Staring wordlessly down at Amos Walker’s stove-in face – partly in horror, partly in shock – the thought that ran through his mind was that at least the scout’s corpse had not been mutilated, unlike the remains of the two Oneida warriors who lay sprawled alongside him. Not that it would have made much difference, given the damage that had been inflicted upon the man’s skull. From what Quade could see, there had been no attempt by Walker’s attacker to stun or incapacitate. The blow – or blows – had been delivered with but one purpose: to extinguish life.

Another thought then struck him. Why only three bodies? Walker’s party had included four Oneida scouts. Where were the other two?

Native irregulars were, in Quade’s experience, prone to retreat when they knew the odds were stacked against them. As they would have regarded Walker – or, more likely, Cornelius – as their leader, the others had probably felt disinclined to continue the fight once those two were killed. Had they taken advantage of the surrounding cover and slipped off into the woods? If so, then God rot their cowardly black hearts.

A chorus of fresh gunshots interrupted his thoughts, followed by the lieutenant’s excited voice.

“We have them in sight again, Major! You were right! They’re making for the road!”

The lieutenant’s observation was cut short as more brisk reports echoed through the trees. Quade heard a nearby voice exclaim loudly, “Christ, Jed, you couldn’t hit a barn door!”

Quade recognized the corporal with whom he’d exchanged words earlier.

“God damned misfire!” the shooter protested.

“Move aside, then! Let the dog see the rabbit!”

Then Quade heard the corporal say in a puzzled tone, “Damn! I do believe that’s a white man …”

Quade stared off to where the corporal was squinting down the barrel of his gun. In a slight dip in the terrain he saw several figures running in a crouch across a clearing, their zig-zagging forms dark against the snow. The significance of the corporal’s words was immediately apparent, for one of the trailing figures was dressed in what appeared to be an army greatcoat. Taller than his native companions, even from a distance, there was something uncannily familiar about the figure’s bearing.

No! Quade thought. Not possible!

He pivoted, thrusting the pistol back in his belt. Caught by surprise, the corporal could only gape as the major ripped the musket from his hands and swung it to his shoulder.

And fired.

17

Hawkwood did not look around, for the shot had sounded no different to any of the others that had bracketed them as they ran, but when he heard the muffled exclamation, he turned quickly.

“I am hit, Mat-huwa,” Cageaga gasped. He sounded vaguely surprised as he tipped forward into Hawkwood’s arms.

Hawkwood felt liquid warmth against his right palm. He lifted it from Cageaga’s back and found the blood. “It’s only a scratch.”