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.