For a moment Raoul could not think of anything to say or do. All he had to do was shove this Lincoln aside, put the muzzle of his pistol to Little Foot's head and pull the trigger. He realized, too, that the longer he hesitated the more a fool he looked. What right did the skinny captain have to demand that he spare Little Foot? Raoul became aware that the crowd around them had grown to perhaps a couple of hundred men. The ones he could see wore little half smiles. Whoever came out the winner, they were having a fine old time watching. Raoul was broader and maybe stronger than Lincoln. But how ridiculous he would look if he had to fight the man to get past him to shoot Little Foot. And what if this bag of bones beat him? _Old Abe's the best wrassler in this army, Colonel._ The truth was bitter as vinegar, but the only course that would preserve his dignity would be to let Lincoln have his way. "Ah, hell," he said loudly, and was pleased to hear that while he'd stood silently thinking, his voice had regained its strength. "Sure, I'll let the Indian live. He's nothing to me." He noticed that his hand still shook a little as he gave Bennett's pistol back to him. He took his own, reloaded, from Armand and holstered it, hoping no one could see his tremor. "My hand on it," he said, holding out his right hand, willing it to be steady. The grip that met his was crushing. Even though he'd seen the bony young man immobilize Little Foot, Raoul was surprised. He felt the men would expect him to do more to show his gratitude. "Come and have a drink with me, Abe." "My pleasure, sir." Armand had finished putting Raoul's tent up. In the tent Armand uncorked a jug and handed it to Raoul, who offered it to Lincoln. The young man hooked his finger in the ring at the neck of the jug and raised it to his mouth. Raoul watched the prominent Adam's apple rise and fall as he took a long swallow. "I normally don't touch whiskey, sir," Lincoln said, handing the jug back to Raoul. "I've seen it ruin too many good men. But I do appreciate this. It's not every day I grab a pistol as it goes off, wrestle an Indian and disobey a colonel." "Well, that's the best whiskey there is. Old Kaintuck--O.K." "Three things Kentucky makes better than anyplace else," said Lincoln. "Quilts, rifles and whiskey. I should know. That's where I hail from." It was because of men like this, Raoul thought with some disdain, that Illinoisians got their nickname, "Suckers." The weak shoots of the tobacco plant that had to be stripped off and thrown away were called suckers, and Illinois was said to be largely populated by ne'er-do-well emigrants from tobacco-growing states like Kentucky. "Then here's to Kentucky," said Raoul, loathing the tall, ugly man for spoiling his revenge.