The boy fell silent. After several seconds had passed he said, “Why does he paint his face black?”

“To frighten his enemies.”

The boy frowned. He stared hard at the Ranger.

“I don’t need paint,” Wyatt said, “if that’s what you were thinking. I’m frightening enough as it is.”

A small smile played on the boy’s lips.

It was a start, Wyatt thought.

It was close to noon when the woods began to thin out, allowing glimpses of a wide landscape through gaps in the trees ahead. Wyatt trotted his horse forward to join Tewanias at the front of the line.

“Stand! Who goes there?”

The riders halted. Two men stepped into view from behind the last clump of undergrowth before the trees gave way to open ground. Wyatt surveyed the red jackets, muddy white breeches, tricorn hats with their black cockades and muskets held at the ready. The uniforms identified the men as Royal Yorkers; the colonel’s regiment. Wyatt knew that Tewanias would have detected the duo from a long way back. Indeed, he’d have done so even if the men had been dressed in leaf coats and matching hoods, but there had been no need to give a warning. The Mohawk had known that the soldiers posed no threat.

Good to know the piquets are doing their job, Wyatt thought. Though what the troopers would have done if the returning patrol had turned out to be of Continental origin was unclear. Fired warning shots and beaten a hasty retreat, presumably, or stayed hidden until they’d passed and then sounded the alert.

He addressed the soldier who’d given the order. “Lieutenant Wyatt and party, returning from a reconnaissance. Reporting to Captain McDonell.”

The corporal ran his eye around the group, noting the hard expressions on the unshaven faces. His gaze did not falter when it passed over Tewanias, but flickered as it took in the boy, who looked decidedly out of place among his fellow riders.

“That your hound, Lieutenant?” The corporal jerked his chin towards the dog, which was sniffing energetically at his companion’s gaiters.

“Best tracker in the state,” Wyatt said.

“That so?” The corporal regarded the dog with renewed interest. “What’s his name?”

“Sergeant Tam.”

The corporal gave Wyatt a look. “Well, when the sergeant’s stopped sniffing Private Hilton’s crotch, sir, you’ll find the officers down by the main house.”

Wyatt hid a smile at the trooper’s temerity. “I’m obliged to you. Carry on, gentlemen.”

Raising knuckles to their hats, the two piquets watched as the men and the boy rode on.

Private Hilton hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, spat into the bushes and cocked an eyebrow at his companion’s boldness in the face of a senior rank. “Sergeant Tam?”

The corporal shrugged. “Wouldn’t bloody surprise me. You know what Rangers are like.”