The buckskin-clad man straightened. There was no expression of surprise, though when he looked at the body of his companion and then back at Lawrence and caught sight of Lawrence’s moccasins, he frowned. As his gaze shifted to Lawrence’s face, his eyes hardened. “You’re a hard man to kill, Major.”

Lawrence smiled grimly. “Not for want of trying, though, eh?” His pistol aimed at the bearded man’s face, he walked forward. “Forgive me, we weren’t formally introduced.”

“Amos Walker. Captain.”

“Your servant, sir,” Lawrence said wryly. “Now, I’d be obliged if you’d drop the gun.”

Walker looked at the gun in his hand and then up at Lawrence and gave a rueful smile. “It’s empty. Didn’t get a chance to reload. But then you’d guessed that; right?”

Lawrence wondered if he shouldn’t remove the smile by simply shooting the man there and then, but at the back of his mind there hovered the thought that if he could save the shot he should do so. He wasn’t sure why.

Walker shrugged and lowered the weapon to the ground. His eyes narrowed as they tracked the woods over Lawrence’s shoulder. “Well, I guess this explains why my observers never reported back. No Hooper?”

“No,” Lawrence said. “On your knees; hands behind your head.”

Walker hesitated then did as he was told. “Ah, well, one dead out of two ain’t bad.”

Keeping the pistol aimed at the other man’s chest, Lawrence hoped desperately that the surviving horse wasn’t about to bolt. Its ears had pricked up and it had pawed the ground when he’d taken his shot, but to his relief, it had remained in place, allowing him to grasp the saddle horn with his left hand. Pain flared again and he wondered if he’d be able to lift himself up without falling flat on his back. He saw Walker’s shoulders tense and knew the American was probably thinking the same thing.

Using the reins to guide the horse around so that its body was between Walker and himself, Lawrence gritted his teeth, and raised his left foot into the stirrup. Then, resting his right hand, which was still clasping the pistol, on the cantle, he hoisted himself up. His back protested but he could tell the pain was easing.

“Nicely done,” Walker observed. “Now are you going to shoot me?”

Lawrence shook his head. “It is tempting. Believe me, it is, but I’ve seen more than enough killing for one week.”

Without waiting for a response, he kneed the horse into motion.

Walker stared after him, then, moving quickly, he scooped up the musket and let out a sharp two-toned whistle.

Lawrence was already accelerating into a canter as the three painted, scalp-locked figures ran from the trees in front of him.

No time to think, only to act. Praying his mount would obey, he spurred the horse forward.