"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.
He lifted the jug to his lips and let the burning liquid roll over his tongue and slide down his throat, grateful to it for the warmth that would melt away the chill of death he still felt around his heart.
A few more swigs and Raoul found himself wanting to bring Lincoln around to his way of thinking. The man, after all, had saved his life.
"You know, you went to a whole lot of bother over that Indian now," he said. "It's a waste of time. We're only going to have to kill them all later anyway."
Lincoln winced, as if Raoul's words had hurt him. "Why do you say that, sir?"
"I've got a big estate in Smith County, beside the Mississippi, miles and miles of wonderful fertile land just begging for the plow. And too much of it is growing nothing but prairie flowers, because I can't get enough people to come and work it for me. They're afraid of Indians!"
"Treat the Indians fairly and there would be nothing to fear," said Lincoln.
"Treat them fairly and they'll just continue to attack our settlements."