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pronouncement was met with general approval, Jake nodding with everyone else. But the target baffled the American spy — the small hamlet of Salem was many miles inland, on the opposite end of the county from the river. If they were undertaking a raid with the help of a British vessel, as seemed likely from Busch's reference to the Dependence, why were they going so far away? Why would a marine officer be involved? And what of the chain.
    But there was no leisure to contemplate these questions, or craft some manner of clandestine inquiry. The barn door burst open, and rather than the patrol of American militia Jake might have wished for, one of Busch's uniformed irregulars appeared.
    "Captain, I've found Major Johnson's horse," he declared, sweeping his hand in a bold gesture. A Tory behind him led the gray-dappled stallion Jake had left near the road into the barn. "He was hitched to a tree at the edge of the woods."

 
     
     
    -Chapter Eight-
     
    Wherein, a gift horse is looked in the mouth.
     
    W hile Jake was greatly pleased to finally have the mystery of Johnson cleared up — and to find that he had inadvertently harmed the British operation — his joy was nonetheless mitigated by the untimely discovery of his horse.
    The gathering of Tories did not know he had killed Johnson, of course. Nor did they yet realize that Jake had ridden the horse here. He therefore had the option of denying everything merely by remaining mute, and bluffing the rangers with some story about having had his mount shot out from under him on the way to the farm.
    But that path was fraught with eventual danger. For instance, he might have to explain why he had neglected to include the incident in detailing his other exploits that night. He would also be testing Busch's memory of the animal he'd been riding. So Jake plunged in a direction that offered immediate liabilities, but presented the prospect of safety once these were cleared.
    "What are you doing with my horse?" he exclaimed with mixed innocence and alarm, rushing toward the animal.
    "Your horse?" answered the soldier who had led the animal in. He turned to Busch. "Captain, I swear to you that this is the animal Major Johnson was riding last month when we met with him. I'd know him, sir, if I met him in a blinding snowstorm on the Boston Commons."
    Now the reader will realize that no stallion in the continent is so distinct as to be unlike any other; nevertheless, the dark gray markings on the lighter gray field of this animal were relatively unique. Not only Busch but Sergeant Lewis examined the horse; both men agreed with the soldier who had led him in.
    "How long have you had him?" demanded Busch.
    "I acquired the horse from a gentleman a day ago," said Jake. "The terms were favorable, though he requested that I be discreet. He did not give his name.”
    "Explain yourself."
    Jake described Johnson carefully, right down to the cravat haphazardly tucked into his shirt. They had fallen in together while traveling down from Wiccopee, and through certain signs Jake had been given to understand that the man was British or at least loyal to the king. Jake told him in confidence that he was "heading south"; the man claimed to be going in the same direction, but had to dally in the neighborhood a while longer. It would be most convenient, he hinted, if an arrangement could be made regarding their horses.
    "He said at first that his horse was tired from its exertions. When I examined the animal I saw that he was in fine shape. I got the better end of the deal by far, though I sensed the man was in some difficulty."
    "Sounds like a convenient story to me," said the Tory whom Jake had teased so effectively before.
    Jake turned to confront the man — and found a cocked pistol pointed at the small space between his eyes.
    He shrugged calmly. His survival depended entirely on seeming forthright. "You can believe me or not. Where would I come by such a magnificent animal? I am a poor farmer —