Backwoods Bloodbath (17 page)

A nicker from the Ovaro and an answering whinny from off in the trees told Fargo it was too late.

The assassins had arrived.

Abraham Lincoln started to walk past Fargo to the door. “I will distract them and you can slip into the woods. This isn’t your fight.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Fargo responded. “They used me. Tried to hoodwink me. One of them even tried to kill me.”

A kindly smile creased Lincoln’s face. “I do not want you to lose your life on my account. As a favor to me, leave now, while you are still able.”

“No can do.” Fargo did not see any of the conspirators. They were close, though. Very close.

Lincoln accepted the inevitable with a nod. “Very well. Since I can’t prevail on you to save your life, we must work together to save both of ours. The question now is whether we make a stand or try to escape.”

The cabin was small, but the walls were thick and would be proof against most pistol and rifle fire. But Fargo did not like being cooped up. The League could burn them out, or sit out there and wait until they ran out of water and food. “Our best chance is in the forest.”

“I agree,” Lincoln said. “I have spent most of my life in the woods, and I am not without some small skill at surviving.”

“Let’s go.” Without further delay, Fargo was out the door and dashed to the Ovaro. He unwound the reins from the peg and hurried around the side. Lincoln was a few steps behind. Both of them had their gaze glued to the trail. No one appeared. No shouts were raised. Fargo figured that the man watching the cabin had been distracted by the arrival of Draypool and the others. Any moment, and that could change. He was glad when they plunged into the vegetation.

“This way,” Lincoln said, striding past on those long legs of his. “There is a trail for a short way.”

That there was, thanks to the presidential candidate’s daily trips to a stream and back. In less than a hundred yards they stood next to the blue ribbon. On the other side lay untamed wilderness.

Fargo crossed and threaded in among the trees. He did not try to erase their tracks. For one thing, the Ovaro’s heavy hooves sank too deep into the soft soil. For another, no matter how well he concealed them, it would not fool a seasoned tracker like Hiram Trask. He would only waste his time, time the League would use to gain on them.

“The vagaries of life never cease to astonish me, friend,” Abe Lincoln remarked. “Half an hour ago I was chopping wood, at peace with the world and all around me. Now here I am, in peril of my existence.”

“Stick with me. I’ll get you out.”

“Like glue to paper,” Lincoln said. “It has long been my practice to stand by those who are in the right and oppose those who are in the wrong. Much as I do on the issue of secession.”

Fargo hoped he would not launch into a speech. “There is bound to be killing,” he mentioned.

“I know,” Lincoln said.

“Have you ever killed anyone before?” Normally that was the kind of question one man never asked another, but Fargo had to know the extent to which he could count on his companion.

“I am proud to say I have not,” Lincoln declared. “Bears and deer and other game, yes, but never a human being. Based on your previous comment, I take it that you are not averse to the task.”

“Only when I have to,” Fargo clarified. He did not add that he had to do it a lot. “When they catch up to us—and they will—I’ll hold them off while you get away.”

“We can lose them if we leave your horse behind,” Lincoln said. “Is there any chance you would consider abandoning him?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Fargo said. The Ovaro had saved his skin too many times. He owed it that much, and more.

“I admire you, sir,” Abe Lincoln commented. “You are a man of principle. I wish there were more like you in the political realm.” He paused. “Perhaps that is part of the reason the League chose you to take the blame.”

“My reputation isn’t anything like yours,” Fargo said in disagreement. “It’s no secret that I’m fond of wild females and wild living.”

“And you regard that as a blight on your character?” Lincoln deftly slung his ax across his shoulder. “I read voraciously, Mr. Fargo. I am partial to history, but I will read anything I get my hands on when a history is not available. I have read an account or two about you, sir. Yes, you have a reputation for bawdiness. Yes, the stories are quite lurid. But anyone who reads them perceives that you also have positive traits.”

“If you say so.” Fargo was listening for sounds of pursuit.

“You have a certain notoriety,” Lincoln continued. “Imagine the sensation it will cause if I am found dead, presumably murdered at the hands of the famous Trailsman. The public will wonder why, and many will speculate that I must have done something to deserve it. After all, in those stories, you wipe out evildoers in droves.”

In a flash of insight Fargo could see the headlines and newspaper accounts by editors friendly to the Secessionist cause, who would paint him as a valiant frontiersman and Lincoln as a menace that had to be destroyed.

“When you think about it, the League is being quite clever,” Lincoln said. “They bury me with dishonor and enhance the South’s prestige.”

Fargo stopped and held up a hand for silence. Distant voices suggested the League had reached the cabin and found them gone. “Mount up.” They might as well ride and conserve their strength.

“I still can’t convince you to save yourself?” Lincoln asked. “Very well. But I do this against my better judgment.”

Fargo rode as fast as he dared. Low limbs threatened to spill them from the saddle. Brush plucked at their legs. Thickets and logs had to be skirted.

Abe Lincoln cleared his throat. “Might I suggest we circle around to the Sangamon River?”

Fargo saw his point. Once south of the river, they were back in civilization. Lincoln was well known and could marshal help, as well as send for the army. Fargo reined to the east.

“This is a fine state of affairs,” Lincoln said with transparent sarcasm. “Here I am, running for the highest office in the land, and I am forced to run for my life from those too blind to see that slaying me only delays the South’s day of reckoning. Eventually the slavery issue will destroy them.”

“You know what they say. Some folks can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“An astute observation, given our surroundings. The South has yet to realize that the dogmas of the past no longer pertain. The tides of social progress wait for no man.”

“Is that from one of your speeches?”

Lincoln laughed. “No, but I may well include it in my next one. I owe it to the nation to persuade both sides to see the light of reason or we will plunge into chaos. The cost in suffering will be incalculable.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in your boots,” Fargo admitted. It was his experience that, human nature being what it was, most people were too stubborn to admit when they were wrong even when they knew they were.

“To be honest, Mr. Fargo, I would rather the burden did not exist. But wishful fancies do not make difficulties go away. Wisdom is called for, and I can only pray I am equal to the occasion.”

At that moment Fargo had never respected anyone more. He was about to say it would be a shame if Lincoln were not elected when new sounds pierced the woodlands—the rapid thud of hooves and the crackle of underbrush. The assassins were much nearer than he had figured!

A tap of Fargo’s spurs galvanized the Ovaro into a trot. Like those who were after them, Fargo plowed through the growth, heedless of the peril. But the outcome was a foregone conclusion. The Ovaro was as fine a horse as ever lived, with superb stamina, but they were riding double, in dense timber, and had no hope whatsoever of outdistancing their pursuers.

Suddenly drawing rein, Fargo vaulted from the saddle and handed the reins to Abraham Lincoln. “Keep going. I’ll hold them as long as I can.”

“I refuse,” Lincoln said.

“You sure are a stubborn cuss,” Fargo said, and yanking his Henry from the saddle scabbard, he smacked the Ovaro. The stallion hurtled forward. It was all Abe Lincoln could do to stay on.

Whirling, Fargo sought cover. A whoop fell on his ears as he crouched beside a maple. Riders materialized, four of them, spaced twenty to thirty feet apart. They had caught sight of Lincoln.

“There he is, boys! After him!”

Fargo snapped the Henry’s stock to his shoulder. He recognized the four—Hiram Trask and Trask’s three friends. The tracker and his companions had pushed on ahead. Fargo tried to fix a bead on Trask, but the foliage prevented a clear shot. He shifted his sights to the rider on Trask’s right.

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.

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.