“Then whoever you tracked is out there right now, spying on us?”
“That would be my guess, yes,” Fargo said. “The League wants you dead. They concocted a story about a killer called the Sangamon River Monster and hired me to find him. But all I really am to them is a scapegoat. They intend to murder you and have me take the blame.”
“Why you?”
“If I knew that, I’d be a happy man,” Fargo said sourly.
“Perhaps I can venture a guess.” The backwoodsman leaned back against the table and folded his arms across his chest. “The nation is on the verge of a conflict that will dwarf all others. We are about to be put to the test of whether right truly makes right. There are those who seek to dissolve the Union. To them, I am their greatest enemy, and they will stop at nothing to destroy me.”
“Who the hell are you?” Fargo snapped. The man smiled, and then it hit Fargo—the obvious answer, the only answer, the answer that explained everything the Secessionist League had done. He should have seen it sooner, but it never would have occurred to him that the person everyone was talking about, the person who had the newspapers in a tizzy, the person who was roundly cursed and despised by those who believed the South should be permitted to do as it pleased without interference from the North, the person who was the talk of the country, had a small cabin way off in the deep woods where he went every now and again to be alone. “Abe Lincoln!” he blurted, and took a step back.
“I am he,” Abraham Lincoln said. “Honest Abe, many call me. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. But I am afraid that my presence has placed you in peril. That man hiding out there—”
“Is not the only one we have to worry about.” Fargo cut him off. The others would show up soon, Draypool and Harding and their pack of killers. Their scheme was simple, yet devious. He had been lured like a lamb to the slaughter, to the doorstep of Lincoln’s cabin, and now the League would close in and dispose of the two of them and arrange things so he appeared to be responsible. The League, and the South, would not be blamed. But that still did not explain why they chose him.
“How many are we up against?” Lincoln asked.
“Ten, counting the one outside,” Fargo said.
“Too many. You might be harmed.” Lincoln picked up his ax. “If we can make it across the river, I will summon help. Captain Frank Colter and five soldiers have been assigned to protect me, but I would not let them come to the cabin.”
“Colter, did you say?” So Fargo had been right; Colter and Sloane were government men. “We have to get you out of here. We’ll ride double on my horse.”
“There is only the one trail in and out,” Lincoln said. “We should cut through the woods and avoid them.”
A nicker from the Ovaro and an answering whinny from off in the trees told Fargo it was too late.
The assassins had arrived.
16
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.”