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After another beat of silence, Pryer gave Paul a sideways glance, motioning to the taunting piece of white. “Let him be, Paul.” His gravelly whisper carried a spark of rage. “Killing him will change nothing.”
The racing thump of Paul’s pulse thundered in his ears. Was every soldier turning soft like his father? Donaldson could go free after all he’d done, and now this traitor would be permitted to continue his treasonous actions without consequence?
Passion pushed reason to the side. He gripped the weapon harder and pulled the trigger. An ear-splitting crack slashed through the silent forest. Paul raced toward the victim, Pryer close behind.
He slowed as he neared the target and lowered to his haunches, unschooled violence poisoning his blood. A stream of profanities clouded the wood as he tore the piece of white cloth from its perch on a naked branch. A decoy.
He peered up from his crouched position by Pryer, whose raised brows and round eyes made Paul’s fists itch to punch the look from his face. “Impressed are you?”
“He fooled us both.”
Another slight rustle not ten feet away stole Paul’s attention and aimed it with deadly accuracy. Speaking to the concealed offender, Paul kept his voice to a whispering roar. “Show yourself.”
No movement.
Paul stood, fury flooding his muscles with every second the patriot refused his commands. “Get up now!”
Still nothing.
He lunged and the figure whirled but ran only a few steps before Paul yanked at his collar and spun him around.
Stunned, Paul spoke to Pryer, keeping his eyes on the freckled face, twisted in
fear. “Is this the boy?”
Pryer hurried beside him and answered. “Aye, I believe so.”
“You believe so?”
“I cannot be completely sure.”
Paul rolled his eyes in place of smacking the sorry excuse of a man. “I’ll help you tie him so you can bring him back to camp.”
“Nay.” Pryer’s face went slack as he stared at the boy then turned to Paul with narrowed eyes. “Let him go, can you not see he’s petrified?” He reached for Paul’s iron grip, but Paul jerked away, gripping tighter.
“Have you gone mad?” Paul jammed a rigid finger at Pryer’s chest. “This boy is a traitor—a lover of self more than a lover of country—just like the rest of them! If we do not make every turncoat pay we will all suffer.” Keeping the boy at arms length he pointed at Pryer’s ready musket. “Finish him.”
Pryer grimaced. “He’s only a boy!”
The lad gasped and gripped Paul’s wrist with his thin, cold fingers. “Sir, I beg you! Let me go!”
Paul stared into the youth’s round, pleading eyes, his own as unmoved as an island in a storm. Allowing the soft, inner core of his heart to sway in the boy’s favor would lead to greater, more grievous betrayals of conscience.
He turned back to his companion and yanked the musket from his grip. “Do it.”
“You are mad.” Pryer scoffed and retreated a step. “I followed him, aye. But I never witnessed an exchange and my orders were to bring in a man, if I found him. But this is no man and you are not my superior.” He paused, his lips tightening. “Let him go, Paul.”
The bubbling rage in Paul’s gut surged like a boiling spring, flooding his limbs with steaming blood. His father’s words rang in his ears. Let the man go, son. We have more important things to occupy our time.
Paul hardened his grip, hot air seething as he breathed through clenched teeth. Nay! He would not let him go. He would not let anyone go. Not Donaldson, and certainly not a boy who would grow to betray the crown. If he had to find every miscreant and bring every deserter to justice, so be it.
He released his grip on the boy and shoved him to the ground. The lad’s mouth gaped open as he gasped for air, tears welling in his eyes.
Paul stepped back and strangled the boy with his gaze. “Get out.”
Shock seemed to smack the boy into action and he was on his feet, scrambling for the freedom of the wood.
Pryer’s shoulders dropped and he released a worried laugh. “You had me scared, Stockton.”
