“Son of a bitch,” Walker breathed as he realized what must have happened. Lawrence’s shot had hit the gorget with sufficient force to knock Cornelius off balance but then, by a miracle, had glanced away. As Cornelius hit the ground, the back of his head had collided with whatever hard object lay covered by the snow beneath him. Walker looked. It was a small flat-topped rock. Droplets of blood patterned the snow that had settled on top of it.

He helped Cornelius to his feet. A red trickle ran from the Oneida’s scalp lock down on to the back of his neck. He ignored it. Both men turned as the surviving warrior who’d run from the trees approached, carbine in hand. He did not ask after Cornelius’s health, but muttered under his breath, as though castigating himself for having missed his shot. His eyes moved to the body of the Indian Cornelius had dispatched with his knife, at the ruined throat and at the three decorated braids that sprouted from a four-inch square tuft of hair on the dead warrior’s crown. Walker and Cornelius followed his gaze.

“Kanien’kehá:ka,” Cornelius murmured softly, his lips curling with contempt.

Walker frowned. What, he wondered, was Lawrence doing in the company of a Mohawk?

As the crackle of musket fire came faintly from the south, all three men turned.

The column was under attack.

Bent low over the horse’s neck, Lawrence could feel the blood trickling down his back.

Walker, you bastard.

The ball had hit him high on his right side, in the meat of his shoulder. The impact hadn’t been that great. No more than if someone had struck him with a clenched fist. At first there had been only a slight numbness, but then, aggravated by the movement of the horse beneath him, the pain had started.

With his guide dead, there was no option but to stick to the road. Where he was in relation to his destination, he had no idea. He’d seen no signposts, though the snow could well have covered them. The woods remained thick and impenetrable on either side. There were no buildings, no farmsteads, just the snow and the forest. And then more forest.

With every movement, a spasm of pain shot through him. Each time, he grunted at the shock of it. His hands braced either side of the horse’s withers, he pressed down, forcing his weight into the stirrups. It was all he could do to hang on. Every hoof thud was agony.

The end was not long in coming.