Two of the men at the table were in uniform. As the escorts took up position behind Hawkwood and Lawrence, guarding the door, one of the uniformed men stepped forward.

Young, early to mid-thirties, Hawkwood decided, for there was no grey in his hair, which was full and wavy save for some thinning around the temples, giving him a high forehead and lending an elongated look to his features. Lantern light played across pale skin, a pair of dark eyes, a sharp nose and slightly prominent lips which, had they belonged to a woman, might have been described as petulant.

He stared at the prisoners. After what seemed like a full ten seconds of silent appraisal, he announced, in a hard and clipped tone, “My name is Zebulon Pike. I hear you killed two of my men.”

Hell and shit, Hawkwood thought.

“You have anything to say?” Pike asked.

Another extended period of silence ensued.

“It would seem not,” Lawrence said.

Hawkwood saw the second uniformed officer’s eyes narrow.

A nerve flickered along Pike’s left temple. “You’re Lawrence,” he said slowly.

“I am he.”

Pike nodded thoughtfully. His head swivelled. “Which makes you Hooper.”

Hawkwood did not reply. What was the man expecting him to do – fall to his knees and beg forgiveness? That wasn’t going to happen. Hell would freeze over first.

He looked past Pike’s shoulder at the rough log walls seamed with mud and at the earthen floor. There was nothing remotely comfortable about the cabin’s interior. A part-drawn curtain separated the main floor space from a sleeping area to the rear in which the corner of a metal bedstead and a large wooden chest could just be seen. Other than that, few concessions had been made with regards to either privacy or the rank of the occupant. A cast-iron stove stood against one wall, while the rest of the furniture, like the hut itself, was sparse and functional, consisting of a table, four plain chairs and a small campaign desk. Various uniform items and a sword hung from a row of hooks on the wall beside the door.

Hawkwood switched his gaze to the three men standing by the table. The second uniformed officer was a far more imposing figure than Pike – tall, well over six feet in height, with a stout, well-proportioned build and an upright posture which, even if he had not been in uniform, would nevertheless have marked him out as a military man. The dark hair, swept back from a stern face gave a hard, gritty edge to his features. He, too, wore the uniform of a colonel.