-Dot crew could only take so much of it. Suddenly they broke, leaping out of doors and windows in panicked retreat, fleeing headlong in every direction, scattering on foot toward the haven of dark hills. Only from one barn and the cookshack now came a few bullets, from remaining knots of desperate men.

  Jessica focused her attention on the big ranch house. It had been strangely quiet all during the fight, no mad scrambling from within, no furious shooting from its windows. She wondered why. Maybe Ryker was cowering down in that torture chamber of his. And then she wondered how much of a defense he’d put up before he surrendered. Or died. She started moving toward the house, her revolver steady as she stepped out from the cover of the freight wagon. Then from the comer of her eye, she glimpsed a heavyset rider spurring out of the shadows of the barn, galloping off in the direction of the pass.

  “Ryker’s making a break for it!” she shouted to Daryl. “He’s running out on his own men! Well, not if I can help it!”

  She raced back around the freight wagon, where she’d dismounted from her horse. Perversely, the bay shied mincingly as she vaulted into the saddle, helping Ryker by causing Jessica to waste precious moments. Regaining control, she wrenched the horse about and set it into a fast pursuit, firing a slavo from her revolver at the retreating figure. But her aim was no better than anyone else’s can be when shooting from the back of a frothingly galloping horse, and Ryker was hunched so low across his horse’s neck that he was almost invisible.

  Ryker swiveled around and fired back. His shots, too, flew wild. Jessica surged after him along the road to the pass, ignoring the bullets zinging past her. Ryker dove into the pass while he lashed his horse faster up the trail, and plunging in only moments behind, Jessica realized she was losing ground to him. His mount was fresh, rested, doubtless of thoroughbred quality, while hers was livery stable rental, of stout heart, but winded from long riding.

  Ryker came in view momentarily as he crossed an open patch of the pass trail, and Jessica snapped a quick shot at him. The bullet struck rock near Ryker’s head, making him hunch yet lower as he continued urging his horse onward.

  Jessica still pursued him, even though her horse was panting with raspy, harsh breaths. She could feel the bay slowing under her, still game, but simply too fatigued to keep up the grueling pace. Yet she refused to give in, infuriated, recalling her own words about the head of a snake growing a new body. If Ryker escaped ...

  Abruptly, Ryker showed himself again, goading his horse frenziedly out of the pass, into the first draw of the foothills. Jessica raised her revolver to fire, but the hammer struck an empty chamber. She was out of ammunition.

  The bay stumbled, recovered, lurched in an ungainly lope. Jessica reined in, and patted her horse’s heaving flank. There was no sense in killing the animal; Ryker had already vanished around the left-hand side of a long row of boulders.

  “He got away,” she said sourly to herself, quivering with frustration and wrath. “The bastard got away.”

  Chapter 17

  Jessica walked slowly up the hotel stairs and turned down the corridor toward her room, feeling tired, haggard, and depressed.

  Passing the door to Ki’s room, she caught the faint sound of a woman’s giggle, which only added to her pique. She backed a step to the door and, juggling the cumbersome load she was carrying in her hands, rapped smartly on the door. The giggling stopped. A moment later, Ki opened the door and grinned out at her, naked except for the towel clasped around his waist.

  “Here,” Jessica said, thrusting the bundle of his clothes and weapons at him, “I believe you left these behind in your haste.”

  “Thanks, Jessie, so I did. Wait a minute.” He disappeared with the bundle, then returned, still clad in the towel, and eased out into the hallway, sliding the door shut behind him. “Shh,” he said, handing Jessica a telegram, “A girl’s resting inside.”

  “I just bet she is,” Jessica replied as she opened the telegram and read:PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATION OF H AND K SHOW MOST RECENT EMPLOYMENT BY SENATOR TRUMBULL AS CHAUFFEUR AND BODYGUARD RESPECTIVELY STOP BOTH WITH PRIOR PETTY RECORDS BUT SUSPICION OF INVOLVEMENT IN RECENT BANK ROBBERY IS REASON GIVEN FOR DISMISSAL FROM SERVICE STOP MORE LATER STOP

  “The night clerk gave it to me,” Ki was saying as she read. “The telegraph operator dropped it off when you didn’t come to claim it yesterday.”

  “A lot of good it does now,” Jessica said morosely, balling the flimsy yellow paper and tossing it aside. “We wiped out the rustlers and the Block-Two-Dot crew, but Ryker himself got away. I had him, Ki, I had him so close that I could’ve ...” She sighed. “Well, I know he came in this direction, and I’ve been trailing him as best I could on that poor worn-out horse of mine, but he’s long gone now.”

  “No, he’s not,” Ki said, shaking his head. “As I was coming into town, I saw Ryker heading into the Thundermug Saloon. I imagine he’s still there.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he go there?”

  “Greed. Panic. Halford and Kendrick may be rivals of Ryker, and they may hate each other like poison, but they’re tied together by that.” Ki indicated the telegram. “By Senator Trumbull.”

  “Trumbull ... Dilworth Trumbull ...” Jessica frowned in concentration, trying to remember what she knew of the senator, but he remained an enigmatic shadow in the back o
f her mind.

  “Trumbull’s their common connection, Jessie,” Ki continued. “How, I don’t know, but I suspect that since they’re linked to the same scheme, Halford and Kendrick can’t let Ryker fail, because that’d ruin it for them too. That’s why Ryker must’ve gone there, to persuade them to lay their differences aside, at least long enough to save his skin and rescue the setup. And to remove us for good.”

  “The snake’s already growing a new body,” Jessica muttered to herself, and then to Ki she said, “I suddenly feel in the mood for a nightcap. At the Thundermug, to be precise.”

  “Hold still, I notice a thirst coming on myself.” Ki went back into his room, and when he came out, he was fully dressed again.

  “I trust the lady’s not overly distressed about this,” Jessica remarked, as they started back along the corridor to the stairs.

  “Daphne accepted it in the line of duty, as she does most things,” Ki replied. “No, I simply explained I had an urgent need to make a late-night visit. I didn’t add that it’s in repayment for the man Kendrick sent to visit you in your room.”

  “You knew?”

  “You’re quiet, Jessie, but not silent. After the man left, I followed him almost to the saloon. We had a little discussion.” Ki smiled as if fond of the memory, but by the time they’d reached the lobby door, he was grim again. “I also didn’t add that I wish to repay our second visitor, the one with the dynamite calling card.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t Kendrick’s doing,” Jessica said as they stepped out into the street. “Daryl told me Kendrick and Halford have an option on the hotel. They would scarcely blow up their own building just to get us. And that’s what those sticks would’ve done, if they’d exploded in my room. Thank Ryker for that trick.”

  “I hope to.”

  They moved along the boardwalk, walking slowly, noting that despite the late hour, the Thundermug was still open. It didn’t appear to be doing much business; no loud voices or harsh laughter filtered out its batwings, and there were very few people around in the street.

  When they were still about fifty feet from the saloon, Daryl rushed up out of the shadows and stopped them. “There you are,” he said to Jessica. “That’s twice now you’ve gone off on me.”

  “I did not. I said I was going after Ryker, and I am.”

  “Well, how could I know? When you didn’t come back...” Daryl made a hapless little gesture, then grinned sheepishly. “You’re all right, and that’s what counts. Now, where’s Ryker?”

  “In the Thundermug,” Ki answered. “Putting his head together with Halford and Kendrick. We thought we’d stick ours in, too.”

  Daryl’s grin broadened.

  Jessica, sensing what Daryl had in mind, shook her head firmly. “No, Daryl, I can’t let you. Ryker’s our game, always has been.”

  “Yeah, but whose ranch is in hock to what crooked gambler?” Daryl spoke with hard, vengeful relish in his voice. “If there’re going to be heads knocked, Kendrick’s all mine to butt. Period.”

  “You’re getting in over your head, Daryl. Those are killers in there, desperate killers. This isn’t going to be any picnic.”

  “After you, Jessie,” Daryl said, opening a batwing.

  “Picnic,” Jessica repeated, standing there in the saloon entrance as if momentarily dazed. “Picnic ...” And it was in that moment that the smoldering spark in the back of her mind burst into flame—the flame of rememberance. “That’s it! I’ve got it!”

  “Got what? Ki asked.

  “Picnic in the park,” Jessica replied, and walked in, now so wrapped up in the solution to the puzzling scheme that she wanted nothing more than to get it over with, fast.

  The crowd was thin, and somber at the tail-end of their drinking night. The same two white-aproned bartenders were at their stations, wiping down the counter and cleaning up the backbar. Halford was still under the painting of the nude, smoking another torpedo cigar, looking as if he were rooted to the spot. Seeing Jessica, Ki, and Daryl enter, his face turned pale and he sent a worried sidelong glance at his partner, Kendrick.

  Kendrick was seated at a different gaming table, this one a bit closer to the front and to the bar. He was alone, and was idly riffling a deck of cards, a whiskey bottle and a glass next to his elbow. When he caught Halford’s quick glance, he looked up and gave a slight wintry smile, placing the deck aside and moving a bottle and glass over to it.

  “Ryker’s not in here,” Daryl said to Jessica, as they walked between the tables toward the gambler. “He must be in the back.”

  Jessica, glancing past Kendrick, saw what Daryl meant. There was a door set in the rear wall, which would undoubtedly open into the saloon’s office and private quarters. “It’ll be locked,” she responded in a low voice. “We’ll probably have to break it in.”

  “Once we get past these two,” Daryl added.

  Ki was not walking with them. He was edging parallel to them along the far side of the large room, keeping a very close eye on Halford. He skirted around a billiard table nobody was using—then hesitated and went back to it. A pair of cue sticks were resting on the baize, and billiard balls were scattered around the surface of the table. He picked up two of the balls, palming them as he swiftly moved on.

  Jessica and Daryl stopped in front of Kendrick’s table; Ki halting quite a few feet in back of them, still watching Halford.

  “Evenin‘,” Kendrick said. “Care for a hand or two?”

  “I care for Ryker,” Jessica snapped. “Get him.”

  “The good Captain Ryker hasn’t blessed our establishment in ages,” Kendrick said blandly. “You must be mistaken, Miss Starbuck.”

  “He’s here. You’ve got him hidden in back, so you three can try figuring out ways to salvage your plans for that parkland.”

  Kendrick jerked erect, staring at Jessica, while behind the bar, Halford gripped the counter, the cigar tipping from his mouth. And Daryl gasped at Jessica, completely baffled.

  “Parkland? Jessica, there’s no park hereabouts.”

  “Not yet,” she replied in a short, clipped tone. “But think, Daryl, that huge block on Ryker’s map could only represent an area the size of an Indian reservation—or a national park. Like Yellowstone. Bigger than Yellowstone! Ryker buys the land cheap, supposedly in the name of Acme Packers; then Acme merges with American Federated Development, while Senator Trumbull rams his bill through Congress establishing the area as a national park site. Then the government is forced to buy the land from American Federated at inflated prices.”

  “Gawd! A nation-sized swindle!”

  “An international swindle, Daryl. There’s only one gang, one international ring of criminals wealthy enough and unscrupulous enough to be able to rig such a conspiracy. I’ve known for some time that Ryker works for it; and now I know that through his complicity, Senator Trumbull is another of its corrupt tools. And I remembered as I was coming in here just exactly who Trumbull is—the chairman of the Senate Committee on Military Affairs.”

  Kendrick, having regained his composure, sank back in his chair. “Preposterous. Insane. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Oh, but I do. I know this new park would be administered by the army, as Yellowstone is. I know the army’s controlled by the War Department, and that the War Department is under the thumb of Congress. Through Trumbull’s position, a powerful foreign cartel will not only reap a vast fortune, but will also be able to control a sizable chunk of America and our army garrisoned on it.”

  “Ryker, Trumbull, foreign conspirators...” Scoffing, Kendrick reached for his glass of whiskey. “Pipe dreams, Miss Starbuck. But even if your fantasies were true, they’ve nothing to do with me.”

  “You and Halford are up to your eyeballs in it,” Jessica retorted. “You two learned of this scheme while doing Trumbull’s minor dirty work in Washington. So you robbed that bank and rushed out here, spending your loot to buy and option as much of Eucher Butte as you could, figuring to cheat Ryker and
American Federated the way they and Trumbull are figuring to cheat our government—by squeezing them for all they’re worth when they try to buy you out.”

  “But Jessica, Kendrick hasn’t taken my ranch.”

  “Don’t you see, Daryl?” Jessica cried. “He would have, as soon as it came time to sell it to Ryker or American Federated. Till then he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t want it. He’d let you keep running it, while making sure your father stayed strapped in his debt.”

  “Yeah, I see now, Jessica.” Daryl leaned across the table, facing Kendrick. “I see it’s more’n a swindle, it’s treason.” His dark eyes were icy and bright, and there was no concealing the hatred he felt for the gambler seated before him.

  Kendrick pursed his pouty lips and flicked his gaze for an instant past Daryl to the bar. Halford eased closer along the counter, his hands now dipping below and out of sight. A deep hush held the room, as the few drinkers present hastily pressed back out of the line of fire. The silence held, growing, tensing like a wire on the verge of snapping ...

  Kendrick broke first. Cursing, he plunged his hand inside his coat for his stubby-barreled belly-gun. Daryl immediately dropped into a crouch, clawing for his old revolver, while Jessica swiveled aside and made to draw her custom .38. The customers and two bartenders dove for cover. Halford stayed where he was, his hands bringing up a sawed-off Ithaca double-barreled shotgun.

  Kendrick, the first to break, was the first to fire. He misjudged in his haste, and the 32 slug from his Harrington & Richardson’s Vest Pocket Self-Cocker plowed a furrow along the green felt of the table, a scant inch from Daryl’s side. Daryl was still hauling out his Remington, ignoring the shot and heedless of another, his motions slow and methodical and virtually suicidal.