Lone Star 02 by Wesley Ellis

branded on Starbuck cattle; it was stenciled on the crates of Starbuck goods that crisscrossed the country and the oceans; it was carved into the ivory grips of the derringer pressing so snugly against Jessie’s thigh; it was even embroidered into a comer of her lace hankies!
    A dock foreman, holding a clipboard, watched over the longshoremen who were tossing from man to man the crates of tea and spices and bolts of silk that made up this particular consignment. Finally they were stacked in Starbuck-marked dray wagons. Jessie and Ki stood well away from the action, and no one noticed them.
    â€œI shall introduce you to the foreman,” Ki said.
    â€œNo.” Jessie took hold of his arm. “I’d rather they didn’t know I’m here. I just want to see how it’s done, Ki. I just want to watch it all happen, the way it happened when I was a little girl and my father was still alive.”
    Ki nodded, and left her to her memories. His own thoughts drifted back to his homeland, to the stem chain of islands that made up Nippon, the Land of the Rising Sun. His memories were nostalgic, but they were not happy. In Nippon, Ki had been considered a barbarian’s offspring, a half-breed, a mongrel not fit for society.
    He glanced at Jessie, so lovely in profile, her eyes half closed, dreamy with fond memories. What was she thinking of? Her blond-haired, blue-eyed father who smelled of the cherry pipe tobacco he smoked, and fragrant green tea and spices he imported? Of his worn leather jacket that—when she was little—smelled of the salty sea, and when she was an adult, carried the honest scent of clean, healthy horseflesh?
    â€œYes,” Ki said, so abruptly that Jessie was startled. “Yes, your father’s kami is here,” he continued. “He watches over the men working, and he is proud to see that his daughter does the same.”
    Jessie, beaming, rose up on her toes to plant a soft kiss on Ki’s cheek. “Then let’s leave,” she said. “All’s well.”
    His cheek still tingling where her lips had touched, Ki took her arm to lead her away from this place so filled with bitter-sweet memories for both of them. Suddenly he stopped and raised a hand to point at a pennant snapping in the breeze above a nearby ship. The flag bore the insignia of one of the shipping companies that either belonged directly to the cartel or paid the organization a percentage of their profits for the privilege of being allowed to remain in business.
    â€œThe cartel’s shipping dock!” Jessie exclaimed. “Let’s see what’s going on there!”
    The dock and cargo shed were much the same, but the loading crews were not at all like those manning the Starbuck slip. Here, a rough-looking, unshaven dockmaster holding a billy club sauntered back and forth along the planking, goading his men to work ever faster. The workers were all Chinese, but unlike the other Oriental crews working the waterfront, these men wore the garb of coolies. They had no shoes to protect their feet, nor gloves for their hands as they scampered past the club-wielding foreman. The Chinese were thin and sickly. Some looked as if they would not last out the day’s hard labor.
    â€œThese men are being used as slaves,” Ki seethed. “It is clear that they receive only pennies—if that much—for their work.”
    â€œI’d love to know what contraband they’re being forced to unload,” Jessie replied. “Come on, let’s go see—”
    â€œJust what do you folks want?” came a voice from behind them.
    Ki and Jessie turned to confront a large, corduroy-suited figure holding a mean-looking, snarling dog on a short length of braided leather leash.
    â€œWe’re just tourists out to see the sights!” Jessie remarked innocently, batting her eyes at the guard while Ki nonchalantly tugged lower the brim of his Stetson. From past experience he