There was no finesse in Hawkwood’s attack, only brute strength and momentum. His rising shoulder hit the musket barrel as Walker fired. The force of the charge swept Walker off his feet and carried both men to the ground, Walker’s gun trapped between them. As the scout’s head went back, Hawkwood rammed his knee up into Walker’s groin. Immediately the scout’s grip on his musket loosened, enough for Hawkwood to slam the butt of his own gun down against the bridge of the scout’s nose as hard as he could. A second blow was unnecessary but he followed through anyway. Walker died with the look of surprise etched on to his bearded, pulverized face.

Fearful for Tewanias, Hawkwood spun round to find the Mohawk captain standing over his opponent. The facial tattoos and the nose- and ear-rings identified him as the warrior who’d been present in Pike’s hut. He was alive and trying to rise, but his eyes were glazed in pain. The bone in his right elbow – struck by Tewanias’s war club – jutted from his skin and blood was flowing from the back of his right leg where the tendon had been severed just behind the knee.

Tewanias held his war club loosely in his hand, his chest rising and falling. As Hawkwood rose to his feet, Tewanias hammered the club head against the defeated warrior’s temple, killing him instantly. Then, quickly, drawing his knife, he laid the club aside, squatted, and ran the knife blade around the feathered scalp lock. Ripping it free with a howl of triumph, he held it aloft before sheathing the knife, retrieving his club and tucking the bloody trophy into his belt.

Hawkwood turned to where the body of the second Oneida warrior lay face down in the snow. Tewanias’s men had claimed their revenge. Clubbed and then hacked into ribbons, the corpse looked like something left on a butcher’s block.

Hawkwood picked up his tomahawk and cleaned it of snow. Tewanias caught his eye. Words weren’t necessary. They had been lucky; there had only been three shooters. But where were the rest?

And then Cageaga looked behind him and hissed, “They are coming! Run!”

It had taken Quade only a second to realize it wasn’t the column. The lack of sustained gunfire had told him that.

So who …?

Then he heard the howl.

Quade’s hair stood on end. Primal, more animal than human, the sound matched the war whoops heard when the van had come under attack at the bridge. Quade didn’t like to think what it might mean.

Moments later, he came upon the bodies.