Free Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay

gravel road. Fields of stubble with a skim of snow stretched to the horizon on both sides.
    The horses were well warmed up and the troop had settled into a mile-eating trot. Tom’s thighs and buttocks were over their initial saddle sores. He and Rusty had reached an understanding: Rusty would still try to embarrass him whenever he could, but once Tom got him through the first hour or so of their day, the horse just couldn’t be bothered.
    To Tom’s surprise he was starting to enjoy army life. His days started at 4:30 in the morning, when he tended to the needs of his “long-nosed soldier” in the stable, and ended when Rusty was bedded down for the night. Between those times, they and their troopmates walked, shot, trotted, stabbed at dummies with swords, and galloped. Then they rode some more.
    Quartermain had started the day off by having the men fall in on foot on the Fort Osborne Barracks parade square. He was a ruler-straight figure in his gleaming, calf-high riding boots, belt, and shoulder strap. He paced in front of them, his riding crop in its familiar position in his right hand with the other end tucked under his arm.
    â€œYou are a useless rabble. You want to be cavalrymen and the army wants you to be cavalrymen, but I have my doubts. A few of you can ride, but I still see bank tellers, teamsters, store clerks. Even a bloody lawyer if you can believe it.”
    Tom grinned as the troops guffawed.
    â€œYou have two weeks to prove to me you can do the job. If you can’t ride to the army’s standard by that time, you will be shipped off to England to join the God-forsaken, boot-stomping infantry. Any volunteers at this point?” He waited. “All right then, mount up. Let’s see you look like a cavalry troop and not a bunch of farmers out for a Sunday ride.”
    Two by two the troop trotted west for an hour. When they reached a small stream, Quartermain led them off the road and ordered the dismount. Tom loosened Rusty’s girth and took him down to the stream to drink.
    Bruce Johanson, who had ridden at Tom’s side all morning, stretched and farted. “Nothing like a good ride to make a guy regular.” A broad grin, Johanson’s usual expression, split his face. “Can’t believe my good luck. The army pays me to ride a horse. They even provide the horse. Shoot—at a dollar a day I’ll be able to afford one of those fancy Winnipeg whores in no time.”
    Quartermain waited until the horses had drunk their fill before ordering the troop back up to the road.
    â€œListen here,” he shouted. He waited for the creak of saddle leather and the men’s chatter to quieten. “Line up in single file along the side of the road and on my order, walk back toward town. I’ll order the last man to trot to the head of the column and then walk. Then the next man, and so on. If it goes well, we’ll move everybody along at a trot and do the final manoeuvre to the front at the gallop. Any questions? No? WALK—march.”
    Sounds easy, thought Tom. Johanson had contrived to be last man in the file in order to go first, as usual. Rusty and Tom were fourth from the rear. On Quartermain’s order Johanson reined his horse to the left into the centre of the road and trotted to the head of the column. The next two men in their turn followed suit. Tom waited for the signal. Quartermain nodded at him.
    Tom turned his horse to the left and touched him with his spurs. Rusty shot ahead, bolting up the road. Tom grabbed his saddle with one hand, sawing at the reins with the other. His mount bucked into the air, planted his forelegs hard and kicked up with his hindquarters. Tom nearly went over his head but somehow stayed in the saddle. The boys yelled and whooped as Rusty danced along the road. Tom transferred the reins to both hands and fought to hold him in.
    Quartermain cantered up alongside. “Let him go!” he shouted. Tom eased the