“Yes,” I answered. “It was included in a letter of farewell that he composed to his beloved soul-mate just hours before he faced the executioner’s blade.”

“And how old was he when he died?” Muddy asked, her voice cracking slightly.

“A mere twenty-eight.”

A silent moment ensued as Muddy and Sissy turned to gaze at each other, their darling features arranged into identical expressions of intense and sorrow-laden dismay. All at once, Sissy burst into tears, leapt from the settee, and dashed from the room. Muddy, her own eyes brimming with moisture, quickly rose to her feet and bustled after her sobbing daughter.

Somewhat thunderstruck by the intensity of my loved ones’ reaction, I turned to look at Crockett, who was regarding me with a wry expression while shaking his head slowly from side to side. At length, he slapped both hands upon his thighs and pushed himself erect.

“By jings, Poe, but you are a regular barrel of fun,” he said as he stepped to my side. Placing his hands upon his hips, he gazed at the doorway through which Muddy and Sissy had fled. “Reckon me and you might as well attend to our business,” he said, emitting a sigh. “Looks like this-here party is over!”

CHAPTER 20

Ushering Crockett into my sanctum, I enkindled the oil lamp that stood upon my writing table; whereupon—reaching into the breast pocket of his high-collared coat—the frontiersman extracted two panatelas and extended one towards me.

“Smoke?” he inquired.

Though I had partaken of cigars on certain rare social occasions (such as the farewell dinner given to me by my fellow cadets, following my cunningly contrived discharge from the United States Military Academy at West Point), I had never developed a fondness for the habit—my finely wrought constitution being in no small degree susceptible to the intoxicating influences of tobacco. I therefore declined Crockett’s offer with a polite shake of the head.

Returning the proffered cigar to his pocket, Crockett placed the other one between his teeth, bit off the tip, then positioned the head directly over the glowing chimney of the oil lamp. Having ignited it to his satisfaction, he seated himself in the straight-backed chair that faced the writing table, crossed one leg over the other, and—eyes narrowed against the plumes of smoke drifting upwards from his panatela—regarded me intently.

As I scrutinized his countenance in turn, I perceived that his expression—which, throughout the evening, had been luminous with pleasure—was now deeply clouded with concern. “Is something the matter, Colonel Crockett?” I inquired. “You appear, of a sudden, to have lapsed into a mood of uncharacteristic solemnity.”