In that instant, I heard an unmistakable sound, emanating from above. Someone had cocked a rifle! Casting my gaze upward, I saw a sight that caused the blood to congeal in my veins. Poised atop one of the ruined battlements, a wild-haired female figure stood silhouetted against the moon. In her hands she held a Kentucky long rifle. Evidently, this was the same firearm that Crockett had left for my protection, and that my demented half-sister must have stumbled upon as she emerged from her lair. The muzzle of this fearsome weapon was now aimed directly at my oncoming companion!

My reaction was instantaneous. Cupping my one good hand to my mouth, I shouted:

“Davy! Look out!”

This warning was scarcely out of my mouth when the thunderous report of the firearm shattered the stillness of the night—and my companion tumbled from his horse!

I gasped in horror as a shout of sheer malignant triumph echoed from above. But my sibling’s exultation was destined to be exceedingly short-lived. As I turned my eyes in her direction, I saw the fire-damaged stones beneath her feet suddenly give way. She let go of the rifle and flailed her arms wildly for a moment, before losing her footing. Emitting a shrill cry of protest, she plummeted downward like a great, black-winged bird of night and struck the ground with a terrible—a sickening—thud.

A feeble moan issued from her throat as she lay crumpled at the base of the ruined house. To my astonishment, she had survived the terrible fall—though not, I inferred, without having suffered grievous, if not mortal, injuries. At the moment, however, my concern was entirely for my companion’s well-being. Dashing through the vacant main portal of the house, I ran towards the frontiersman’s supine form, my heart filled with an indescribable feeling of dread. Even before I reached him, however, he stirred, shook his head, and—to my inexpressible relief—rose to his feet.

“Davy,” I cried. “You are all right!”

“I got you to thank for that, ol’ hoss,” he said, brushing particles of dirt from his jacket sleeve. “When you let out that holler, I give my head a jerk, and that bullet just hardly grazed my skull. Didn’t do no more harm than pebbles bouncing off a gator’s hide.”

Gazing at his brow, I could see a trickle of blood—black in the moonlight—issuing from a small laceration just below his hairline.

“Who in blue blazes was taking potshots at me?” Crocked: demanded.

“Come,” said I. “I will show you.”