Apparition Trail, The Read Online Free PDF

a thick black moustache. When he sat, he had a lazy air about him, like a dog taking the sun, but he could bark out orders like no other sergeant. More than one of our men had taken “French leave,” deserting the force rather than face any more of Wilde’s insults.
    Wilde marched, rather than walked, everywhere he went; it was a wonder his thudding footsteps hadn’t awakened everyone in the barracks. He looked down at me, hands on hips, a slight smirk twitching his moustache. I realized that he’d chosen me because I’d gotten so little sleep in the past few days. He’d enjoy seeing me yawn and droop in the saddle.
    It was no secret that Wilde didn’t like me. He was a bad card player and a sore loser, while I, in contrast, was a natural at poker. I win not because I have the stoic countenance of the Indian, or because I am particularly adept at the game, but because I’m lucky. The very cards I’m seeking for my hand come to me, as if by magic.
    The other men were good-natured about losing their wages to me, although they refused to let me play with them again. Wilde, however, was convinced that I was a cheater, and took an intense dislike to me.
    “We ride at six o’clock,” he told me. “I expect you to be ready.” Then he turned and strode out of the barracks.
    A blanket-covered form on one of the nearby beds stirred, and a sleepy voice called out. “What is it, Marmaduke? Reveille?”
    “It’s nothing,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
    I fumbled for the pocket watch I keep beside my bed and consulted it. Assuming the time on it was correct — every watch I touch runs either too fast or too slow, which was one of the reasons why I hadn’t become a watch maker like my father — I had less than twenty minutes to prepare. I rose from my bed, pulled on breeches, jacket, socks and boots, then stumbled over to the stove and stoked it with kindling. Then I hurried outside to the creek for a pail of water to boil for tea.
    I looked up from the gurgling stream at the sun, which was just rising over the hills. It hung huge over the horizon, mottled with a peculiar reddish hue. The Indians call this rare phenomenon a “painted sun” and say it is an omen of ill fortune. I shivered as I thought of this, although at the time I attributed my tremors to the fact that my hands were immersed in cold water. Then I rose with the dripping bucket and hurried back to the bunkhouse, turning my back on the celestial warning.
    Breakfast was the same as it always was at Maple Creek: a biscuit hard as rock, hot black tea to soak it in, and a few slivers of dried apple, as withered as the face of a crone. There was no time to fry up bacon; I had barely time to pack my saddlebags with spare stockings, shirt, horse brush, currycomb, and mess kit. I buckled on my spurs and strapped on my cartridge belt and revolver, all the while chewing on the granite-like bread and slurping mouthfuls of hot tea.
    I ran a hand over my lips, wiping away the crumbs. Thankfully I didn’t need a shave. I ran a comb through my hair, put on the pillbox hat that the sergeant always demanded we wear on duty, despite the fact that he himself wore a Stetson, and adjusted it to the regulation angle of two fingers’ width above the right eye. Then I packed the comb away with a razor, shaving brush, sponge, and soap in my holdall and stuffed it into my saddlebags. The Sergeant had neglected to inform me where we were riding to or how long we’d be away, and I’d been too somnambulate to inquire. For all I knew, we’d be on the trail for days. I added a change of undergarments to the bag, then carefully packed my pipe in its velvet-lined leather case. The pipe was a fine bulldog briar with a twisted stem of English amber and a cool-smoking rubber mouthpiece. Here in the North-West Territories, it was difficult to find the fine tobacco that I had developed a taste for during my three years of working in the tobacconist’s shop in Ottawa. The best