Free Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Page A

reins and they hurtled forward like a rock from a slingshot. The mounted riders, ditches, and fields blurred by. Tom was quaking, terrified that Rusty would pull his sidestepping trick and dump him face first onto the gravel.
    After a hard half mile Rusty started to slow. Tom knew he had to assert control over his horse or his life would be miserable, and they’d both be at risk in battle. He spurred Rusty ahead into a ground-eating canter for a few minutes, then let him slow to a trot, finally turning him back toward the troop, which trotted toward them. He put the horse through his paces, turning him from side to side in the road, pulling him to a stop, walking again, then trotting back to join Quartermain and the rest of the advancing riders.
    â€œFall in at the rear,” Quartermain ordered, and Tom reined Rusty into position.
    â€œNice ride, cowboy,” Johanson drawled as he passed. Tom took it as a compliment, and gave Rusty a hard pat on the neck. The gelding shook his head and snorted.
    â™¦Â Â â™¦Â Â â™¦
    That afternoon Tom spent extra time brushing Rusty, who had settled down after their wild career of the morning, while Johanson, Gordon Ferguson, and a few of the other soldiers lounged outside the box stall. Ferguson, the former North West Mounted Policeman, was regaling the men with his adventures on the western frontier. Tom was amused by his Scottish accent, which put him in mind of some of the older Highlanders living in Winnipeg. Fergie, as everyone called him, would quote Robert Burns on any pretext. When Tom had mentioned his own Scottish roots, Fergie had grasped his hand and shouted, “Gie us yer hand, mon! Gie us yer twa hands!”
    One of the sergeant instructors, Ronald Planck, walked briskly into the stable. He pointed at Ferguson and another man, Wayne Milroy. “I need two men—you and you—for a cleanup detail.”
    â€œ. . . So I said get inta the cell or I’ll put ye in,” Ferguson continued, then looked at Planck. “I did cleanup yesterday. Ye’ll need someone else, Sergeant.”
    Even the horses seemed to stop swishing their tails and stamping their hoofs. Planck was English, a regular British army soldier who had been promoted rapidly after his infantry regiment had been decimated in the first months of the war. He was in Canada to teach bayonet drill and shooting, and was now wearing the badge of Lord Strathcona’s Horse. Planck’s working-class accent grated on Canadian ears; he was especially hard to understand when he was excited.
    â€œI said you, Ferguson. On yer bloody feet and get over to the mess hall.”
    Ferguson, whose dislike of all things English was well known, stood and brushed straw off his breeches. “Go ta hell.”
    Planck and Ferguson stood toe to toe, Planck flexing and unflexing his fingers. He grimaced. “So it’s like that, is it?” he said, and took off his tunic, calmly folding it and placing it, along with his cap, on a bale of straw. Fists raised in the classic Marquess of Queensberry stance, he advanced on Ferguson. “Come on, then, you Scottish refugee. I’ve not got my rank on now.”
    Stripped to the waist, Planck was thick-chested and muscular, and looked like he knew what he was doing. Ferguson is up against it this time, Tom thought.
    Planck crouched, left arm extended, right fist cocked and ready. Ferguson put up his fists, shot out a left jab—then without warning lashed out with his left boot, catching Planck square in the crotch. The sergeant was lifted off the ground then collapsed, groaning, in a heap. Clutching himself, he curled into a fetal position.
    The boys let out a collective gasp and melted away, apparently remembering duties elsewhere. Johanson clapped Ferguson on the back.
    â€œBetter get lost,” Tom said to Ferguson, who left the stable.
    Tom and Johanson helped the sergeant to a sitting position, then to his feet,