Lone Star 03 by Wesley Ellis Page A

jeans and jacket, a tan silk blouse, boots of glove-soft leather, and for the brief stop she had not discarded her brown Stetson, but had pushed it back off her head to dangle at her back. Ki wore his own version of travel togs, which were similar to Jessie’s except that his shirt was a loose, collarless cotton twill pullover, and he wore the canvas slippers he favored in place of boots.
    A pan of water sitting on the coals was just coming to a boil. Ki swirled a few drops of the steaming water in the small teapot he carried in his saddlebags, poured the water out, added a large pinch of tea leaves, and filled the teapot. Then he set the pot beside the coals to let the tea steep.
    Jessie ate the last bite of the vinegared rice balls with bits of chicken that they’d packed along for their nooning. “I’ll be glad to get there, even though I don’t suppose the scenery will be any more attractive than it is here,” she said. “But it will be the first step to getting our questions answered.”
    Ki hunkered down beside her. He said, “I’m not sure about that. We might be better off ignoring this Lieutenant Farnam and going right on to Mexico.”
    â€œWe’ve already talked about that, Ki. I thought it was all settled.”
    â€œIt was. Is, I suppose.”
    Jessie took the cup that Ki handed her, and while he filled it from the steaming teapot, she said, “I don’t see why you’re so impatient, Ki. Unless we stay a step ahead of the cartel, they could take us by surprise when they start carrying out whatever plan they have in mind.”
    Ki rarely allowed his Oriental fatalism to surface, but this time he replied by quoting a line from an ode by Li‘tai Po: “The fighting and the attacking are without a time of ending.”
    Jessie sat silently for a moment before she answered, “There will be an ending someday, Ki. But it must be at the time when we’ve beaten them, and on our terms.”
    â€œOnly a fool would contradict that, Jessie,” Ki replied. “And you’ve led us back to where we started. If the suspicions you told me you have are correct, we’d better be moving instead of sitting here talking.”
    â€œYou’re right, of course,” Jessie agreed.
    She stood up and stretched to relax the muscles that kept reminding her of the hours she’d spent in the saddle. Ki picked up the utensils and cups and returned them to his saddlebag. He made a stirrup of his hands to help Jessie mount. Jessie put her booted foot in the stirrup and settled into her saddle. They headed southwest on the almost-obliterated army wagon road that led to Fort Chaplin.
    An almost imperceptible tinge of pink in the west gave warning of the day’s impending end when they came in sight of the fort’s decrepit buildings. Constructed during the short war in 1846 between the United States and Mexico over possession of New Mexico and Arizona territories, Fort Chaplin was one of the few military installations that still remained active along the Rio Grande.
    Reining in, they inspected the fort. Obviously, little had been done to maintain it. The adobe bricks that once surrounded the buildings had eroded during the years to a dike of ocher earth that now stood less than two feet high in the least damaged spots. It now served only as a defining line.
    Inside the square it enclosed, nothing remained but part of a barracks, a portion of a building that had once been officers’ quarters, the low stone curb of a well, and most of the original stables. A few soldiers in faded blues moved between the stable and the barracks; they abandoned whatever they were doing and stared openly at Jessie and Ki as they reined in.
    There was a small hut at one side of the former parade ground; a flag drooped from its staff in front of the small building. As they watched, a soldier came to the door and looked out, then disappeared inside again.
    â€œThat