The pastor’s skin began to prickle. It was not a pleasurable sensation. He stole a glance over his shoulder. Private Hector Lyle, a lightly built man with pale blue eyes and a day’s growth of beard, was directly behind him. The fourth soldier, taller with darker features, whom Stryker had called Dan, and whose last name De Witt had learnt was York, was bringing up the rear. Both troopers were looking about them warily.

“Is it the boy?” De Witt hissed. “Have we found them?”

Stryker did not reply. His eyes were on the tracker.

Wondering if Stryker had heard him, and made uneasy by the new-found alertness of the men on either side of him, the pastor was about to repeat the question when the stillness was broken by two loud clicks as Corporal Stryker and Privates Lyle and York cocked their muskets, and by the rusty-pump call of a blue jay which came suddenly from the woods to their right.

Fitch spun towards the sound.

With a whoop that turned De Witt’s blood cold, a sleek brown shape dropped from the trees in front of them. Fitch did not complete his turn. The warning died in his throat as the tomahawk blade sliced into his jugular. Blood jetted as the Indian tugged the weapon free. Stryker let go of the horses, brought his musket up and fired from the hip. The Indian fell back with a cry as another wild ululation erupted from the trees behind and a second dark-skinned figure burst into view.

Dropping his reins, Trooper York pivoted towards his attacker. With astonishing speed the Indian hooked the musket barrel away with the head of his war club, ducked and sliced the knife he was carrying in his other hand across the trooper’s thigh, severing the artery. As York collapsed with a scream, the musket dropped from his grip and the club curved around again, shattering his skull.

Three more breech-clouted figures appeared above them. There was another sharp report and Stryker’s horse toppled on to its side, legs kicking. Making a grab for the bridle of Fitch’s by now terrified mount, the corporal threw his musket aside and drew a pistol from his belt. Using the horse as a shield he aimed the pistol towards the top of the bank and fired. A body toppled into the gulley.

“Behind me, Reverend!” he shouted.

Trooper Lyle yelled a warning as his friend’s killer ran towards him. Ramming his musket one-handed into the Indian’s chest, he squeezed the trigger. The Indian threw up his arms as he was catapulted backwards by the force of the shot. But even as Lyle’s victim fell, another warrior rose from concealment. Teeth bared, he drew his arm back and with a wild shriek hurled his tomahawk at the trooper, who was frantically trying to reload his weapon.