Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman Read Free Book Online Page B

ground, his revolver bouncing out of his hand. His horse, at last free of its rider, bucked once or twice more, then turned and bolted to the south, reins fluttering over its back.
    When I got Buck turned around again, I looked wildly about for the Indian who had thrown the knife, but he had disappeared. There was no one present in those lonely hills save the Sergeant and myself. Wilde rose, spitting sand from his lips, and scooped his revolver off the ground.
    “Damn that horse!” he spluttered, then swept his Stetson from his head and threw it angrily down on the sand. He shoved his still-smoking revolver back into the holster at his hip.
    Now that the Sergeant’s temper had cooled, I expected him to set off to the south in pursuit of his wayward mount, or to order me to ride after it, but instead he turned once again to the north. “Come on,” he said in a voice that was devoid of the passion that had enflamed it a moment ago. “We’ve got to press on.” Without another word, he began trudging across the sand on foot.
    My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Without your horse?” I asked. I looked around at the desolate hills that surrounded us. The light had dimmed, as if dusk were approaching, and the breeze held a chill that cut right through the cloth of my Norfolk jacket, yet I was certain that it must still be the middle of the day. I shivered, and clenched Buck’s reins more tightly. The bronco’s eyes were wide, and shivers coursed down his shoulders.
    “Sergeant, I don’t think that’s wise,” I said cautiously.
    Wilde ignored my protest. “We have to follow the trail,” he said without looking back at me.
    “But why?” I sputtered. “Where does it lead? We dispersed Chief Piapot’s band, as ordered. Shouldn’t we return to the detachment and make a report?”
    I still sat on Buck, who had remained rooted to the spot after the Sergeant’s horse bolted. Wilde halted, then slowly turned. His lips were twisted into a grimace that reminded me of the face of a frozen Indian corpse I’d found along the trail one winter, and his face had gone strangely grey. His eyes held a look of pure malevolence. His right hand settled upon the handle of his revolver.
    “We follow the trail,” he growled. “That’s an order.”
    “Yes, Sergeant,” I hastily replied, despite the fact that every fibre of my being screamed in protest. Even so, I spurred Buck forward. After a second tremendous shudder, he plodded reluctantly ahead, following the Sergeant.
    Things became confused after that. The breeze that had been blowing died away, but a strange chill lingered in the air. I was certain now that I saw tepees and the moving figures of Indians, horses, and their dogs all around us — but whenever I looked at them square on, these apparitions would disappear. I chewed my lip, casting about desperately for something I could say to dissuade the Sergeant from this madness, but could think of nothing. Where were we headed? What strange and secret orders was the Sergeant following?
    It seemed to me that, although we steadily headed north, we were traveling in a circle. The travois line we had been following soon was overlaid with our own hoof and foot prints.
    I was just about to point out to the Sergeant this indisputable evidence that we were lost when I noticed a peculiar thing about his boot prints. Wilde is a large man, and leaves a heavy print in the sand. Although the hues of the landscape all around me had faded to a dusky grey, one colour stood out vividly: red. The Sergeant’s footprints were scarlet with blood. The Indian’s stone-bladed knife must have struck home, after all.
    I didn’t need to rein Buck to a halt. He stopped of his own accord, forelegs stiff, and nostrils quivering. Then he let out a low whicker of fear, barely audible in the oppressive stillness. In that same instant, the Sergeant sighed and slumped to the ground in a loose-boned heap.
    A sudden realization chilled me to my very core.