At that instant, I grew cognizant of a flurry of motion occurring at the very margin of my sight, several yards to the left of where I stood. Casting a rapid glance in the direction of the disturbance, I saw that Neuendorf had regained consciousness and—having pulled himself to his knees—was contending with Captain Russell and Sergeant Donegan, who were attempting to draw his arms behind his back and secure them with a pair of iron manacles. So prodigious was Neuendorf’s strength that, under ordinary circumstances, he might have easily resisted this manoeuvre. But—still groggy from the punishment he had received at Crockett’s hands—he proved, in the end, unequal to the combined exertions of the two officers; who, after a brief, violent struggle, finally succeeded in affixing the shackles to his wrists.

Dragging Neuendorf to his feet, the policemen prepared to escort their captive to the city jail, while, all around, the gathered onlookers—their visages contorted into furious masks of indignation and scorn—assailed the prisoner with catcalls of “Beast!”—“Monster!”—“Murderous reprobate!”

My course became instantly dear. “Colonel Crockett,” I declared, redirecting my gaze at the frontiersman, “I accept your gesture in the propitiatory spirit in which it is offered, having no wish to prolong the unhappy state of affairs that has existed between us ever since your abrupt and audacious intrusion into the holy precincts of my domicile. Let me only add that, in view of your dearly demonstrated propensity for impetuous behavior—as well as the nature of the mission upon which I am presently embarked—I pray that circumstances will not once again propel us into so strained, so inimical a relationship.”

With that, I extended my own right hand, which Crockett immediately enveloped in a firm, not to say bone-crushing, grasp. “Cricket,” he said with a soft, chuckling laugh in whose rippling undercurrent I could not help but detect a note of amused condescension. “If you ain’t a world-champeen gumbeater, I’ll be skinned alive with the blunt edge of a Bowie knife. Take ol’ Davy Crockett’s word fer it—you’ve plumb missed yer callin’. Why, with your amazin’ talent for highfalutin’ palaver, you should be runnin’ for Congress!”

Then, favoring me with a hearty wink and a companionable slap on the shoulder that—owing entirely to the unexpectedness of the gesture—sent me staggering a few steps, he spun on his heels and returned to his auditors, who were waiting in a veritable agony of impatience for Crockett to regale them with the facts of his most recent triumph.

Recovering my balance with the sure-footed agility typically associated with the species Felis domestica, I quickly made my way to the side of Captain Russell, who, positioned directly behind Neuendorf, was employing his “billy club” in the manner of a prod. The scowling captive, however, could not be budged.