Jacob Wooler lifted his hand, stopping the scouting party at once. MacKim slid behind the bole of a tree, lifting his musket. He listened to the silence in the snowy forest, wondering what had alarmed Wooler. He scanned the trees, looking for scuff marks or anything that might signify the presence of a human.
It was less than a movement, more of a flutter, like the wings of a butterfly, except that there were no butterflies in the New York backcountry in winter. Dropping slowly to his knees, MacKim lifted his musket, waiting. He saw a downward drift of snow from a bough, a twig twitching without apparent cause, heard a slight skiff and knew somebody was out there. Taking a deep breath to still the increasing hammer of his heart, MacKim saw Wooler give a nearly imperceptible nod towards a
