It would explain his relentless pursuit. Any other officer, having seen the enemy routed, would have pressed on with the prime objective, which was not to hunt down ambushers but to capture a blockhouse. But Quade, still smarting from their previous encounters, would know that if the sound of gunfire had carried as far as the British outpost there was a high probability his mission had been severely compromised. Now that he knew Hawkwood was the disruptor of his plan, he’d want to settle the score personally.

Well, the bastard would just have to wait his turn, along with every other mother’s son.

“Up, damn it!” Hawkwood urged as he took Cageaga’s weight.

Another shout came from behind them. Risking a look over his shoulder, Hawkwood saw a shako-capped form, musket raised.

Oh, Christ, he thought.

And then there was a crack and the soldier fell.

Hawkwood turned to see two figures running forward through a curl of smoke. One was Tewanias, the other was Kodjeote.

“You were told to stay close to your brother!” Cageaga gasped.

“Then you would be dead,” Tewanias said, as Kodjeote looped his discharged carbine over his back and hooked an arm under Cageaga’s other shoulder. With Tewanias protecting their backs, Hawkwood and the young Mohawk half-carried, half-dragged the wounded warrior into the trees.

Quade, his mind reeling, his shoulder buffeted by the musket’s recoil, swore savagely as the four figures disappeared from view.

Hooper? How in the name of Christ …?

Spinning, he tossed the musket back to its owner, who was staring down at his dead comrade in shock and disbelief. The ball had entered the trooper’s right eye before he’d got a chance to fire, leaving a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull and scattering brain matter in a wide arc. A stained and battered shako lay in the snow several feet away.

Hooper! Quade thought again as he took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the trooper’s blood from his cheek. Bloody Hooper! Even with what had looked like streaks of dirt across his face, Quade had recognized him. What the hell did it take to kill the bastard?

Though it probably explained Walker’s death, he reasoned. It had to have been Hooper who’d killed the scout. Had it been one of Hooper’s companions, Walker’s scalp would have been taken.

“Well, I have him cornered now, by God!” muttered Quade, mentally consulting the map. If his recollection was accurate, the road wasn’t that far. The creek couldn’t be much more than half a mile back and they were moving in the right direction, so the road had to be just to the left of them. And the enemy’s tracks were leading the way.

“Move!” Quade barked. “With me!”

Scooping up the dead trooper’s primed musket and with his troops at his shoulder, he set off in energetic pursuit.