Scalpdancers Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    The black gave a good account of itself. By rights, Morgan’s gamecock should have retreated and perhaps even surrendered, brought down by the wounds streaking its muscled frame, but the curry and whiskey that had blistered the inside of Morgan’s mouth drove the smaller gamecock mad—and the madness saved its life.
    The black was a vicious fighter, but it had never learned cunning. It was used to having its adversaries crumble before its onslaught. Not this time. Morgan’s ploy had left the red berserk. The gamecock felt none of its wounds; it knew only rage.
    Little Red was unstoppable; the smaller bird’s ferocity overpowered the black for all the latter’s size and strength. Slowly, for the first time in any contest, the black gave ground, confused by the savagery that confronted it. And in retreating, off balance, the Russian’s gamecock began to miss with its flashing spurs. Blood spewed from a dozen wounds and matted the bird’s once sleek black feathers. Suddenly, to the utter astonishment of Demetrius Vlad and his cohorts, the black collapsed, its throat slashed. The gamecock flapped its wings in a fitful, piteous gesture of defeat while its conqueror continued to jab and slash with all the mercy of a Hun.
    Morgan gingerly stepped up behind his Asil and caught up the bird. He kept a firm grip on the wings and kept his own lower anatomy clear of those crimson spurs until he’d returned the gamecock to its bamboo cage. Captain Morgan Penmerry turned then to accept the enthusiastic applause of the few men shrewd enough to wager on his success. The rest of the crowd grimaced in disgust as they paid their debts.
    Morgan swung around and faced Chiang Lu upon his dais and held the valiant red Asil before him in a ritualistic salute to the owner of the pit.
    â€œI believe you owe me a sack of gold!” Morgan shouted above the crowd.
    A gunshot reverberated off the walls of the arena and the cage flew from Morgan’s grasp as a 50-caliber lead ball shattered the bamboo and destroyed the battle-scarred gamecock within. The room fell silent and those men with bodyguards darted behind their hired henchmen as the shattered cage bearing the gamecock’s bloody remains skidded across the earthen floor.
    â€œI saw what you did.” Demetrius Vlad lowered his flintlock. Black smoke curled from the pistol barrel. “That flask was illegal. In this pit you must win your gold fairly.”
    â€œSon of a