Soldier of the Horse (3 page)

Tom noted another characteristic common to the Inkmann brothers: They never quite looked you in the eye when they spoke.

Tom had drained his second glass. He refilled it again, and looked around to see if there was anything interesting going on, such as any sign of Ellen Evans. He caught sight of her as she strolled with another girl on the far side of the lawn.

Cedric Inkmann interrupted Tom's thoughts. “You needn't waste your efforts there. She won't have time for the likes of you.”

Tom felt a surge of anger at Inkmann's tone. The aristocratic accent didn't help. “You should mind your own business,” he growled, temper flaring. He felt like smashing Inkmann in the face, but instead he placed his glass on the table, working hard to stop his hand from shaking, giving his anger time to dissipate. On his best behaviour, he turned and walked away.

Tom was his father's son. Bill Macrae was a hard-driving, hard-drinking prairie contractor; he would hire dozens of rambunctious teamsters and labourers for various projects, and didn't hesitate to maintain order with his fists or whatever tool came to hand. Sometimes Tom, as the boss's son, was sent to collect teamsters from back alleys in the North End where they were sleeping off the effects of a night's carousing. Still drunk or angry men sometimes took a swing at him and the fight would be on. But Tom reasoned that bare-knuckle brawling was not a requirement for a law career and might even interfere with it, so he did his best to avoid trouble.

He took a deep breath and contented himself by exploring the back of the Evans lawn, which looked out on the Assiniboine River. The sight of the grey-brown river, slowing to flow into the Red two miles downstream, calmed him until the punch bowl once again beckoned. Inkmann had moved on and was nowhere to be seen.

The sun had slipped down behind trees to the west, and some of the guests, as if responding to its pull, were leaving. Tom saw a group of young people, mostly men, around Ellen and her friend. One of the uniformed men was Bill Reagan, whom he knew from university.

He walked over and noticed that Bill stood face to face with Ellen, which puzzled him. Bill was several inches shorter than Tom.

Ellen said something to Bill that Tom didn't hear.

“Fort Garry Horse,” Bill responded. “It's a reserve unit, but we're being brought up to full strength in order to be ready to go overseas as soon as possible. Cavalry.”

“Cavalry?” Tom butted in. “The papers say there's no place for cavalry in modern warfare.”

“Nonsense.” Bill snorted as if he were a horse himself. “Mounted soldiers are very mobile.” He added with a laugh, “And at least I'll go to war like a gentleman. On horseback.”

“A gentleman? Guess that lets me out,” Tom joked, and was rewarded by appreciative chuckles.

He saw that Bill was standing on a flat stone, one of several that bordered a flower bed. No wonder he was eyeball to eyeball with Ellen. When he teetered a little, Tom reached up with his right hand, grasped the back of Bill's tunic and pulled him down off his perch. He put his arm around his friend's shoulders and grinned at Ellen.

“Now where did Bill go?” Ellen laughed. “I could have sworn I was just talking to him.”

“Oh, Bill is right here. He always lands on his feet, even if he falls from a great height.”

“And what about you, Tom Macrae? Do you always land on your feet?”

“Always. And I've got nowhere to go but up.”

Ellen gave him a frank look and smiled. “You must tell me about it some day. But I see Daddy waving, and I have guests to say goodbye to. I do want to hear all about Bloody Jack Kravenko and Henry Zink, though.”

She gave a little wave of her hand, which might have been an embrace, given its effect on Tom as he watched her walk away. He had felt lightheaded earlier; now he figured it was a miracle his feet remained on the ground.

Miss Ellen Evans wanted to see him again.

♦  ♦  ♦

Tom's reveries were interrupted by the sound of John Evans's voice out in the courthouse hall, talking to the policemen. Evans came back into the interview room, closed the door behind him, and sat across the table from Tom. His face was haggard, as if he, too, hadn't slept well.

“I'm willing to help in a limited fashion, but after today I have worries of my own.”

“I don't want . . .”

Evans cut Tom off with a raised hand. “I'm going to bring you up to date, then you can decide what you want to do. As you know, Bloody Jack is on the run. He escaped using a gun smuggled in to him by persons unknown.” Evans gave Tom a sharp glance. Tom was annoyed at the unspoken question, but at the same time he was amused at Evans's tone, which would have been more in keeping with an address to the House of Lords. “Kravenko used the gun to subdue the guards. He locked them in a storage room and climbed to the roof. Once there, he let himself down the outside of the jail, but the rope, which had also been smuggled in, parted when he was halfway down.”

Tom would have laughed aloud if he hadn't been in jail himself. Jack Kravenko, the scourge of the entire province of Manitoba, the man who had eluded and taunted the police for months, had taken a pratfall while escaping jail. Tom was almost afraid to ask. “What kind of gun did Bloody Jack have? Where did he get it?”

“I don't know. But I fear the worst.”

“Meaning it was smuggled in by Henry Zink?”

“Precisely.”

Tom's mind raced. Henry Zink, Bloody Jack's lawyer, had been arrested, presumably due to the jailbreak. Tom had been arrested, linked to the escape by the simple fact that he worked for Zink, but not only that: Tom, and others, had often met with Kravenko in his cell. And somehow a gun had ended up in Bloody Jack's possession.

“Unfortunately, for Kravenko and perhaps for others,” Evans continued, “he appears to have been injured in the fall. Even so, he hobbled off and made good his escape, although he dropped the gun at the scene.”

“What do you mean, unfortunate for him ‘and perhaps for others'?” Tom asked. A thought flashed through his mind: too bad Jack hadn't broken his neck; it would save the government the hangman's fee. But that was no way for a student lawyer to think.

“What I mean, Mr. Macrae, is that if and when the police capture Kravenko, they will take a statement from him. Who knows what he will say in an effort to gain some advantage?” Evans gave Tom a searching glance. “And that could affect a lot of people. I must also tell you that your employer, Henry Zink, is under arrest.”

“I know Henry was arrested. We shared accommodation last night.” Tom mulled over what Evans had said. “Just a minute,” he cried, relief in his voice. The words rushed out. “You. You were in the cell with Bloody Jack and Zink and me before his escape. We all carried briefcases. I was the first to leave, and I took my briefcase with me.” He stopped. He had been about to say that, for all he knew, Zink or Evans could have smuggled in the gun. He didn't trust Zink, but he did not want to come to the same conclusion about John Evans.

As if he read Tom's mind, Evans said, “I do recall you leaving, but for some reason you were not signed out. I was. So was Zink, later on. So I have corroboration that Henry was in with Bloody Jack, after I left. You don't have that corroboration. My evidence would help you, but that makes me a witness, so I can't act as your lawyer in any formal way.”

Again Tom desperately cudgelled his memory. Why had he not signed out of the jail after the meeting with Evans, Zink, and Bloody Jack? And who knew what story Zink was concocting to clear his name while implicating Tom? His mind rocked with an image of himself once again behind bars.

“I've got to get out of this.” His voice cracked. He felt like ramming his head against the wall.

Evans spoke quietly. “There is something we can do.”

Tom looked at him.

“Judge Paterson of the appeal court has taken a personal interest in your case. I know him well and have arranged an interview with him.” He pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “He's waiting for us now.”

Tom had nothing to lose. Evans led the way out of the room and down the hall to the judge's chambers, policemen pacing behind them. He knocked on a door, and one of the constables put his hand on Tom's arm.

“Come,” reverberated a muffled voice from inside.

Evans opened the door, and Tom and the policemen followed him in. Seated in front of a large desk was Tom's father, Bill, and behind the desk, in a tall, ornate chair, was Court of Appeal Justice George Paterson. Paterson had once been Bill's lawyer.

On the wall behind the judge was the Manitoba coat of arms; paintings of buffalo and Native encampments were hung on the other three sides of the room.

Paterson nodded at the policemen. “That will be all, gentlemen.” They left, shutting the door behind them with a barely audible click.

Paterson stood, not a tall man, but an imposing, portly figure in waistcoat, striped trousers, and wing collar, with his robe tossed casually across a side table. He held out his hand and Tom shook it, not knowing what to expect. The judge steered him and Evans to chairs, then returned to his own.

“This is rather unusual. I'm sure you're wondering why you're here,” said Paterson, as Tom glanced from the judge to his father. “Your father and your counsel,” he continued, nodding at Evans, “have brought me up to date on the charges you face. I'm discussing this with you, by the way, out of respect for your father and of course I know John Evans well. But if any aspect of this matter reaches the Court of Appeal I will excuse myself and leave the field to my brother judges. So much for the formalities. From what I understand, the police, in spite of the charges they have laid, do not have a strong case against you. Their theory is that you filed the serial numbers off a gun, then smuggled it in to Kravenko.”

“I didn't smuggle any gun. Or file off any serial numbers.”

“I'll take your word on that, for the sake of our present discussion,” Paterson said, frowning. “I understand, however, that a Colt hammerless automatic, probably the weapon Kravenko used in his escape, was stolen from Ashdown's Hardware by persons unknown. I also understand,” and he flashed a glance at Evans, “that it was delivered to Zink's office. And that you, Zink, and Mr. Evans here visited Kravenko in his cell some time after that.”

Paterson went on to recount what Tom already knew from Evans. He added, “I have just learned that a court clerk, who had been working late and chanced by, was shot by Kravenko after he descended from the top floor of the jail. The clerk identified Bloody Jack as the man who shot him. I also know that Inspector Boyle, the officer in charge, wants to see you all in Stony Mountain. You should know that Zink is a dangerous man—and a very capable one. In order to save his own skin he's pointing the finger in all directions, but most specifically at you, Tom.”

The mention of Stony Mountain sent a shiver up Tom's spine. An overnight cell in the police lockup was one thing. Stony Mountain Penitentiary was quite another.

Tom's father leaned forward and spoke. “Judge Paterson has a proposition for you.”

Tom looked at the judge.

“Tom, your law career may be over. Inspector Boyle is convinced you were involved in the jailbreak and will hound you until he gets a conviction. Even if you avoid him and are not convicted of anything, I doubt that the Law Society would ever admit you. Dirt will stick to you as this fiasco unfolds, and the leaders of the Law Society are not known for their generosity in admitting men of doubtful character.”

Tom felt blood rush to his face. He had been dragged into a courtroom and embarrassed, and that was bad enough. Now here was a judge of the highest court in the province implying he was a dupe or worse.

Paterson's gaze flicked across a framed photograph on the side table. “There is a way out. With honour, that will wipe the slate clean. The British Empire is in the utmost need of men in Europe. My own son . . .” He paused, and Tom looked more closely at the photograph—a young man in an officer's uniform. He glanced back at the judge, whose face had 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.

“It's a deal,” he said. “Just get me out of here.”

THE RELUCTANT HORSEMAN

♦   ♦   ♦

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.