by Peter Bowen
I will keep them still, save for this. She had gone for a walk with Washakie, and they had seen an owl, and Washakie had said something in Shoshone and closed his eyes, and the owl had flown.
“... I felt something cold round my heart and that feeling that someone had stepped upon my grave, and so I demanded that Washakie tell me the truth, that I could bear it, but if he was my friend he was not to keep it from me. He said I was soon to die, and I somehow knew that he was right.”
There was more.
“... do not wait for me for there is nothing behind the curtain, go on, my brave and funny scout.”
I thought back and remembered now a couple times Washakie had looked at me, his old face impassive, his black eyes unreadable. But he was my father, more than any other man, and it was a measure of his love that he would let me find out in time, for those who fight fate and lose are worse off than those who simply do not know.
Damn, I cursed, she could have stayed and ...
No. She would not do that. I could see her point. In Wyoming she could die by assassin, if she stayed in Boston it would be a goddamned trolley car.
I have no God and neither know nor in truth much care what happens after death, I will find out in time.
A book, a knife, a ring.
There was a knock on the door, a soft one, and I opened it and Masoud’s chamberlain was there, and he handed me a folded piece of ivory parchment. There was a wax seal on it. The chamberlain floated away.
I broke the seal and opened it and there was a brief note, in a lovely flowing hand.
Kelly,
We shall sail through the Dardanelles and thence to a small port on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, and go overland to the Caspian and cross it to the south and so go on to my lands.
I am a religious leader as well as a prince, and once returned, I may not again offer you alcohol, or pork—the latter I am sure you may live happily without.
The excellent Stefano is a skilled distiller, able to make his filthy grappa out of anything which comes to hand, and were I you I would keep him close, as he has skills and the equipment to keep you from thirst, which you folk in America’s West seem to fear more than any Man or God.
Grant and Hay requested that I keep you as attaché until I and my soothsayers are convinced you will do nothing so foolish as to kill or attempt to kill the Professors Cope and Marsh. They regard you highly and expect most valuable services from you in the years ahead.
The package entrusted to my care has not been opened and contains only those things which Miss de Bonneterre put in it. Digby did not know. Perhaps someday we may return and bring their bones back to Boston, or perhaps they will sleep more peacefully in the little dell you found.
Any request which I may grant, you have only to ask.
MASOUD
Well, that was that. The little journal from Alys was enough. There was whiskey in the cupboard below the little washstand and I had some and I opened the porthole and smelled the sea. The roll wasn’t bothering me, though I expected to wake in the night all heaving and miserable.
I closed the porthole and nodded at myself in the mirror. I looked aged now, the wind and rain and dust and blood had cut deep lines around my eyes, we all have them out there, even young children, from squinting at the distances.
For the first time I noticed a velvet pullrope and I gave it a jerk and in about sixty seconds there was a soft knock and I opened it and there was an A-rab in a blue uniform, with a white-billed cap.
I began to flap my arms and make noises sort of like Stefano.
The A-rab looked at me gravely.
“Sir,” he says, “I have English.”
“Well,” I says, “I would like to see Stefano and Libretta, them two Eye-talians with the mean birds.”
“He is consultant falconer to the prince,” says the feller, “and she is an honored guest, the more so because her veal piccata is so splendid. When you are ready, I shall lead you there.”
I nodded and followed along, and he led me down a passageway.
“Wait a minute,” I says. “You got any really hot pepper sauce?”
“Not with me,” says the feller, “but I will fetch some.”
“It’s for them damned dogs,” I says.
“Ah, yes,” says the A-rab. “Very brave of heart are they. And you are sure you wish to risk the wrath of the woman? She is most fierce in protecting her little beasts.”
I thought of the cleaver.
“Perhaps, sir,” says the A-rab, “some oil soap would do as well. The attendants who have to go in there find it does discourage the dogs most readily, without making them yelp.”
I nodded and he immediately brought forth a small bottle and I dabbed my ankles with it.
“I would do as much again,” says the A-rab.
“I take it,” I says, “you are experienced in these matters.”
He nodded.
Armored against them tiny little monsters, I gave him back the bottle and we went on. I could tell we was getting close from the mixed stink of bird shit and fermenting fruit and Eye-talian cooking and heavy on the garlic.
Stefano and Libretta had a nice suite, or it had been before a whole lot of big cages with eagles and hawks of many descriptions screaming at the stranger in the doorway had been added.
I stepped in when Libretta waved at me and them two hairy little bastards leaped out and clamped on and let go and hacked and spat most gratifyingly. Libretta scooped them up and crooned to them.
“It seems,” I says, “that we are entering one of them places don’t like booze.”
“Yah,” says Stefano.
“Well,” I says, “what are we going to do about that?”
“Not to worry,” says the little Eye-talian, “long as you are not drunk at a meal given by the prince, his people will pay it no mind.”
I had never knowed he spoke good English, always distracted by them damned sausage dogs and Libretta fingering that cleaver.
“Castrato!” she’d say. “I use the flat side, too.”
Just then this damned eagle I just noticed stuck a foot out through the mesh of its cage and opened its fist and the damn foot was bigger than any bald eagle’s I’d ever seen. It didn’t look like any eagle I’d ever seen either. It was bigger, and had a funny helmet of feathers.
“What is that?” I says.
“Harp-eee eagle,” says Stefano. “Eats monkeys. Lives in Brazil.”
“Interesting,” I says.
Stefano held out his arm. There was red healed wounds on his wrist, that looked like bullets had done ’em. He pointed to the harpy eagle flexing its talons.
Libretta put down the sausage dogs, who growled and looked glumly at my ankles, but didn’t bother charging.
“Anything I can do to help our grappa still, here?” I says.
“Stay the damn hell away from it,” says Stefano. “You Irish use potatoes!”
“Ah hell,” I says. “They use malted grain.”
“Grain is for pasta and bread,” says Stefano. “In Italy, we are eating good veal and drinking fine grappa, you are still eating each other. Potatoes. You Irish should be ... excommunicated.”
“Fine,” I says. “I don’t think they got potatoes in wherever the hell it is we’re going.” I looked at the A-rab purser. He shook his head.
“In our land,” he says, “we do not grow potatoes.”
Libretta gave me a nice peck on the cheek and a hearty hug and so I went back out.
“The prince up?” I says.
The steward on duty nodded.
“He rises to pray very early, sir,” he said.
I thought a moment.
“I’d like an audience,” I says, “on a small but pressing matter.”
The steward led the way.
I looked through a porthole at the black and waiting sea.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you
have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Yellowstone Kelly copyright © 1987 by Peter Bowen
Kelly Blue copyright © 1991 by Peter Bowen
Imperial Kelly copyright © 1992 by Peter Bowen
Kelly and the Three-Toed Horse copyright © 2001 by Peter Bowen
Cover design by Morgan Alan
Published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY PETER BOWEN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1987 by Peter Bowen
cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4532-9548-9
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY PETER BOWEN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1991 by Peter Bowen
cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4532-9550-2
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY PETER BOWEN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1992 by Peter Bowen
cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4532-9549-6
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY PETER BOWEN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
