The possibility of meaningful discourse with my companion was, at first, entirely precluded by the reactions he provoked as we made our way towards the northernmost reaches of the city. On every thoroughfare along which we passed, he was instantly recognized by pedestrians and travellers alike, who hailed him with shouts of “Up and at ’em, Davy!,” “Hurrah for Crockett!,” and other such fervent salutations. The beaming frontiersman acknowledged each of these greetings with a wave of his hat and an ebullient “Thank’ee, good citizen!”; while I rode silently beside him, a reluctant Panza to his irrepressible knight-errant.

It was not until we had left the city behind us that an opportunity finally arose for us to talk. It was Crocked: who initiated our discussion by inquiring about my urgent interruption of his conversation with Muddy.

“I declare, Poe,” he exclaimed, “but I near about busted my noggin tryin’ to figger out what in tarnation you was signallin’ for. Why, your head was shakin’ like a man with the Saint Vitals dance.”

I explained that my actions had been prompted by the concern I harbored for my Aunt Maria, from whom I was determined to keep the particulars of my involvement in the present enterprise. “My behavior,” I added, “was thus the natural expression of the solicitude I possess for my aunt—a being towards whom I feel all the tenderness and gratitude of a son.”

Crocked: cocked his head to peer at me as we trotted abreast of each other along the rutted path that wound into the luxuriant countryside.

“And what became of your nat’ral mother, Poe?—for I take it that the poor woman is no longer among the living.”

I acknowledged the accuracy of this observation with a melancholy sigh. “A glorious star whose intense, if transitory, brilliance gave boundless delight to all who gazed upon it, my mother—the celebrated thespian Eliza Poe—perished of the consumption at the tender age of twenty-four, when I was little more than an infant.”

My companion clucked his tongue in sympathy. “And your father?”

At the mere allusion to my male progenitor, I could feel my heart stiffen with rage. “Though loath to violate any of the ten sacred precepts of the Decalogue, I am powerless to contemplate that deplorable being—for I will not honor him with the designation of man—without succumbing to the most vituperative thoughts.” I paused for a moment until I had regained sufficient control of my emotions to continue. “He, too, was an actor—though of such a mediocre stamp as to incur the unreserved scorn of audiences and critics alike. I know nothing more about him, for—in an act of almost inhuman cruelty—he utterly abandoned my doomed, sainted mother less than one year following my birth.”

“Why the varminous miscreant!” Crockett said in shocked indignation. “Hanging ain’t good enough for a serpent such as that!”