Any hopes that the snow might cushion his fall were displaced as soon as he hit the ground. There was no give in the surface at all. It was solid earth beneath snow. The musket slung across his shoulder didn’t help, and when the stock caught the base of his spine as he landed, the pain of it knocked the breath from his body and brought tears to his eyes. Winded and half-stunned, for one terrible moment he wondered if he’d actually suffered permanent injury. When he found he could feel his arms and legs, relief surged through him.

Wincing as another stab of pain scooted across his lower back, he pushed himself off the snow. Oneas lay forty paces away. Remarkably, his horse had not run off. Instead, it was waiting only a few yards further on, trembling but unharmed. The fact that it had remained in attendance, as it had done when its previous master, Lieutenant Nevens, had taken his tumble, suggested it was army-trained and not intimidated by either gunfire or the loss of its rider.

Lawrence looked for the source of the shots. He ducked back down behind his mount’s heaving flank as two figures emerged from the woods on the other side of Oneas’ body: a white man and an Indian. The white man was dressed in a fur-lined buckskin coat and wide-brimmed hat. The Indian wore a similar coat but his head was bare, revealing a greying scalp lock. Both carried long guns and both were instantly familiar. It was the pair from Colonel Pike’s headquarters, the Oneida warrior and the individual whom Pike’s fellow colonel had addressed as Amos. Lawrence swore softly. It looked as though he’d just found Quade’s advance scouts.

A rattling sigh broke from his horse’s mouth. The animal shuddered and then grew still. Across the snow, the two shooters advanced cautiously.

And Oneas’ right arm moved.

To Lawrence, it looked as if the Mohawk was trying to raise himself. He did not succeed. Moving swiftly and silently, the Oneida warrior ran forward, pulled a knife from his waist, bent down, and drew the blade across Oneas’ exposed throat.

As, gingerly, Lawrence eased the musket strap from his shoulder.

He fired as the Oneida rose to his feet. The ball struck the Indian in the upper chest and he was thrown backwards. The white man paused in a half crouch, as Lawrence tossed the musket aside and picked up the pistol he’d taken from his saddle holster. “Move an inch and I will shoot you dead.”

Lawrence, ignoring the stabbing twinge in his back, wondered if the fall had reopened his other wound. His side felt damp, but that could have been from the snow.