Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman Read Free Book Online

this confrontation, rather than lost it.
    “Go fetch the foreman and his crew, and tell them it’s safe to commence laying track again,” Wilde said.
    “Yes, Sergeant,” I said briskly. I wheeled Buck around, glad to be out from under the glittering gaze of the Cree braves.
    I had assumed that the matter of Chief Piapot had been settled. But as we rode back to the Maple Creek detachment my sense of unease only worsened. Sergeant Wilde said we were taking a shortcut back to the detachment, which seemed to me to be a misguided decision. We turned north, leaving the railway line increasingly far behind — yet Maple Creek lay due east.
    When I pointed this out to the Sergeant, he cast me an evil look. “I know where I’m going,” he said curtly.
    The Sergeant appeared confident on the surface, but I could hear a slight hesitation in his voice. Even his horse looked nervous. The big black kept swivelling its ears and snorting, eyes wide.
    I tried to engage the Sergeant in friendly conversation, hoping to eventually suggest that we turn to the east. I couldn’t very well refuse to follow his lead, or strike out on my own. Arguing with a superior warrants a ten-dollar fine — and disobeying orders is an even more serious offence.
    “Those were a few tense moments back at Piapot’s camp, weren’t they?” I asked, trying to instil in my voice a jovial camaraderie. “I thought you were done for when that yellow-faced brave charged at you with the tomahawk. It was fortunate that he chose to strike you with his coup stick, instead.”
    The Sergeant snorted. “He lost his nerve, I expect. He knew he’d be stretching a rope if he killed a police officer. The very sight of a scarlet jacket cows them.”
    I was so surprised at the Sergeant’s lack of understanding that I blurted out: “That brave wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of you. He was counting coup.”
    Too late, I realized my mistake — and my poor choice of words. I had inadvertently implied that the Sergeant didn’t cut a very formidable figure, when I’d meant to say that the Indian had been unafraid of anything, even a mounted police officer. I tried to explain that Indian braves only bothered to count coup against formidable foes, but Wilde gave me a withering look. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Corporal.”
    I bit back the rest of my explanation. I could see that further conversation would only do more harm than good. I turned my attention instead to the ground, trying to puzzle out the “shortcut” the Sergeant had insisted on taking. There was a faint trail along the ground: a drag mark like that left by a travois. We seemed to be following it.
    We had ridden far from the railway line by now, into an area of rolling, barren hills. The ground was sandy here; sprays of loose soil kicked up every time the horses took a step. A chill breeze began to blow, with just enough force to send the hairs on my arms shivering erect. I thought I heard a voice whispering on the wind; I turned in the saddle, but could see no one.
    The light became weaker, as if a cloud had come across the sun. I looked up at the sky and saw that it had turned a leaden grey. The sun was a pale, watery-yellow disc behind the clouds, and the landscape through which we rode seemed likewise drained of colour. The few bushes that dotted the sandy hills were a dull grey-green, and the ground itself appeared flat yellow.
    The Sergeant’s horse proceeded skittishly, tossing its head as if it wanted to bolt. Wilde kept it in check only by sharp tugs on the reins. Buck gave a short whinny of fear, then fell quiet, his tail tucked tight against his rear.
    The wind began to produce ever more curious noises. The thudding of Buck’s hooves sounded like the chopping of an axe blade against wood, and at one point I thought I heard the barking of a dog. I could swear that I heard a woman’s voice, and the laughter of children, and the crackled chatter of old men. I