He could hear voices but they were low and indistinct. He couldn’t see who was speaking because the rump of Isaac Meeker’s dead nag blocked his line of sight.

It occurred to Smede that he was probably the only one of Deacon’s party left alive. From the looks of Axel Shaw, he must have bled to death. There was no sign of Kidd, but Smede doubted the youth would have survived the ambush – or stuck around if he had.

Which meant he was on his own, with a decision to make. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to his brother’s glassy stare and a fresh spark of anger flared within him.

As his gaze alighted on Levi’s pistol.

A low moan came from close by. Smede dropped down quickly. He held his breath, waiting until the sound trailed off before cautiously raising his head once. Will Archer was propped some twenty paces away. One of the green-clad men was with him; he shouted something and two of the attackers ran immediately towards the barn.

Another movement drew Ephraim’s attention. A second pair was rounding up the horses. One of them, Ephraim saw to his consternation, was an Indian. His startled gaze took in the face paint and the weapons that the dark-skinned warrior carried about him. There was also what appeared to be a lock of hair hanging from his breechclout.

Bile rose into the back of Ephraim’s throat. Escape, he now realized, wasn’t only advisable; it was essential.

He watched through narrowed eyes, nerves taut, as the two Rangers pulled open the barn door and disappeared inside. Quickly, his gaze turned back to the pistol lying a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder.

Now, he thought.

Concealed by Meeker’s horse, Smede inched his way towards the unguarded firearm until he was able to close his fingers around the gun’s smooth walnut grip.

He took another deep breath, gathering himself, waiting until the Indian’s attention was averted. One chance at a clear shot; that’s all he would get.

And then he would run.

He knew the woods like the back of his hand; if he could just make it to the trees, the forest would hide him.

Maybe.

His main fear was the Mohawk, because the pistol, with its single load, was all he had. But his brother’s killer came first. An eye for an eye, so that Levi could go to the grave knowing that his brother had exacted revenge. So …

In one fluid motion, Smede snatched up the gun, rose to his feet, took aim, and fired.

As the blood-smeared figure tilted towards them, Wyatt, caught between supporting the wounded Archer and reaching for his weapon, let out a yell. Alerted by his cry, Tewanias and Donaldson both turned.

Too late.

The ball thudded into Archer’s chest and he collapsed back into Wyatt’s arms with a muffled grunt.