Crockett, however, seemed entirely unperturbed by this extraordinary—this unaccountable—development. “Now, Count,” he remarked with a smile, “I ain’t saying that ol’ Toby’s eyes have plumb bamfoozled him. But before you start boasting on your victory, why don’t you and me take a little stroll over yonder and have us a look-see for ourselves?”

In an instant, the expression on the Frenchman’s attenuated countenance underwent a dramatic transformation, from outright exultation to profound suspicion. His pale brow deeply furrowed, he silently scrutinized Crockett for a moment before replying, “Bien sûr.”

With Miss Mullany at his side—“Ol’ Betsy” in his arms—and the Comte de Languedoc at his heels—Crockett strode boldly up the center of the lawn towards the great, gnarled tree. Along with Mrs. Nicodemus, Sissy and I followed directly behind; while the throng of masqueraders—venting their excitement in a loud, buzzing murmur—swarmed about the tree, male and female alike jostling each other for the most advantageous positions.

Having reached his destination, Crockett drew close to Toby, who continued to stare at the target with an expression of utmost perplexity.

“Step aside, ol’ hoss,” Crockett commanded the servant; then, turning to the Frenchman, he declared: “Count, whyn’t you take a gander at that-there ace of spades.”

Complying with this directive, Languedoc stepped up to the tree and peered closely at the target for a moment before turning to the assemblage and announcing: “As can dearly be seen, there is but a single bullet hole in la carte!”

Next, he plucked the card from its retaining nail, revealing the corresponding hole in the bark. Into this he then inserted the long, tapered forefinger of his right hand, as though to demonstrate in the most graphic way conceivable that only a single bullet had penetrated the trunk.

“How far in can you reach that nose-picker of yours, Count?” Crockett inquired.

Frowning with annoyance, Languedoc moved his forefinger ever more deeply into the trunk. All at once—as his slender digit continued to probe the bullet hole—a look of stunned incomprehension began to spread over his countenance.

Perceiving this expression, Crockett grinned broadly and said: “Something wrong, Count?”

“Ce n’est pas possible!” gasped the latter.

“Let me in there,” Crockett said, motioning the Frenchman aside. “And we’ll find out just how possible it is!”

As the crowd pressed even closer to the tree, Crockett extracted his hunting knife from his belt and—applying the long, pointed tip to the bullet hole—dug out the contents, which dropped into his open palm, positioned directly against the tree trunk.

“Bring that torch a mite closer, Toby,” said Crockett, extending his palm, “so the good folks can see for themselves.”