Still—I silently vowed—if I am destined to die in such a manner, I can at least do so in a manner befitting a Poe! Putting this bold resolution into action, I drew myself up to my fullest height, threw back my shoulders, and—as Neuendorf planted himself directly before me—spoke thusly:

“You may shoot, stab, strangle, or dispatch me in any other manner which your diabolical ingenuity may contrive, Hans Neuendorf. But never shall you see me quail—or cower—or cry out for mercy, for the noble, the valiant, the indomitable spirit of my heroic grandfather, General David Poe, continues to live and breathe within my own bosom!”

Stung to the quick by the penetrating force of this bold declamation, the villain grabbed me by the shirtfront and exclaimed: “Who said anything about stabbing or shooting or strangling? You need live bait for fishing. And that’s all you are, you jabbering little shitass. Live bait.”

Though conveyed with his characteristic savagery, this statement could not fail to have a reassuring effect upon me. So I was not to be slain, after all! My sense of relief quickly faded, however, when—emitting a maniacal cackle—the repellent-looking creature who stood leaning upon his shovel gazed at me and said: “Live buried bait!”

The appalling implication of this latter observation caused the blood to congeal within my veins. “Why, wh-whatever do you mean?” I asked in a hoarse, stammering voice.

“Real simple,” replied Neuendorf, his simian features contorted into a look of sheer, gloating malice. “I want that Tennessee bastard out here where I can deal with him myself—no coppers, no crowds. And you’re the bait that’s gonna lure him. You’re going down into the ground, my friend. I got a man, Charlie Dawson, on his way to the Barnum Hotel right now, to tell that shit-heel Crockett he better haul his ass out here in a hurry if he hopes to dig you up alive, you damn quivering little worm.”

So inconceivably dreadful was the purport of this statement that, for several moments, I could scarely breathe, let alone speak. My breast heaved—my brain swam—the very hairs stood erect upon my head. At length, through sheer effort of will, I managed to gasp: “But surely you do not mean to subject me to the ghastly, the unspeakable horror of premature inhumation!”

Wrinkling his brow in apparent befuddlement, Neuendorf replied: “I’ll show you what I mean.” Locking the upper portion of my left arm in an iron grip, he nodded brusquely to his toothless associate, who immediately stepped to my opposite side and applied a corresponding hold to my right limb. Thus flanked by the two ruffians, I was hauled unceremoniously to the edge of the freshly excavated hole, while the third member of the unutterably repellent trio looked on in diabolical merriment.