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 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.”