Read Apparition Trail, The for Free Online Page B

wide. I eased my right hand in the direction of my Winchester, getting ready for the worst.
    Sergeant Wilde shouted at the Indian braves who had leapt from their ponies to cluster in front of the last of the tepees in an effort to prevent him from kicking it over. The tepee was the one with the painted animals: the one that stood just at the end of the tracks. Wilde, the very image of a snarling dog, barked an order at me, but I could not hear him over the din. I expect he was ordering me to charge forward, or shoot — or something — anything that would scatter the braves and let him complete the job he’d begun. Inside the tepee, a drum continued to throb.
    I looked askance at the angry warriors who stood in front of the tepee. More than one had his weapon pointed at Wilde’s chest. I started to caution him: “Sergeant, I don’t think that’s such a good—”
    The drumming suddenly stopped. A second later, the flap of the tepee flew open. Out strode a peculiar looking figure: a brave with his face painted a solid yellow, wearing a lynx-skin cap with five large eagle plumes descending from it. He looked about forty years of age and moved with the lean, lithe grace of the cat whose ears now decorated his bonnet. His eyes were small and hard, two shiny black flints in a face twisted with hatred, and his long dark hair had a curl to it that is not often found among the Indian race. In one hand he held an iron-bladed tomahawk, in the other, a slender stick with a single black feather attached to it. He strode toward the Sergeant, and the braves parted to give him way.
    The Sergeant, to give him credit, stood his ground, arms folded over the breast of his scarlet jacket, his countenance set in a stern expression. Only the quiver of his moustache revealed the depths of the emotion he was feeling.
    “I order you to move on,” he told the brave in a dangerously low grumble. “You are encamped on Canadian Pacific Railway property. If you fail to move on we will arrest—”
    In that instant, the yellow-faced warrior let out an unearthly howl. Leaping forward, he struck the Sergeant — but not with the tomahawk. Instead he hit Wilde in the chest with the narrow wand, which slapped only lightly against the breast of the Sergeant’s Norfolk jacket without even enough force to disturb any of his brass buttons. Then the warrior turned, the feathers on his lynx-skin bonnet fluttering, and walked disdainfully away.
    The Sergeant paused a moment, his eyebrows puckering in a confused frown. Then he snorted, and strode between the braves before they could again close ranks. With one swift kick of his foot, Wilde kicked the key pole of the last tepee to the ground.
    The Indians gave him several dark looks, but now their chief was speaking. I couldn’t understand Piapot’s words, but his gestures were plain enough. His arms were raised, one palm forward in a calming gesture. He spoke in a steady voice, pointing the stem of his pipe at this tepee and that. The warriors grumbled for a moment or two, and one let out a whoop of protest, but when the yellow-painted brave lent his voice to the chief’s, they fell silent. The women came scurrying back to their collapsed tepees and began pulling their property out of them and packing it away.
    Sergeant Wilde strode back to where I still sat, mounted on Buck, and swung back into his saddle.
    “There,” he muttered to himself. “We showed them who’s boss. These aren’t heathen lands any more. They know now that if they try that trick again, they’ll have the mounted police to contend with.”
    “Yes, Sergeant,” I murmured. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Wilde had indeed cowed them. As the women packed the camp’s belongings onto travois, the braves gathered around the warrior in the lynx cap, listening to him speak. One or two turned to look at us, and when they did so, the expressions on their faces were anything but contrite. They seemed almost smug — as if they’d won