Even with its lower branches lopped off, the oak was massive. It would have taken too much work to uproot it completely or reduce it to a stump, so judicious pruning had been the order of the day. Carved into the trunk at eye level were three gouges arranged to form the letter H. So even was the symmetry that Stryker suspected they were as much a symbol of the engineers’ respect for such a worthy and indomitable specimen as they were a recognition sign for those who followed in the footsteps of the men who’d made the road. He wondered why he hadn’t taken note of it the first time he’d marched past.

The search party dismounted.

Stryker tapped Fitch on the arm: “Jubal, you and Hector take the west side. Me and Dan’ll take the east.” Then he addressed De Witt: “You stay with the horses, Reverend. The rest of us’ll see if we can pick up the boy’s trail. Don’t you go wanderin’ off now, you hear?”

De Witt nodded solemnly.

Stryker turned to his men. “We’ll split up at fifty paces; one heads north, the other south. That way, if the lad did leave the road hereabouts, we’ve four chances of crossin’ his trail.”

De Witt removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief as each pair of soldiers took their respective side of the road and stepped into the trees. As he watched them vanish, the pastor was struck by the scale of the task facing them. What if Libby had been wrong, he thought apprehensively, what if the boy hadn’t left the road here but somewhere else? How would they pick up his trail then?

So his heart leapt when, after only a few minutes, he heard a whistle from within the forest over on the west side of the road. He barely had time to register the sound before he was rejoined by three of the four soldiers. Trooper Fitch, he saw, was not among them.

“Looks like Jubal’s struck lucky,” Stryker announced confidently. “All right, let’s move.”

Taking the reins of Fitch’s horse along with his own, Stryker led the way. De Witt walked behind him. The other two troopers brought up the rear. They found Fitch seated on the ground with his back resting against a silver birch. His musket lay across his knees. He stood as the others drew near.

“What’ve you got, Jubal?” Stryker asked, his voice couched low.

Fitch indicated a set of indentations on the forest floor. “Hoof prints.”

“Recent?”

Fitch pursed his lips. “Well, they ain’t that old. There’s been other critters through here; some of ’em came before, some of ’em after. But edges are sharp and there’s not many leaves in the tracks yet, so a couple of hours, maybe.”