It wasn’t the first time Wyatt had seen such stoicism. He had fought alongside men who, having survived the bloodiest of battles, had displayed no emotion either during the fight or in the immediate aftermath, only to be gripped by the most violent of seizures several hours or even days afterwards. Wyatt wondered if the same thing was going to happen to the boy. He would have to watch for the signs and deal with the situation, if or when it happened.

The Rangers, partly out of unease at not knowing what to say but mostly because they were all too preoccupied with their own thoughts, had maintained a disciplined silence in the boy’s presence. Wyatt wasn’t sure if that was the best thing to do in the circumstances, but as he had no idea what to say either, he had followed suit and kept his own counsel. Without making it obvious what he was doing, he kept a watchful eye on their young charge. Not that the boy seemed to notice; he was too intent on watching Tewanias. Whether it was curiosity or apprehension at the Mohawk’s striking appearance, Wyatt couldn’t tell. Occasionally, Tewanias would turn in his saddle, and every time he did so the boy would avert his gaze as if he’d suddenly spotted something of profound interest in the scenery they were passing. It might have been amusing under different circumstances, but smiles, on this occasion, were in short supply.

They’d been travelling for an hour before the boy became aware of Wyatt’s eyes upon him. He reddened under the Ranger’s amused gaze. Tewanias was some thirty yards ahead, concentrating on the trail and when the boy had recovered his composure he nodded towards the warrior, frowned and enquired hesitantly: “Your Indian, which tribe does he belong to?”

Wyatt followed the boy’s eyes. “He’s Mohawk. And he’s not my Indian.”

The boy flushed, chastened by the emphasis Wyatt had placed on the word “my”. “Uncle Will said that the Mohawk were a great tribe.”

“The Mohawk are a great tribe.”

The boy pondered Wyatt’s reply for several seconds, wondering how to phrase his next question without incurring another correction.

“Is he a chief?”

“Yes.” Wyatt did not elaborate.

The boy glanced up the trail. “Why does he keep staring at me?”

“Same reason you keep staring at him,” Wyatt said evenly.

The boy’s head turned.

“He finds you interesting,” Wyatt said and smiled.

“Why?”

“Why do you find him interesting?” Wyatt countered.

The boy thought about his reply. “I’ve never been this close to an Indian before.”

“Well, then,” Wyatt said. “There you are. He’s never been this close to anyone like you before.”

“Me?”

“A white boy,” Wyatt said. Thinking, but not voicing out loud: who killed a man with an axe.