Backwoods Bloodbath

A semblance of thunder rose to the sky. The rider shrieked and pitched to the earth.

Fargo shifted toward another rider, but more brush was in the way.

“Take cover!” Hiram Trask bellowed.

Trask and the other two melted into the vegetation. The riderless horse galloped on east. Silence claimed the forest, an ominous quiet pregnant with the promise of more violence.

Fargo’s main worry now was that Trask and company would slip past him to go after Lincoln. Removing his hat, he placed an ear to the ground but did not detect telltale vibrations. Staying low, he dashed to another tree, shoving his hat back on as he ran.

Another factor Fargo had to keep in mind was that Draypool and Harding and the rest were bound to show up before long. He must deal with Trask and push on quickly.

The next instant, to Fargo’s surprise, the tracker shouted his name.

“Can you hear me? You won’t stop us! We’ve taken vows not to rest until Mr. High and Mighty is maggot bait!”

Fargo had Trask’s position pegged. Seventy feet away, to the northwest. He swiveled, yearning for a clear shot.

“We’ll make it look like you were to blame,” Trask hollered. “But you’ve figured that out, haven’t you? It’s why you killed Layton.”

Let the man talk, Fargo thought. It was a lapse in judgment that Trask would regret, a mistake worthy of a greenhorn.

“What’s the matter? Catamount got your tongue? Answer me if you’re not yellow.”

Fargo almost chuckled at the Southerner’s childish antics. Did Trask really believe he could be goaded into revealing where he was?

“No-good Yankee scum! You and that bastard you’re protecting! He thinks he has the right to tell us how to live! But we’ll show him! We’ll show everyone north of the Mason-Dixon!”

A tiny claw of doubt pricked at Fargo’s awareness. Maybe he was the idiot. Hiram Trask was no greenhorn. Trask would not shout without good reason, and the only reason Fargo could think of was to keep him distracted while Trask’s two friends converged for the kill.

A hint of movement demonstrated Fargo was right. Every nerve tingling, he ducked down. He had nearly fallen for one of the oldest ruses in the hills.

The movement resolved itself into the silhouette of one of Trask’s companions. The man was staring toward the maple, not the tree Fargo was behind. Careful not to give himself away, Fargo elevated the Henry’s barrel. He was lining up the sights when more movement, at a different spot, gave him cause for consternation.

The last member of the quartet was dangerously close. When Fargo fired, the man would have a clear shot. Fargo had to switch targets. But any movement on his part was bound to be noticed.

Hiram Trask had not shut up. “It doesn’t have to be like this! You should be on our side! Or have you worked for the army for so long, you’re a blue belly at heart? Work with us! Help us deal with so-called Honest Abe and we’ll let you ride off in peace. You have my word!”

Fargo would believe him the day it rained gold nuggets. As slow as molasses, he started to turn toward the nearest assassin, and as he expected, the man spotted him. They both took lightning aim, and it was the Henry that thundered first. The man dropped to one knee.

A leaden wasp nearly stung Fargo’s ear as he fed another round into the chamber. He fired as the man took aim, fired as the man keeled to one side, fired at the twitching body.

Two more shots banged. Two slugs cored the trunk next to Fargo with loud thwacks. He returned fire. The other backwoodsman stiffened, grabbed at his chest, and toppled onto his belly.

Wary of a trick, Fargo stealthily advanced until he could see the man lying in a spreading red ring. His shot had entered the base of the man’s throat and ruptured out the back of the neck. There could be no doubt the man was dead.

Three down, one to go, Fargo tallied. And the last might prove to be the most dangerous.

Hiram Trask had stopped shouting; he could be anywhere.

Easing onto his elbows and knees, Fargo crawled toward a log. He avoided twigs that might snap and crunch under his weight.

Something rustled to Fargo’s right. He froze, his finger curled around the trigger. A tense half a minute ensued, until a sparrow flitted from a thicket and took wing.

Fargo resumed crawling and reached the log without spying Trask. Once again he removed his hat. Slowly rising onto his elbows, he peered over the log. He was so sure that Trask was somewhere in front of him that the patter of moccasins behind him registered a few heartbeats too late.

He spun, but Trask was on him. “Die, you Yankee-loving son of a bitch!” he sneered viciously.

A bowie flashed in the sunlight.

17

Fargo threw himself onto his back and thrust his rifle at Trask as the bowie descended. Steel rang on steel. Trask kicked, and the Henry was torn from Fargo’s grasp. Palming the Arkansas toothpick, Fargo levered himself erect.

Trask crouched, the bowie held low in front of him. Hate blazed from his dark eyes as he snarled, “You can’t save him! If we don’t get him, someone else will. The call has gone out!”

“It won’t be you,” Fargo said.

Hiram Trask sprang. He was ungodly fast. He was also extremely skilled with a blade. It was all Fargo could do to counter a fierce series of stabs and slices. Most men would have died then and there.

Suddenly stepping back, Trask studied Fargo with a measure of newfound respect. “So,” he said, “tracking isn’t the only thing we are evenly matched at.”

Fargo continued to circle, placing each foot with care. He must not make a mistake. His wasn’t the only life at stake. So was the life of a man he sensed possessed a genuine spark of honesty. “Killing Lincoln won’t change how a lot of people feel about slavery.”

“Fool. For the South, there is more at stake than the darkies. States are being told what to do by the federal government. We can’t allow that.”

Fargo glanced past Trask. As yet there was no sign of the other members of the Secessionist League.

“The government has no right to bully us! Free and sovereign states can do as they please. But your precious Lincoln doesn’t agree. Killing that bearded bully will show the rest of the country that we will not give in to the likes of him.”

“And might lead to war,” Fargo said to keep Trask talking. The Southerner had straightened and seemed more interested in jawing than slaying.

“So? You sound like it would be a bad thing. But war has solved a lot of disagreements.” Trask smiled slyly. “Hasn’t it dawned on you, Trailsman? We want war to break out. There is no doubt in our minds the South will win. State sovereignty will be assured. Slavery will last another thousand years.”

“Not if I can help it,” Fargo said, even as he lanced the toothpick at Trask’s belly. Trask neatly side-stepped and countered with a slash at Fargo’s wrist. Fargo jerked his arm from harm’s way but lost several whangs on his sleeve. Pivoting, he sheared at Trask’s throat, but Trask slipped aside with disconcerting ease.

“Too slow,” the tracker said, mocking him. “I expected better.”

Again Fargo struck. Again he deliberately slowed his hand a shade, enough to be convincing yet not so slow that Trask would penetrate his guard and kill him. Trask laughed, then waded in. Fargo met him head-on. Trask’s eyes widened in fleeting surprise that was replaced by savage determination.

More than their knives flashed and clashed. It was a battle of wills. Fargo and Trask called on all the experience at their command in a dazzling display the likes of which few had ever witnessed.

Sweat caked Fargo from head to toe. He had a few nicks on his arms and one on his legs, but so far he had avoided every death thrust.

Trask stepped back again, breathing heavily, bewilderment giving him pause. “For a Yankee you are damn