good.”
“For a knife fighter you talk too damn much.” Fargo stabbed high, at Trask’s neck, and Trask reacted as Fargo anticipated by sweeping the bowie up to block the toothpick. But in midblow Fargo dropped the toothpick from his right hand to his left, and before Trask could react, he sheared the toothpick into Trask’s abdomen, the blade angled upward so that it sliced under Trask’s sternum and pierced the Southerner’s heart.
Blood spurting, Hiram Trask stumbled backward. He looked down at himself, blurted, “I’ll be damned!” and died oozing to the ground.
Fargo sleeved his forehead and face, then hunkered and wiped the toothpick clean on Trask’s buckskin shirt. Sliding the toothpick into his ankle sheath, he stepped to where the Henry lay. As he picked it up he gazed to the east and wondered how Lincoln was faring.
The next moment, the object of his wonderment strode from the trees, leading the Ovaro. “You are a remarkable individual, Skye Fargo.”
“I thought I told you to keep going.”
“And desert you in a time of need?” Lincoln shook his craggy head. “I would no more abandon the Union to men like him.” He nodded at the still form. “Always stand with anybody who is in the right, remember?”
From the west came the crackle of undergrowth.
“I wish you would reconsider. There are six of them left and they all have rifles and revolvers. All it would take is one stray slug.”
“Be that as it may,” Lincoln said, “I refuse to run. Every fiery trial is a test of character, whether it be an individual’s or a nation’s, and I will not sully myself with the brand of cowardice.”
Fargo could not squander more time arguing. “Take this, then,” he said, and tossed the Henry.
Lincoln had to let go of the Ovaro’s reins to catch it. The ax in his other hand, he arched his eyebrows. “What about you?”
Patting the Colt, Fargo answered, “I have this. Take my horse and find a spot to hunker. When I give a yell, cut loose.”
“To think,” Lincoln said sadly, “I have managed to avoid taking human life until this day. Hatred always reaps a dire harvest, as our fellow Americans will soon learn to their eternal sorrow.” He turned and vanished into the vegetation.
Fargo turned, too, and hiked westward, making no attempt to conceal himself. As he walked he drew the Colt. Five cartridges were in the cylinder; he added a sixth, under the hammer. Twirling the Colt into his holster, he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He was walking into a lions’ den, and the lions were thirsty for his blood.
The League had fanned out. Draypool and Judge Harding were at the center of the line, Bryce Avril and Vern Zeck to their left, Garvey and the last conspirator to their right. They rode with rifles at the ready.
Garvey, the overseer, spotted Fargo first. “Look there!” he shouted, extending an arm. He and the others immediately reined up.
Fargo did not break stride. His arms loose at his sides, he casually walked toward them. He counted on confusion and curiosity to gain him the ten yards he needed. Several more strides and he was close enough. Now it did not matter what they did. Stopping, he grinned. “These woods are swarming with snakes in the grass today. Or should I say snakes in the trees?”
Arthur Draypool did not find it the least bit humorous. “We heard shots. Where are Hiram Trask and our other friends?”
“Burning in hell, where they belong. Lead poisoning and cold steel did them in,” Fargo revealed. So did cockiness and carelessness.
“Damnation!” Judge Harding angrily exclaimed. “I thought for sure Trask could beat you. But no matter. The odds are still six to one. You were a fool to march up to us in the open this way.”
“Wait,” Draypool said. He leaned on his saddle horn. “Abraham Lincoln?”
“Is alive and well.” Fargo took pleasure in announcing it. “And he will stay that way if I have anything to say about it.”
“You don’t,” Garvey said.
Draypool sighed. “What if I offer you your life, Trailsman? What if I let you leave with no hard feelings? Would you accommodate us?”
“And make it easier for you to murder Abe? After you lured me here to take the blame for assassinating him?” Fargo laughed in their faces. “Sure. I’ll turn my back on him, you mangy bastards, but only after all of you are worm food.”
Zeck had his rifle halfway to his shoulder. “Say the word, Mr. Draypool, and he’s a goner.”
“Not quite yet, if you please,” Arthur Draypool said. Then, to Fargo, “Which direction has Abraham Lincoln gone?”
“Do you honestly expect me to tell you?” Fargo marveled. Sometimes the man was too ridiculous for words.
“No, I suppose it was too much to ask,” Draypool acknowledged. “In which case we have nothing left to say to one another.” He nodded at Zeck. “If you would be so kind, Vern.”
Fargo’s hand was swifter than the nod. He had his Colt out before Zeck had the rifle level. Cocking the hammer as he drew, he squeezed off a single shot. The slug cored Zeck between the eyes, shattering his nose and blowing off the top of his skull in a spray of hair, bone, and gore. In spasmodic reflex, Zeck’s trigger finger tightened and his rifle discharged into the soil in front of his mount. The frightened animal reared, causing Bryce Avril’s horse to shy and throwing off Avril’s aim so that his shot whizzed harmlessly over Fargo’s head.
The rest were bringing their rifles to bear. Draypool, Harding, Garvey, and the other League member fired an uneven volley, peppering the air with lead. In their haste, they missed.
Fargo darted behind an oak, and flattened. They continued to fire at random even though he was lost to their view. He scrambled south a dozen feet, then west.
“Hold your fire!” Judge Harding commanded. “Can’t you idiots see that he has gone to ground?”
“Where did he get to?” Draypool asked anxiously. “Did we hit him? Fan out and find out!”
“No!” Judge Harding bellowed. “We stick together! Avril, watch to the south! Garvey, the west! Clifton, keep your eyes peeled to the north. If a blade of grass so much as moves, shoot at it.”
Fargo froze. He had wanted to slip behind them unnoticed, but the wily judge had thwarted him.
“What about Lincoln?” Garvey asked. “Shouldn’t some of us ride on ahead and get this over with?”
“Don’t worry. He won’t get far,” Judge Harding said. “We’ll catch him long before he reaches the Sangamon.”
“What makes you think he’ll head for the river?” Arthur Draypool asked.
“Because whatever else Lincoln might be, he’s not stupid,” Judge Harding said. “His only hope is to cross the river and get help, and he knows it.”
Fargo began to replace the spent cartridge in his Colt. In order not to give himself away he moved with painstaking slowness.
“I can’t stand just sitting here,” Draypool complained. “He can pick us off one by one. At least send Avril into the trees to look around.”
“No.” The judge was adamant. “Your man is good at killing, but in these woods Fargo has the advantage.”
Their squabbling had enabled Fargo to reload. Facing them, he slid backward until he had gone far enough to ensure they did not see him when he rose into a crouch behind a pine. For all their bluster, the secessionists did not possess much woodland savvy. He aimed at Bryce Avril.
“There!” Avril suddenly barked, and his rifle spat.
Fargo heard the slug bite into the pine. He answered in kind. His shot smashed into Avril’s face, dissolving the nose into fleshy pulp. Avril joined Zeck in a prone posture of death.
The others commenced firing, forcing Fargo to drop flat and crab to his left. Bits of vegetation rained down, clipped by the hailstorm.
Suddenly Clifton reined wide of the rest and galloped toward the pine Fargo had vacated, firing his rifle with admirable proficiency. Judge Harding shouted at him to stop, but Clifton did not obey.
Fargo heaved onto his knees and fired twice, fanning the Colt with practiced precision. At each blast Clifton
