Lone Star 01 by Wesley Ellis

hand down at the fellow’s nose. He purposely held back a little so he would not break it, but it struck forcefully enough to hurt like hell, and tears of pain sprang into the man’s eyes. Ki followed through by kicking the man in the side of his knee, collapsing him to one side. He caught his right arm, crunched down on it with his elbow, and then brought his own knee into his hip.
    The man dropped to the floor, leaving the way clear for Wylie’s second pal to lash out at Ki with his wide leather belt. Ki had already seen this second one slide off his belt and fold it double, which was one of the reasons he’d had to dump the first man, for now he was able to step over the first man and catch hold of the second one’s right arm and left shoulder with his hands. At the same time, Ki moved his right foot slightly in back of the man so that as the fellow began tumbling sideways, Ki was able to dip to his right knee and yank viciously. His hizi otoshi, or elbow-drop, worked perfectly; the second man catapulted upside-down and collapsed jarringly on top of the first man, flattening them both to the floor.
    And Wylie, face purpling with rage, launched himself off the table, a well-honed bowie knife clutched in his right hand. “I’m gonna carve you apart!” he bellowed, slashing at Ki.
    Ki calmly stepped aside and then kicked up with his callused foot. His heel caught Wylie smack on his chin, so hard that Wylie flew backwards onto the table again. This time he sprawled cold on his back, staring sightlessly up at the rafters and cobwebbed ceiling of the cookshack.
    The rest of the Flying W crew gaped at Wylie, his two moaning pals, and then at Ki with stunned disbelief. They said nothing.
    Jessica broke the silence. “If these three want to quit, then they can quit. If any of you others want to quit, you can. Or you can stay. It’s up to you, but make up your minds. As I said last night, I don’t have the time—and the Flying W doesn’t have the time—for you to sit on your butts. Either start kicking or packing.”
    The feisty hand who’d first spoken, now spoke up again. “Well, boys, I reckon Miz Starbuck might have something. She sure has a powerful persuader, and she’s got me convinced. We gotta pitch in and stop the raidin‘, else we’ll all be grub-lining. ’Sides, none of us is safe from a bush-whack bullet ‘lessen we do rare up and fight back.”
    â€œOkay, count me in.”
    â€œWe gotta do something, I see that now.”
    â€œSure, we couldn’t face Miz Waldemar if we didn’t.”
    A consensus of agreement quickly swelled from the crew, including the one who’d refused to fight. “Might as well,” he growled, moodily building a smoke. “Guess it don’t make no difference how I bleed, fast or slow. I’ll be dead here anyways.”
    Diplomatically thanking the men for their splendid cooperation, Jessica rose and left the cookshack. Ki followed, amused as ever by how much she was her father’s child, equally as competent as Alex Starbuck had been in defusing and mastering tricky negotiations.
    Daryl stood momentarily by the shack’s open door, staring in bewildered at the sudden and complete change in the crewmen. Then he turned and swiftly caught up with Jessica and Ki, as they were walking toward the ranch house. “Jessie, that was great, but ...” He faltered, still stunned by her volunteering of his father. “But Dad can’t do it, you know how he drinks. He won’t want to.”
    â€œWe’ve got to make him want to,” Jessica replied, and with a twinkle in her eye, she added, “I suspect that between handling those men, and Amabelle Waldemar’s cooking and cribbage, Toby’s going to find staying here to be a sobering experience.”
    Toby, when confronted, ranted and blustered. But he didn’t argue all that hard, and eventually he