247
You stand by the side of the highway and call out to the driver of the first empty wagon that appears. You beg him to give you a ride and he acknowledges your plea with a wide, gap-toothed smile. Pulling hard on his reins, he slows his team of eight horses to a halt and then he beckons you over to his side.
‘Ho, scout, where’s your horse?’ he asks.
‘He shed a shoe and went lame,’ you say. ‘I’ve left him at yonder farm. I must get back to Duadon and report it to my captain.’
‘Wouldn’t want t’be in your boots, friend,’ says the driver’s mate, a skinny man with closely cropped grey hair. ‘If you lose that horse o’ yours, lame or no, the army’ll dock you a year’s pay. You jus’ see if they don’t.’
The two men enjoy a hearty laugh at your expense, but neither seems to doubt your story. ‘Aye, scout. We’ll give you a ride. Go hop in the back o’ the wagon and we’ll be away.’
