There was a crack and a bright spit of flame. The report was followed by two more, so close together as to sound almost like a single detonation. Hawkwood threw himself behind a stump. From the corner of his eye he saw the warrior called Aqueia sag, a red flower blooming across his chest.

The other Mohawk took cover. Save for Tewanias, who, for perhaps half a second, stood as if nailed in place. For one awful moment, it seemed to Hawkwood that the war captain had been hit. But then, before his astonished gaze, as if launched from a sling shot, Tewanias began to run, not for shelter but towards the shooters.

God’s teeth! Hawkwood thought wildly, but then he realized that Tewanias had been counting the shots. And as the surviving Mohawk rose as one behind their leader, Hawkwood was up and running, too, musket in one hand, tomahawk in the other.

Wolves were at their most dangerous when cornered. Therefore, despite the troops’ exuberance at having located the enemy, there was still an understandable reluctance in attempting to track the Indians in their natural lair – the forest. Their decision to opt for firepower rather than a hand-to-hand confrontation had resulted in a gap opening up between the chasers and those being chased, with a consequent lull in the shooting. The sudden reports, therefore, were as good as a lit beacon.

Yes! Quade thought exultantly, when he heard the gunfire. The column! We have them!

Hurriedly, the major sheathed his sword. Drawing his pistol, he summoned his men to him and raced towards the sound of the shots.

Hawkwood knew he had only seconds to cover the ground before the shooter he was running at could fire off a second shot. Madness, but he ran anyway.

He was fifteen paces short when the brim of the shooter’s hat lifted and his features came into view. It was Pike’s scout, Amos. The man who, if Lawrence’s observation was correct, had sent the Oneida trackers after them with orders to kill.

He saw the scout mouth the word, “You!” as the long gun’s muzzle came swinging round. The bore looked about a mile wide.

Hawkwood hurled the tomahawk, aware as he did so of Tewanias veering to one side and curving his war club towards the Indian to the scout’s right. The third shooter – also an Indian – was turning, knife drawn, to face the warriors rushing in behind.

The scout’s reactions were commendably fast. As the hatchet left Hawkwood’s hand, Walker twisted aside and threw the musket barrel across his body to deflect the spinning blade. The threat countered, he swung the long gun down and pulled back on the trigger.