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Overview
The first arrow should have killed the buffalo. But the massive bull keeps charging, and Lost Eyes watches, helpless, as the young warrior known as Waiting Horse is gored to death. As punishment for this tragic accident, Lost Eyes is exiled from his small Blackfoot tribe on the edge of the Elkhorn Creek—cursed to spend his days wandering the plains, forever remembering the hunt that changed his life.
Halfway around the globe, merchant captain Morgan Penmerry watches in horror as his ship burns in Macao harbor. Ruined, he attempts a daring return to the Americas to build his fortune anew. There he crosses paths with Lost Eyes—a fellow wanderer who, like the captain, understands the pains of banishment. Together, these unlikely partners will find a place in the frontier and form a bond that no tragedy can tear asunder.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781480478893 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/29/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Sales rank: | 66,338 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Scalpdancers
By Kerry Newcomb
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1990 Kerry NewcombAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7889-3
CHAPTER 1
March 1814
Captain Morgan Penmerry bet everything he had on his cock. It was an Asil, that plucky breed of rooster with plumage the color of day-old blood. The gamecock weighed over five pounds and every ounce full of fight and fire. Its body was compact and powerful, hard as whalebone to the touch. The Asil's beak was short and as nasty-looking as a dirk; its natural spurs had been trimmed to half an inch and a set of silver spurs—looking for all the world like miniature bayonets—were secured on its shanks. Morgan kept the gamecock hooded and his hand never ceased stroking its scimitarlike feathers.
Morgan Penmerry was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested Cornishman, who at the age of eleven had stolen away on an American merchant vessel out from Bristol bound for Cape Cod. In twenty years he had risen from stowaway to captain of his own three-masted bark. A fur trader, he plied the waters of the Pacific and ranged from the west coast of the Americas to the trade ports of the Far East. Only a couple of weeks ago he had arrived in the Portuguese colony of Macao with a boatload of furs and a crew of rogues ready to unleash themselves upon the crowded thoroughfares, the gambling parlors, brothels, and rum houses in the city and in the surrounding emerald hills. Macao was a place to satiate every vice: There were more ways to hell than to heaven in the city at the mouth of the Pearl River. Whore cribs flourished in the cathedral shadows. Brawlers ranged the alleyways a stone's throw from carefully tended Chinese gardens.
Morgan brushed a strand of his chestnut-colored hair back from his brow and strode purposefully to the center of the dirt ring. The air in the fighting house was thick with the stench of blood and tobacco smoke, the pungent aroma of brewed tea and salted fish. Here men of means wagered on a blood sport and fondled their concubines and drowned themselves in rice wine.
"Captain, you gotta be crazy. You ain't gonna put the Hotspur on the line?" Temperance Rawlins groaned. He was a lean, lanky New Englander, a Connecticut-born graybeard who had known Morgan since the captain's stowaway days. Temp Rawlins's bushy eyebrows arched up his broad, blank forehead. Only a few silvery wisps of hair clung to his skull.
Despite Temp Rawlins's towering presence and advanced years, it was Morgan Penmerry who carried the aura of command. He ran a hand through his bushy mane and swaggered past the crowd of Chinese, Portuguese, Spanish, English, Americans, and Russians who enjoyed the Cornishman's showmanship. They greeted Morgan's arrival in the ring with a chorus of epithets and good-natured challenges.
Derision turned to cheers as he ordered Temp to place a sack on the ground; the Hotspur's first mate dutifully obeyed.
The fighting pit was a circular depression dug out of the earth. Its sides were graded and wooden benches surrounded the hard-packed earth of the pit itself. The three-foot-high stone wall circling the arena had been inlaid with shells and pictographs symbolizing bravery, stamina, and good fortune.
Morgan winked at Temp and nodded to Chiang Lu, a silken-voiced middle-aged man, whose enthusiasm for the sport had prompted him to build the cock pit behind his personal residence on a hillside overlooking the Pearl River above the opulence and squalor that was Macao.
Chiang Lu was particular about who climbed the steps to his hillside villa. Only aficionados of the fighting cocks and only men of wealth were invited to the pit. For now, Morgan Penmerry was a man of wealth. Should he lose, Chiang Lu's servants would summarily escort him to the garden gate. At Chiang Lu's a man's fortunes rose and fell more swiftly than the tides.
"A pretty sack, my honorable friend," Chiang Lu said. He bent down, retrieved the pouch, and opened it. "Curious," he purred as he removed a large brass key. He was immaculately trimmed, and his graceful hands deposited the gold pouch in the folds of his cobalt-blue silk coat. The gold-stitched dragons adorning his sleeves seemed to wink as he tucked the key away. The Chinaman loved to gamble and loved a mystery even more.
"The key unlocks the warehouse at Tung Wan Pier. You will find a shipload of furs and fine pelts within," Morgan said.
His wager was immediately repeated in several different languages.
"A most interesting wager," Chiang Lu replied, eyeing Morgan's fighting cock. "I am told your pelts are always of the finest quality."
"Then match their worth in gold and bring your best gamecock," Morgan challenged.
Temp Rawlins sighed in relief. The wagering hadn't gotten out of hand—yet. He anxiously eyed the bill of ownership jutting from the wide black leather belt circling the captain's solid waist. Morgan had held the bark as a last resort if his bluff hadn't worked. But Chiang Lu had accepted and now Temp could only groan to think of the consequences if Morgan lost. There'd be hell to pay if Chiang Lu tried to collect his winnings. A fire in the hold of the Hotspur had damaged most of the cargo during a squall in the South China Sea. But Morgan Penmerry wasn't a man to take a loss lying down—not while his good-natured, larcenous self could formulate a plan to transform disaster into a tidy profit.
Morgan Penmerry was young and brash and too damn confident for his own good. True, his shoulders were broad enough and, yes, he was as quick and agile as a dolphin at play. But Temp felt the young captain lacked the cool, calm head that a man in his profession needed.
Chiang Lu was as shrewd and dangerous as any man Temp Rawlins had ever known. And this crowd, of every nationality, was armed to the teeth with knives and pistols, and there were several rifle-bearing bodyguards. Chiang Lu's own private entourage, the Blue Wing Dragons, were black-clothed henchmen armed with kris—wavy-bladed daggers of Malaysian origin—and handguns. Their heads were shaved, their impassive faces devoid of pity.
"We cling to life. Even when every breath is agony," Chiang Lu remarked and called for a servant. The servant bowed to his master, Chiang Lu whispered in his ear. The servant nodded and hurried back up the steps to the place Chiang Lu had reserved for himself among the spectators. There upon a dais carved of stone a teakwood chest had been set alongside a thronelike chair. The servant touched a hidden latch and a panel in the chest swung open. The servant retrieved a white silk pouch embroidered with brightly colored blossoms and green lily pads.
"It is a mystery, do you not agree?" Chiang Lu continued.
"What are you getting at, Chiang Lu?" asked Morgan.
"But what is life without mystery?" the Chinese warlord said. He lifted a delicate hand and indicated a couple standing at the entrance to the arena. Morgan lifted his gaze and saw an older man, garbed in black frock coat, black trousers, and cleric's collar. He was a portly middle-aged man.
The young woman standing alongside the reverend was a nubile lass of about twenty—if that old. Comely as a well-trimmed clipper, Morgan thought. Even better looking—for what ship could boast of auburn tresses and cream-colored skin and such an appealingly well-rounded bosom and derriere?
Her dress was buttoned to the throat. She wore a charcoal-gray shawl about her shoulders in an attempt to conceal what nature had endowed her with. Such an attempt was doomed to failure with a girl like this cleric's daughter, if indeed that was her relationship to the older man.
"That is the Christian Missionary Emile Emerson and his daughter, Julia. I have ordered them to leave Macao; yet they come to seek terms, hoping I will permit them to remain. I have refused once before, still they persist. Why?" Chiang Lu shrugged. "You see, Captain Penmerry, another mystery. Ah ... my servant."
The man Chiang Lu had dispatched returned with the silk purse. Its contents jingled as Chiang Lu tossed it from one hand to the other. He issued another order to his servant and the man hurried off.
"Gold sovereigns, the amount of which shall remain unknown, like the wealth of your furs. I wager one mystery against another. What say you?" His almond-shaped eyes flashed.
Morgan made a show of trying to decide, when in truth any amount in Chiang Lu's purse would be more than what his ruined cargo might bring. The captain glanced in Temp's direction, winked, then faced Chiang Lu. "Agreed!"
His answer was translated and passed among the surrounding throng. But Chiang Lu was not finished. He had been carefully appraising the gamecock Morgan Penmerry held.
"A fine bird. This honorable one hopes he may find a suitable opponent." Chiang Lu smiled. Morgan's blood ran cold, for despite the Chinese warlord's civility, there was not a trace of warmth in his eyes. "I find," Chiang Lu continued, "I must avail myself of an esteemed associate's assistance."
"Oh, shit," Temp muttered from behind the captain.
Morgan turned and allowed his gaze to sweep across the audience. Chiang Lu's servant had passed among them and stopped alongside another ship's captain, a man Morgan immediately recognized.
"Demetrius Vlad," Morgan said.
Captain Demetrius Vlad was a known criminal, an exile who, it was rumored, plied the seas not only as an "honest" merchant but kept a pirate's colors as well, ready to fly at will. Of course, such dark tales remained unsubstantiated, for no one had ever lived to offer proof.
Vlad was a man of average height, with finely chiseled, almost feminine features. His brown hair was concealed beneath a purple scarf tied close to his skull and draped down his back. A close-cropped beard followed his jawline and added substance to a slightly receding chin. Vlad carried a bamboo cage under his arm as he descended to the floor of the arena. He wore high-topped boots, as were the fashion, and tight linen trousers and a scarlet waistcoat adorned with brass buttons and gold braid.
His foppish manner did not fool Morgan Penmerry, who knew the exiled Russian to be a skilled swordsman. Vlad bowed to the Cornishman and his host, Chiang Lu.
"I believe you know my esteemed associate," Chiang Lu said to the fur trader.
Morgan's interest was aroused. The Chinese warlord obviously implied a closer relationship with the Russian than Morgan had been aware of. Considering Vlad's reputation, it made sense.
"Captain Vlad has supplied me with innumerable services. He is a most resourceful ... uh ... partner," Chiang Lu explained without revealing anything of substance.
Macao was a chaotic port over which Chiang Lu cast a long shadow. However, there were any number of noblemen eager to take Chiang Lu's place in the sun. An unscrupulous renegade like Vlad no doubt came in handy in controlling any serious competition. Morgan wondered if Chiang Lu's home guard, the ominously impassive Blue Wing Dragons; were strictly for defense of Chiang Lu's hillside estate. Might they not be dispatched through the night-lit city to swoop down like birds of prey on some hapless merchant who had encroached on Chiang Lu's economic domain?
"Captain Morgan Penmerry is it? We're old friends," the Russian said in perfect English.
"You'd better rethink that term, Demetrius. It hardly' applies to you and me," Morgan said.
Vlad frowned for a second, then chuckled softly. "'By Tre, Pol, and Pen, you shall know the Cornish men,'" the Russian quoted. "And I know you, Penmerry. Rogue, scoundrel, trickster."
"At your service." Morgan bowed grandly with a sweep of an imaginary hat.
"No, at yours." Vlad reached into the cage and withdrew an enormous black Asil, the same breed as Morgan's, but half again as large. The bird had been hooded to keep it docile.
A murmur of disbelief and approval filtered through the crowd, and betting was renewed at a furious pace. Odds were changed at the sight of the big black, and Morgan's Asil became the immediate underdog. Still, there were a few shrewd men who saw past the difference in size and noted in Morgan Penmerry's blood-red bird a quickness and quality of breeding worth risking their gold on.
"Do I detect antagonism in your voice? My, my. How uncharitable. After all, we are so much alike in nature." Vlad added as he stroked the black. "We are both men of the sea. We do not mind bending the rules of a game so long as we win."
"Maybe you're right, Demetrius. However, there are some games I will not play. And in that, we differ."
"Such as ..."
"Well—Let's just say the Hotspur flies only one flag, that of a free trader, and has no use for the skull and crossbones."
Vlad flushed. The affront left him speechless. Under different circumstances he would have put his glove in Morgan's face. "Out of deference to our host I shall allow that remark to pass," Vlad said, tight lipped and seething from Morgan's insult.
"Then return to your seat. My wager is with Chiang Lu," Morgan said, warily eyeing the black Asil.
"He is my esteemed associate," Chiang Lu interjected, enjoying the confrontation he had instigated. A servant had brought him a plate of dim sum—succulently prepared appetizers of shrimp dumplings, morsels of fried taro, and steamed beef balls covered with lotus leaf. Chiang Lu sampled one of the dumplings, then returned the saucer to his servant. He washed down the food with a few sips of chrysanthemum tea. "You will fight the black," the Chinese lord concluded, wiping his fingers on the servant's shirt sleeves.
Morgan shrugged and said, "As you wish." He took his place on one side of the arena. Temp Rawlins followed him, a look of complete exasperation on the old seaman's weatherworn visage.
"Captain, I'm thinking the old brig lizard that raised you oughta be keelhauled 'cause he did a piss-poor job," Temp growled.
"He was a salty dog, but I wouldn't trade a king's ransom for the times we shared." Morgan winked at Temp. "He taught me the love of ships and how to tell a squall from a hurricane."
Temp was not easily swayed by the compliment. "Too bad I didn't learn you when a bluffs gone too far. We'll wind up throat-slit and hanging from a meat stall on the Rue de Lorchas."
"Bah. You're seeing only one side of the coin." Morgan glanced toward the rim of the cock pit in hopes of spying the reverend's daughter, and sure enough, Julia Emerson was still there—watching him, or so it seemed. Morgan bowed. The girl looked startled, caught off guard, and she pointedly turned her attention elsewhere.
"We got enough troubles. A parson's daughter's about as lucky as a dead albatross. You better keep your mind on the troubles at hand," Temp warned.
"Troubles? What troubles? Little Red here is prime." Morgan's Asil sensed the hour was at hand and the bird uttered a guttural trill.
Across the pit Vlad removed the hood from the black and stepped to the center of the arena. The Russian exile looked bold and confident—and why not? Who faced him but a craggy, crooked-nosed Cornishman with more brawn than brains?
Morgan turned his back to the Russian and nodded to Temp, who wearily held the gamecock while Morgan drew a small amber flask from the sash circling his waist. The slender bottle contained a mouthful of whiskey blended with a fiery curry. Morgan drained the bottle, retrieved the gamecock, and spewed the contents of the flask onto the gamecock's anus. The Asil's brassy caw rose an octave and turned positively shrill. The bird struggled violently to free itself from Morgan's grasp. The fur trader hurried to the center of the arena and held the pain-crazed gamecock inches above the ground. Vlad and Morgan nodded to Chiang Lu, who retreated to the dais. The feathered combatants pecked at each other, eager to battle.
At Chiang Lu's signal a servant crashed two tiny cymbals together. Morgan and the Russian, on cue, released their gamecocks and darted out of harm's way. The Asils hit the ground and attacked.
The Russian's black was obviously accustomed to intimidating lesser gamecocks by virtue of its size. Little Red had no quit in it. And size meant nothing. Pain blinded it. Pain drove it into such a furious state, the gamecock would have lunged for a lion if the beast had been dropped into the pit.
The cocks closed with a flurry of flapping wings, jabbing beaks, and raking spurs. Nothing suited them like combat. They were bred for war like gladiators of old.
The Asils fluttered into the air a few feet, then dropped to the hard-packed earth and rose again, thrusting down with the metal spurs.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Scalpdancers by Kerry Newcomb. Copyright © 1990 Kerry Newcomb. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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