Abraham Lincoln rode up just after dawn, his legs dangling against his horse's flanks. He dismounted, stood back to back with James Shields. Both had muskets. They walked 20 paces, turned toward each other and took aim. Shields fired first, but his arm quivered. Lincoln remained upright, drawing a meticulous bead. Then his gun startled the silent morning.
Shields' face whitened, a spurt of scarlet doused his shirtfront, he tumbled to the ground. The onlookers were men of stone. Suddenly they all laughed loudly. Chagrined and crestfallen. Shields got to his feet. The...
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