De Witt stared down at the ground. All he could see were patches of scuffed earth amid a carpet of forest litter. “It has to be him, hasn’t it?”

Stryker looked at Fitch who gave a curt nod and said, “Whoever it was, his horse was shod. I’d say it’s a good chance.” Fitch lifted his chin to indicate a spot a little way off. “Found some paw prints, too.”

“Hound?” Stryker said.

“Aye. They ain’t in a straight line neither. I’d say he was chasing something, followin’ a scent most likely.”

“Saw something in the bushes and left the trail to give chase,” Stryker said. “That fits with what we know. All right, we’ll stick with the hoof marks. They’re all yours, Jubal. I’ll hold your horse while you take point. Reverend, you’re behind me; no talkin’.”

They set off on foot, Fitch walking ahead with his eyes fixed on the trail, cradling his musket. The others followed in single file, leading the horses.

The men kept up a steady pace in pursuit of Fitch as he quartered the ground, sometimes indicating for the others to wait while he examined the path ahead, then calling them on.

After forty minutes, Fitch, who was some fifteen paces in the lead, held up his hand. They stopped.

“We’ve got bear scat,” Fitch said.

“Oh, dear Lord,” De Witt said softly. He searched the trees anxiously.

“Don’t worry, Reverend,” Fitch said. “It ain’t that fresh.”

Fitch pointed towards the splintered stump at the side of the track. To the pastor, it looked as if someone had taken an axe or a hammer to it, for it had been split open to reveal the rotten wood within. “She stopped a while; broke the stump open to get at the innards.”

“She?” De Witt said.

“There’s cub prints over yonder. Cubs travel with the mother. Once Papa Bear plants his seed, he don’t give a shit. Leaves the sow to bring up the youngsters.” Fitch studied the disembowelled tree stump, sifting through the slivers of bark that lay alongside it. “Berries ain’t ripe enough to eat. She was after grubs.” The tracker’s expression hardened. “I got broken grass and paw prints over there an’ all.” Fitch indicated the ground. “Hoof marks, too.”

De Witt sucked in his breath.

“No signs of a set-to, though,” Fitch murmured. “The boy was damned lucky. Either she knew he was no threat to her cubs or else she wasn’t in a mood for a fight because of the dog. She headed off that way.” The tracker lifted his chin to indicate the direction.

“And the hoof prints?” De Witt said.

Fitch frowned. “They stopped. I’d say the horse caught her scent and decided he weren’t goin’ no further.”

“At least one of them showed good sense,” Stryker murmured.

This drew an accusing look from De Witt.