Backwoods Bloodbath

by Jon Sharpe

  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.

  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 Lincol
n?”

  “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 rocked with the impact. His rifle drooped and he swayed. Fargo did not waste another shot. He threw himself flat yet again as the horse thundered by. Clifton’s body thudded to the ground.

  Three conspirators remained. Fargo had three cartridges left in his Colt. He would rather have more, and went to reload.

  “Rush him!” Arthur Draypool bawled, beside himself with fury. “All of us at once!”

  “Don’t!” the judge yelled.

  But Draypool and Garvey charged, firing on the fly. An invisible fist knocked Fargo’s hat from his head. Invisible fingers tugged at his left sleeve. Rising onto one knee, he shot Draypool squarely in the chest, then had to leap aside as Garvey nearly rode him down. Garvey twisted in the saddle and fired as Fargo fired, not once but twice. The bottom of Garvey’s jaw exploded and the overseer fell.

  The Colt was empty. Fargo whirled, his hand flying to his belt. The click of a rifle hammer—and the muzzle trained on him—turned him to stone.

  Judge Oliver Harding smiled. “Any last comments?”

  Fargo was a statue.

  “No? You gave a good accounting. I’ll give you that much. But it’s over. You’ve lost. As soon as I put an end to you, I’ll go after Lincoln.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  The voice came from so near that both Fargo and Judge Harding gave a start. A familiar lanky frame came out of the shadows into the sunlight, as inviting a target as anyone could ask for.

  “You!” Judge Harding exclaimed. “I didn’t think you would make it so easy.” He drew a bead on the presidential candidate.

  Fargo had to act. Only a few feet away lay a fallen rifle. In a bound he reached it and swept it up. He fired without aiming, as much to rattle Harding as anything else. The judge shifted toward him. Both of their rifles boomed.

  The judge missed.

  Fargo did not.

  Abraham Lincoln came over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am forever in your debt.”

  “It’s not over,” Fargo said. “There’s a man named Mayfair I plan to visit. He’s part of the League.”

  “Let the army deal with him,” Lincoln suggested. “I will have Captain Colter take him into custody. With the help of Providence, we will uncover the rest of their sinister organization.”

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  Abraham Lincoln smiled warmly and offered his hand. “Can I count on your vote come the election?”

  Grinning, Fargo shook. “I don’t usually bother. But in your case I might make an exception.”

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening

  section of the next novel in the exciting

  Trailsman series from Signet:

  THE TRAILSMAN #301 HIGH PLAINS GRIFTERS

  High Plains, Kansas Territory, 1860—

  where Judge Lynch presides and

  Fargo is invited to a social—a hemp social.

  Skye Fargo stood in the shadow beside his hotel room window, keeping a wary eye directed outside on the ramshackle livery barn at the far edge of town.

  Since entering the Kansas Territory three days earlier, he had been followed by two young Southern Cheyenne bucks. Because most Plains Indians were partial to pinto horses, and Fargo rode a top-notch pinto stallion, it seemed likely they meant to boost his Ovaro.

  Cheyennes, he knew, were not town fighters. Sneaking into a livery in broad daylight, however, to steal a white man’s mount would count as a great deed and earn them coup feathers. So Fargo had slid open the sash and had his brass-framed Henry rifle propped against the wall nearby. He had no intention to shoot for score, only to kick up plenty of dust and send the braves running.

  Fargo wore fringed buckskins, some
of the strings stiff with old blood. His crop-bearded face was tanned hickory-nut brown, and the startling, lake blue eyes had seen several lifetimes of danger and adventure. He cast a wide glance around the once-thriving town of Plum Creek.

  “Boom to bust,” he muttered, amazed by the rapid change.

  The last time the Trailsman, as some called Fargo, rode through Plum Creek, the place was fast and wide open. Seemed like everybody had money to throw at the birds. But he had watched plenty of boomtowns turn into ghost towns practically overnight, and clearly this berg would soon make the list. Last night a rough bunch of buffalo skinners had made enough ruckus to wake snakes. The hiders were gone now, and the sleepy little crossroads settlement seemed on the verge of blowing away like a tumbleweed.

  There was still this hotel, though, Fargo reminded himself, even if it was the size of a packing crate. And even more surprising, a bank straight across the street. That was especially hard to believe—Fargo had played draw poker the night before with a few locals, and all but one had used hard-times tokens as markers, private coins issued by area merchants to combat the critical shortage of specie.

  Again Fargo’s gaze cut to the livery, but the Ovaro was peacefully drinking from a water trough in the paddock. Fargo watched sparrow hawks circling in the empty sky. The only traffic in the wide, rutted main street was a despondent-looking farmer driving a manure wagon.

  Until, that is, a fancy-fringed surrey came spinning around a corner near the bank.

  Fargo whistled appreciatively when he’d gotten a good look at the driver. “Well, ain’t she silky satin?” he asked the four walls of his cramped room.

  The surrey pulled up in front of the bank in a boil of yellow dust. The Trailsman forgot about the two Cheyennes, dumbfounded at this vision of loveliness. The young woman on the spring seat was somewhere in her early twenties with lush, dark-blond hair pulled straight back under a silver tiara and caught up under a silk net on her nape. Hers was a face of angelic beauty except for full, sensuous lips.