“Ain’t you the brave one, with a gun in your hands.” A momentary pause ensued. “Shit, that-there looks like Charlie Dawson’s rifle.”

“I relieved him of it,” came Crockett’s reply. “He won’t be needing it no more, for I have dispatched the varmint to a place where they give away brimstone and the fire to burn it.”

By this point, I had managed, by dint of much athletic wriggling, to work myself around onto my belly. From this attitude, I was able to move onto my knees and from thence to a standing posture, the topmost portion of my body from the shoulders upward protruding from the mouth of the grave.

With my head thus elevated, I glanced rapidly about the clearing. The scene that presented itself to my eyes was dramatic in the extreme. Several yards off to my right stood Crockett, a somewhat battered-looking flintlock rifle held at waist level in his hands. The muzzle of this well-worn, though still-formidable, piece was aimed directly at the breast of Hans Neuendorf, who faced Crockett with a look of absolute, overpowering malice. Flanking Neuendorf were his two detestable henchmen, their visages similarly contorted with expressions of sheer antipathy and loathing.

The look on Crockett’s own countenance was one of cool but deadly determination. Keeping his weapon levelled at Neuendorf’s chest, he flicked his eyes in my direction, then—returning his gaze to the reprobate crew before him—addressed me thusly:

“How’re you faring, Poe? Blamed if you don’t look like a gol-danged groundhog with his head poking out of his burrow.”

“Though somewhat unsettled by my recent ordeal,” I replied, “I am, in all essential respects, perfectly well, owing to your timely arrival. Lacking the use of my hands, however—which remain securely bound behind my back—I am incapable of dimbing from this hole and offering you my assistance.”

“Don’t you fret none about helping me, Poe, for I can deal with this pack of rapscallions easier than swallowing a mouthful of huckleberry pie.”

“You think you’re the pig’s whiskers, Crockett,” growled Neuendorf. “But to me, you ain’t nothin’ but a fart in a windstorm. Lay down that firearm and we’ll see just how big you are.”

This insolent remark brought no immediate response from Crockett, who merely glared at his opponent, his dark eyes blazing. Slowly, however, a smile of the purest disdain spread across the frontiersman’s rugged countenance. In one rapid, fluent motion, he lowered his rifle—leaned it against the trunk of a nearby tree—stripped off his high-collared coat—and, planting his hands upon his hips, threw back his head and proclaimed: