Free The Drop Edge of Yonder by Rudolph Wurlitzer

Stebbins, who had become convinced that a story about the exploits of the legendary mountain man would be the perfect opener for his series of articles about life in the Far West.
    When he asked Zebulon for an interview, Zebulon hesitated, his eyes on the Count and Delilah as they appeared arm in arm on the other side of the deck, Delilah wearing a flowered dress and straw hat, the Count in yellow linen pants and a white shirt.
    "It would be an honor," Stebbins insisted. "Particularly as you represent a disappearing breed of men who have gone where few ever have: men who have settled the frontier, who have fought and lived with Indians and experienced unimaginable hardships. My readers will be fascinated and thrilled to read about your adventures. And I'm the one to write about them. In fact, I'm the only one."
    Stebbins produced a flask of brandy and handed it to Zebulon, who drained it before he spoke.
    "I was raised by my Ma and Pa a thousand miles from any settlement. They learned me about red niggers and how to trap and build a fire in a blizzard. Went my own way and made do. I crossed Pike's Peak barefoot; lived with the Sioux and the Hopi; hunted buffler in the Black Hills; scouted for the army; lived with the Shoshonis, who called me Man Trapped Between the Worlds; sliced off more than one man's top knot; stole horses from the Comanche and Arapahoe; trapped with Jake Spoon, him that declared war on the Crow Nation; picked nuggets off the ground in Californie as big as your fist; rustled steers from Colorady to Texas; rode the outlaw trail and was proud of it."

    He paused, looking at the Count and Delilah as they strolled towards them. When the Count said something, pointing towards him, Delilah laughed and turned the other way, only to have the Count draw her back again.
    "I advise you to keep your secrets to yourself," the Count said to Zebulon as they approached. "Or you'll find your name on a wanted poster, or, even worse, the front page of a New York tabloid."
    "I'll give you ten-to-one odds he's not a Count or even a Russian," Stebbins said as the Count and Delilah continued their promenade. "He's nothing but a flim-flam man. Take my word. I know men like him."
    Before Delilah followed the Count below, she glanced once more towards Zebulon. Come closer, her eyes said once again, and no matter n1batyou do, stay aiPPay.
    Zebulon stared at a half-moon that had appeared over the horizon. Like a broken egg, he thought. Or a whore's earring.

    S THEY APPROACHED THE EQUATOR, THE SHIP ENTERED that inversion of sea and sky known as the doldrums, an oppressive zone of entropy inhibiting all movement and sense of time. The smell of rotten food permeated the ship. Sails drooped and clouds hung over the horizon like unwashed laundry. Not a dolphin or whale or even bird could be seen. In the suffocating heat, words felt as heavy as bricks and passengers and crew moved about the deck as if under water. When an elderly sailor lay on his back, staring mutely at the drooping sails, no one had the energy to come to his aid. In a rare gesture of compassion, Captain Dorfheimer allowed a dozen skeletal slaves to be led up from the lower depths of a cargo hold, where they had been chained to a bulkhead. Like uncorked ghosts they dropped on the deck, showing no emotion even when two of their companions, dead from malnutrition and the stifling heat, were unceremoniously tossed overboard. Until then, no one except the crew had known of their existence.
    At night the passengers slept on deck, except for Zebulon and the Count and Delilah, who remained below
    Zebulon lay awake listening to the shifting tones of their muted conversations in an unknown tongue, words that were sometimes punctuated by shouts, followed by sighs and Delilah's exhausted sobs. When they were silent he imagined them making love. Once, just to make his presence known, he tried blasting a hole through the wall with his Colt, but when he pulled the trigger the chamber