Lone Star 05 (2 page)

“Don't concern yourself with my feelings, Jessie. We must first learn what is happening in the place called Skyler. Free your spirit of doubts and steel your heart for the battle ahead.”

She finished her tea. Before washing out the cup in the river, she glanced at the dark green powdered tea leaves that rested at the bottom, clinging to the white porcelain. Was the pattern of the leaves trying to tell her something? She glanced up and saw Ki watching her. He smiled, his dark almond-shaped eyes telling her that he understood. She laughed and went to the river. She cleaned the cup and sent the tea leaves swimming in the cool, rushing water.
Like our lives,
she thought.
Caught in the current of events we often can't control.
That was the chief lesson she had learned in the months since her father was cut down in Texas.

“Come, Ki,” she said abruptly. “We must be on our way.”

Trying to sort out her thoughts and gain a hold on the stormy emotions of the last few days, she vowed that she would get to the bottom of this business. It had begun at the Starbuck Enterprises office back in Provo, where she and Ki had gone to inspect the company's Utah mining interests. There Jessie had heard the disquieting news for the first time. The impact upon her was powerful and immediate, and she would never forget the scene.

The Starbuck Metals & Mining Company was headquartered in one of the newer frame buildings near the center of the bustling Mormon city. Jessie was pleased with what she saw of the workers and the high level of production. The company was active in mining silver, copper, zinc, and lead at dozens of sites in the north-central part of the territory. Eager to take a firsthand look at the mines and learn about one of the many aspects of the great company her father had created, she was soon stopped dead in her tracks by George Elkin, director of regional operations.

Jessie and Ki were ushered into the director's office by a pretty blonde clerk who stared curiously at Ki. Doubtless she had seen some odd ones in this busy Mormon town, but never a handsome, graceful half-Japanese.

And Ki, for his part, also took note of the girl: her honey-colored hair was built into a bun atop her head, revealing a long white neck barely hidden by her high collar. Nor did the folds of her long dress conceal her lush, rounded figure. An unspoken attraction was sparked between them on sight.

The girl knocked on a big oak door and tentatively stuck her head in. “Mr. Elkin, Miss Starbuck is here to see you,” she announced.

Jessie and Ki stepped into the director's office, and the girl shut the door behind them. The room was large and well-appointed. Framed maps hung on the walls, and the shelves were stacked with books, cabinets crammed with papers and files. The director, George Elkin, sat in a tall leather chair behind a wide-topped desk. He rose and came to Jessie. They shook hands. He was a handsome man in his early forties, with streaks of iron-gray in his dark hair.

“Miss Starbuck, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance finally, though I am sorry the circumstances are not happier. The entire staff here asked me to convey their regrets at your father's untimely death. I realize it happened some time ago, but to us it is still difficult to believe. We all revered him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Elkin. I feel the same way. Father spoke highly of you, and of the mining operation here in Utah. I have wanted to visit this office for a long time. At your convenience, I should like to inspect the mines themselves.”

“Please be seated,” Elkin said, indicating two soft leather chairs beside his desk. “And I don't believe I've had the privilege of meeting the gentleman.”

Ki took Elkin's hand and bowed slightly from the waist. “I am Ki.”

“Ki is a valued friend, Mr. Elkin,” said Jessie. “In my absence he represents me, as he represented my father.”

“I see,” Elkin said, regarding the strange man with the crow-black hair and Oriental-looking face. He was struck by the man's calm demeanor and the promise of power he held inside.

When they were seated, Jessie said, “As you know, Mr. Elkin, the operation here has been for some time a very profitable part of my father's company. And I want to acquaint myself better with all aspects of the business. That's why I've come.”

“I see,” Elkin said again, quietly, a thin smile working across his lips. “Well, of course, you're welcome to inspect our books and our mines—it is your privilege.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you intend to run Starbuck Enterprises yourself.”

“I do,” she said.

“I must say I'm flattered to see you take such a personal interest in my small part of a very large picture.” The director unfolded his hands and held them palms up, a gesture of complete openness. “Just tell me how I may serve you.”

“First I'd like to look at the books—just to familiarize myself with the day-to-day income and expenses. I'm not a very good bookkeeper myself.”

Elkin laughed shortly. For some reason he avoided Ki's steady gaze. His attention was focused entirely on the lovely Jessie Starbuck, as was his total effort at charm.

“You'll find everything in order,” he said.

The blonde clerk interrupted them with an apology. “A telegraph message just arrived, Mr. Elkin. It looks important.”

“Bring it here.” She did and stood by awaiting his reply. He read the message and dismissed her. Turning to Jessie, he held out the telegraph to her. “You'll want to read this, Miss Starbuck.”

Jessie shifted uneasily in her chair. She was alarmed by the man's tone of voice. “It concerns me?” she asked.

“I'm afraid it does. In fact, I was going to discuss this matter with you. It has been going on for some time now. It is fortunate that you were already on your way to Provo, as it saves us the time and inconvenience of calling you up from Texas.”

Jessie read the yellow slip of paper.

“What do you know of this, Mr. Elkin?” she asked.

He reached for a cigar, lighting it carefully and taking long, hard puffs. Before Jessie could press the question, he said, “Well, this office receives reports on all sorts of criminal activities—for our own protection, of course. A mining operation is a likely target for any thief. Over the past several weeks, I have been hearing of a young criminal who has established quite a terrible reputation for himself in a very short time. Although he assumes various aliases and false names—some call him the Utah Kid—he claims that his real name is Thomas Starbuck. Further, as this wire confirms, he has gone so far as to claim that his father is Alex Starbuck. My sources in Skyler have been piecing the story together for a while.”

“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?”