“Rangers?” Archer blinked in confusion and then, as the significance of the word hit him, he made a desperate grab for Wyatt’s arm. “My wife; she’s hurt!”

“My men will see to her,” Wyatt said. He flicked a glance at Donaldson, who crossed swiftly to the cabin. “Let me take a look at your wound.”

“No!” Archer thrust away Wyatt’s hand. “She needs me!”

He tried to push himself off the ground, but the effort proved too much and he sank down. “Help her,” he urged. “Please.”

Wyatt looked off to where Donaldson was crouched over the fallen woman. A grim expression on his gaunt face, the Ranger shook his head. Laying his hand on Archer’s shoulder once more, Wyatt helped him sit up. “I’m so very sorry. I’m afraid we’re too late. She’s gone.”

The wounded man let out a cry of despair. Knowing that nothing he could say would help, Wyatt scanned the clearing. Twenty minutes ago, he had been up on the hill, admiring the tranquillity. Now the ground seemed to be strewn with bodies. As Donaldson covered the woman’s face with a cloth, Wyatt turned back to her husband.

Archer made no protest as Wyatt prised his hand from the wound, but he could not suppress a gasp of pain as the Ranger opened the bloodied shirt.

One glance told Wyatt all he needed to know. “We must get you to a surgeon.”

The nearest practitioner was in Johnstown, but to deliver the wounded man there would be asking for trouble. An army surgeon and a brace of medical assistants had accompanied the invasion force. They were the farmer’s best chance.

Although, given his current condition, Wyatt doubted whether the wounded man would survive the first eight yards, let alone the eight miles they’d need to traverse across what was, in effect, hostile country.

He looked off towards the paddock, where the horses were staring back at him, ears pricked. Wyatt could tell they were skittish, no doubt agitated by the recent skirmish, but it gave him an idea.

“Is there a cart or a wagon?” he asked.

“The barn,” Archer replied weakly. He tried to point but found he couldn’t lift his arm.

“Easy,” Wyatt said. Cupping the farmer’s shoulder, he called to his men. “Jem! Billy! There’s transport in the barn! Hitch up the horses! Smartly now!”

As he watched them go, he heard a murmur and realized the farmer was speaking to him. He lowered his head to catch the words.

“You’re Rangers?” Archer enquired hoarsely as his lips tried to form the question. “What are you doing here?”

“We came for you,” Wyatt said.

“Me?” Puzzlement clouded the farmer’s face.