Johnson followed Stryker’s gaze. “Assuming you’ve exhausted all avenues, you are to return to the column. You do not have long. As I believe Captain Scott has informed you, I expect to depart Bulwagga at midday tomorrow. You have until then to catch us up. The Marine will not wait. The safety of the remaining civilians is paramount. Much as it pains me to say so, I cannot jeopardize the lives of two hundred for the sake of one, even if he is a child. I cannot. So I’m relying on you and your men, Corporal. Find the boy and bring him home. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” Johnson stole another glance at the preacher and saw that De Witt and his wife had parted company. Turning back to the corporal, he steered his horse aside. “All right – on your way. We’ll see you at Bulwagga.”

Stryker touched his cap. “Colonel.”

“God go with you, Thaddeus,” Mrs De Witt called softly. Clutching her daughter’s hand, she watched as the five riders cantered back down the trail. Then, squaring her shoulders, she collected her belongings and with a final glance towards her disappearing husband, she took her place in the line.

“Let’s hope God’s listening,” Scott murmured. “If they don’t find him, the lad doesn’t have a hope in hell.”

Johnson said nothing. With a contemplative Scott by his side, he watched in silence until the search party was out of sight, at which point Scott turned to him. “Awaiting your orders, sir.”

Johnson continued to stare down the trail.

“Are you all right, Colonel?” Scott asked.

Realizing he’d been holding his breath, Johnson let it out slowly. “There are times, Thomas, when I wish I was just another bloody ranker. That way I wouldn’t have to make such God-awful decisions.”

Scott remained silent. After several seconds, Johnson ran his hand through his hair and said heavily. “Let’s get them moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

They’d travelled less than half a mile when Scott stiffened in his saddle as two men appeared suddenly from a gap in the trees ahead of them. Had the men not been bearded, from a distance it would have been hard to tell if they were white or Indian, for they were burnt brown by the sun and dressed in native fashion: blue cotton shirts, buckskin leggings and moccasins. Ammunition and supply pouches hung across their shoulders and both men carried long guns.

“Scouts,” Scott announced unnecessarily as the duo jogged effortlessly towards them.

“Mr Boone, Mr Cavett,” Johnson said, addressing the men as they drew level. “You have fresh news, I take it?”

Boone, the taller and swarthier of the pair, nodded. “We do, Colonel and it ain’t good.” Turning his head to one side, he spat a stream of black mucus on to the ground. “Militia’s catching up.”

“God damn!” Scott said.

“From what direction?” Johnson asked.