Nor was I the only person there to be thus affected. Standing in close proximity to the doorway of the shack, Crockett’s cohorts—Captain Russell and Sergeant Donegan—appeared to have been reduced to a state of stupefied paralysis by the outcome of the contest. As Neuendorf took another halting step in their direction, the two police officers finally roused themselves from their daze and reached for the handles of the wooden “billy clubs” that protruded from their thick leather belts.

The weapons, however, proved to be superfluous. Even before the two law men could extract the “billies” from their belts, Neuendorf staggered to a halt, raised both hands to the sky, and—letting out a roar of agonized protest not unlike the death-bellow of a mortally wounded bull moose—collapsed face forward onto the ground!

At this wholly unanticipated turn, the crowd emitted a single, protracted gasp of the utmost wonderment and confusion. In the hush that ensued, a sound like the heavy tread of boot soles upon floor-boards issued from the shack. Then the sound grew more pronounced—a looming figure filled the door-way—and out into the wan and pallid daylight stepped Crockett himself, looking (apart from a blood-stained perforation on the upper part of his left shirt-sleeve) hardly the worse for wear!

Gazing about at the sea of astonished faces that confronted him, Crockett—whose own countenance wore a look of consummate satisfaction—expelled a laugh compounded equally of amusement and surprise.

“Well, I’ll be shot, kilt, and shoved into the ground without benefit of clargy!” he exclaimed. “You folks didn’t reckon that ol’ Davy Crockett had got whupped by the likes o’ this no-account critter?” And here, he motioned with his chin toward the insensible form that lay outstretched at his feet.

“We did indeed,” cried Captain Russell. “That conclusion—though nearly impossible to credit—seemed unavoidable when you failed to emerge from Neuendorf’s lair.”

“Why, shucks,” answered Crockett. “My duds got a trifle disarranged while I was subduin’ that varmint, and I just tarried inside for a spell to tidy myself up.”

At that instant, a low quavering moan escaped from the throat of Neuendorf, who stirred slightly on the ground.

Drawing back one booted foot, Crockett delivered a ferocious kick to the right temple of his prostrate adversary, who gave a fluttering groan and subsided again into oblivion. Stooping, Crockett reached for Neuendorf’s massive right hand, which continued to clutch the long-bladed knife. Prying open the latter’s fingers and removing the weapon, Crockett straightened up again and ceremoniously presented the savage-looking implement to the police official.

“Captain,” Crockett announced. “If this here pig-sticker ain’t the same knife that kilt poor ol’ Mrs. Macready, I wish I may be kicked to death by grasshoppers!”