Soldier of the Horse Read Online Free PDF Page A

slackened as if it were dissolving. With a visible effort Paterson regained control of his voice, and Tom knew for a certainty, even as the judge spoke again, that Paterson junior would not be coming home from the war. “You can volunteer for the army. A short stint overseas and all will be forgotten. You can pick up again—go into business. Who knows, perhaps you’ll get some satisfaction from serving your country and make a career of it.”
    Make a career of the army? Fat chance of that. But if he didn’t take this way out, he’d be back in jail with Zink. He knew Zink was a bulldog, a tenacious fighter who never gave up. Tom doubted that his protestations of innocence could overcome whatever tale Zink concocted, and Boyle, the policeman, would just as soon lock up the lot of them.
    Tom couldn’t face more handcuffs, another jail cell. And there was another consideration: his mother, who was not well in any event, simply could not cope with her eldest son ensconced as a permanent guest of His Majesty.
    A career in the law had been his ambition, and lawyers his heroes. His goal was slipping away, and his heroes had feet of clay. He felt as though he were drowning, and Judge Paterson was throwing him a life preserver. Tom looked the judge in the eye. The hell with the law and the hell with lawyers. Unlike the judge’s son, he’d be back. But first things first.
    â€œIt’s a deal,” he said. “Just get me out of here.”

THE RELUCTANT HORSEMAN
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    Tom pulled at his starched white collar, and a trickle of sweat ran down his neck. He sat bolt upright on a wooden bench, his muscular frame in a blue serge suit, a stark contrast to the figures on either side of him. To his left was a lanky young man in denim and high-heeled riding boots, spurs, and a black Stetson. The one on his right wore low-heeled boots, riding breeches, and a buckskin coat. The hat was a giveaway—also a Stetson, but flat-brimmed.
    Tom had shaken hands with them—Bruce Johanson, cowboy, and Gordon Ferguson, ex-North West Mounted Policeman—and now the three of them fidgeted in the off-green orderly room of Fort Osborne Barracks, Winnipeg.
    A corporal, partially hidden behind a desk piled high with papers and buff-coloured files, stopped typing and ripped a form from the carriage. “Macrae,” he said. Tom stood and walked to the desk. “Read this. Check it’s accurate.”
    The form was on legal-size paper—did the army know how ironic that was?—and headed “Attestation Paper; Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force.” Next of kin, address, marital status. It would bind Tom to serve for at least a year, more if required, during the “war now existing between Great Britain and Germany,” or “until legally discharged.” He had to swear to be faithful and bear true allegiance to King George the Fifth, and to obey “all the Generals and Officers set over me.”
    He didn’t really pay much attention. He would sign it whatever it said. He picked up a straight pen off the desk and dipped it into the corporal’s inkpot.
    â€œJust a minute, Macrae. We need an officer to witness.” The corporal knocked on a door behind his desk.
    A moment later it opened and a bulky man in khaki walked out. It was Cedric Inkmann. He looked at the form and then at Tom. “Well, well. Tom Macrae.”
    Tom kept his mouth shut.
    â€œRead the oath aloud, Mr. Macrae.”
    He did so.
    â€œSign it in three places, Mr. Macrae.”
    He signed. In three places, beside the X s. In triplicate.
    Inkmann signed as witness, picked up the papers. “Welcome to the Canadian army, Private.”
    â€œThank you,” said Tom, his voice neutral.
    Inkmann kept his eyes on Tom. “Corporal,” he said, “once you have cleaned up your paperwork and uniforms have been issued, kindly march Private Macrae to