“Then what in tarnation do you mean?”

“Let us suppose,” I said, “that after fleeing to another country where his connubial status was unknown, David Poe had married his paramour and, with her, had sired another child—a girl. Given our close consanguinity, it would not be surprising if this daughter and I bore a striking resemblance to each other; for indeed, our relationship would be that of half-brother and -sister. Assume, moreover, that—like most daughters—this one grew up with an unquestioning devotion to her father: a father who, given what we know of the man’s profoundly embittered nature, might well have filled her heart and soul with his own implacable hatred of the people he blamed for his failure. Is it so unlikely that, having been infused with such poisonous sentiments throughout her young life, this daughter would, at maturity, embark on a mission to take vengeance on those who had inflicted such pain and humiliation upon her adored parent?”

“Why, I reckon there’s some sense to all that,” Crockett said after a brief, reflective pause. “It’s a mighty worrisome proposition, too—for any sister of yours is bound to be monstrous clever. How in the nation are we going to track the hell cat down before she works even more deviltry?”

“The urgency of that problem,” I replied with a sigh, “is exceeded only by the maddening difficulty of its solution.”

By now, the rain had ceased falling. Through a large gap in the shattered roof, I observed a parting in the clouds, through which a bright, gibbous moon was clearly visible. Glancing at my comrade, I perceived a troubled look upon his countenance.

“Is something the matter, Colonel Crockett?”

Nodding his head slowly, he replied: “I’m feeling powerful uneasy.”

“And what, precisely, is the source of your discomfort?”

“It’s them fellers lying dead in the woods. Now that the rain’s stopped, it won’t be three shakes of a sheep’s tail before the coyotes and other such critters come along and chaw them up for dinner. I know they ain’t nothing but the lowest kind of rapscallions, but it just don’t sit right with me to leave them unburied in the forest.”

“Your qualms do you credit, Colonel Crockett,” I said. “For indeed, it is a terrible fate for any Christian soul to be denied the sacred rite of sepulture. But what can be done?”

Donning his hat, the frontiersman rose from the ground with a sigh and declared: “Reckon I’ll take a ride back to that clearing and plant them reptiles in the ground. Can you do all right on your own for a spell?”

“Most certainly,” said I. And indeed, though my injured wrist continued to suffer from an inordinate degree of stiffness, the pain had largely subsided.