To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most harrowing—the most ghastly—the most sheerly calamitous—ordeal that has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. Indeed, it may be asserted without hesitation that no event is so terribly well adapted to inspire the supremeness of bodily and mental distress as is premature inhumation. The mere thought of this appalling fatality carries into the heart a degree of exquisite and intolerable horror from which the most daring imagination must recoil. We know of nothing so agonizing upon Earth—we can dream of nothing half so hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell.
I hasten to add that there is nothing merely speculative about the foregoing assertions; rather, they are solidly founded upon my own actual experience—upon my own direct and personal knowledge.
No sooner had Neuendorf issued his dreadful command than his shovel-wielding henchman thrust the blade of his implement into the mound of freshly excavated dirt and began, with fiendish deliberation, to re-fill the hole at whose bottom I lay helplessly prone. The first load of soil landed at my feet—the second upon my upper legs—the third squarely upon my chest. As the full, awful awareness of my predicament forced itself into the innermost chambers of my soul, I once again endeavored to cry aloud. My lips parted—my fear-parched tongue moved convulsively in my mouth—but before the slightest sound could issue from my lungs, another mass of dirt struck me square on the face, filling my nostrils with the peculiar odor of moist earth and causing me to spit—and choke—and cough uncontrollably. Despair—such as no other species of wretchedness ever calls into being—flooded through my bosom and drove the blood in torrents upon my heart.
And then, amid all my infinite miseries, came suddenly the blesséd cherub Hope, arriving in the guise of a loud, reverberant, and inexpressibly beautiful sound. It was the sound of a booming male voice, calling out in tones so strong and commanding that—even with my ears partially obstructed by the dirt which had just landed about my head—I could clearly apprehend each separate word:
“Throw down that shovel, you low-down, yellow-bellied varmint, or I will make daylight shine through you faster than God’s wrath!”
The voice was none other than that of my remarkable companion, Colonel Crockett, who had arrived—by what mysterious, providential agency I could not begin to conceive—in the very nick of time! The intensity of my emotions at this propitious intervention can scarcely be conveyed in mere words. Those who have been condemned to a ghastly, unspeakable doom, only to be delivered at the penultimate moment by a sudden and wholly unforeseen reprieve, can alone appreciate the feelings which suffused my bosom at this seemingly miraculous occurrence.
Frantically shaking the soil from my face and head, I blinked my eyes rapidly and cast my gaze upward. Directly above me, poised on the brink of the open grave, stood the shovel-wielding lout, his implement still clutched in his hands, his eyes fixed in the direction from which the frontiersman’s menacing words had emanated. All at once, the sonorous voice called out again:
“Drop that digger right now, you no-account serpent, or I will perforate your ugly carcass for a certainty. Blamed if I ain’t feeling fiercer than the latter end of an earthquake!”
Hearing the unmistakable note of savage resolve in Crockett’s warning, the ruffian wisely relinquished his implement, plunging the blade into the soft earth at his feet. As he did so, Neuendorf—who was standing out of the range of my vision—spoke up in a crudely sarcastic tone:
“Ain’t you the brave one, with a gun in your hands.” A momentary pause ensued. “Shit, that-there looks like Charlie Dawson’s rifle.”
“I relieved him of it,” came Crockett’s reply. “He won’t be needing it no more, for I have dispatched the varmint to a place where they give away brimstone and the fire to burn it.”
By this point, I had managed, by dint of much athletic wriggling, to work myself around onto my belly. From this attitude, I was able to move onto my knees and from thence to a standing posture, the topmost portion of my body from the shoulders upward protruding from the mouth of the grave.
With my head thus elevated, I glanced rapidly about the clearing. The scene that presented itself to my eyes was dramatic in the extreme. Several yards off to my right stood Crockett, a somewhat battered-looking flintlock rifle held at waist level in his hands. The muzzle of this well-worn, though still-formidable, piece was aimed directly at the breast of Hans Neuendorf, who faced Crockett with a look of absolute, overpowering malice. Flanking Neuendorf were his two detestable henchmen, their visages similarly contorted with expressions of sheer antipathy and loathing.
The look on Crockett’s own countenance was one of cool but deadly determination. Keeping his weapon levelled at Neuendorf’s chest, he flicked his eyes in my direction, then—returning his gaze to the reprobate crew before him—addressed me thusly:
“How’re you faring, Poe? Blamed if you don’t look like a gol-danged groundhog with his head poking out of his burrow.”
“Though somewhat unsettled by my recent ordeal,” I replied, “I am, in all essential respects, perfectly well, owing to your timely arrival. Lacking the use of my hands, however—which remain securely bound behind my back—I am incapable of dimbing from this hole and offering you my assistance.”
“Don’t you fret none about helping me, Poe, for I can deal with this pack of rapscallions easier than swallowing a mouthful of huckleberry pie.”
“You think you’re the pig’s whiskers, Crockett,” growled Neuendorf. “But to me, you ain’t nothin’ but a fart in a windstorm. Lay down that firearm and we’ll see just how big you are.”
This insolent remark brought no immediate response from Crockett, who merely glared at his opponent, his dark eyes blazing. Slowly, however, a smile of the purest disdain spread across the frontiersman’s rugged countenance. In one rapid, fluent motion, he lowered his rifle—leaned it against the trunk of a nearby tree—stripped off his high-collared coat—and, planting his hands upon his hips, threw back his head and proclaimed:
“Why, you damned, impudacious varmint! I’ll persuade you that I’m pluck and grit united in one individual. My gizzard’s so all-fired hot that I’m fixing to breathe fireballs! I will double you up like a spare shirt—twist you into the shape of a corkscrew—and chaw you as small as cut tobacco.”
“Crockett,” Neuendorf muttered in reply, “you talk too damn much.” Even as he spoke these words, his right hand was inching towards the handle of a long-bladed dagger hanging from the side of his belt in a faded leather scabbard. All at once—in a movement swift as thought—he plucked the knife from its sheath, and—grasping it by the very tip of its blade—raised it high above his head and flung it through the air directly at Crockett’s bosom.
So great was the dexterity with which this projectile was thrown, and so deadly the intent, that it would surely have pierced the very heart of the frontiersman, had he not—with a rapidity quite as remarkable as that with which the weapon was hurled—dropped into a crouching position. Even so, the revolving blade passed alarmingly close to his body, missing his left shoulder by mere inches before burying itself in the tree trunk against which he had rested his firearm.
Eyes flashing, Crockett sprang from his crouch and threw himself at Neuendorf, driving his head into the midsection of his brutish adversary, who expelled a loud, agonized grunt as the enraged frontiersman fell upon him like a panther. Rolling upon the ground, the two combatants began to punch—bite—gouge—and kick—with such extreme, such uncontained fury that a cloud of dust rose up around them and obscured their struggling figures. The very earth seemed to shudder from the force of their battle, and the stillness of the forest was shattered by the savage oaths that issued from their throats as they fought.
In the meanwhile, Neuendorf’s two associates leapt into action, the bushy-browed shoveller snatching up his implement; while his toothless companion—after glancing about for a suitable weapon—seized a large, gnarled branch that lay on the grass nearby. Raising these objects above their heads, these two miscreants arranged themselves on either side of the grappling pair, their evident intention being to deal the frontiersman a deadly blow with their makeshift clubs. This nefarious plan, however, could not immediately be put into action, since the two combatants were so completely intertwined that it was impossible to strike at Crockett without risking a lethal blow to Neuendorf.
Seeing my companion outnumbered by a ratio of three to one, I felt desperate to assist him by some means. Without the use of my hands, however, I was powerless to remove myself from the hole. All at once, a solution occurred to me. Leaning the upper part of my back against one wall of the excavation, I raised my feet, one at a time, and pressed the soles against the opposite wall. I thus found myself suspended several feet above—and approximately parallel to—the bottom of the grave. Very slowly and cautiously, I then proceeded—by an alternating, precisely coordinated movement of my shoulders and feet—to inch myself up the sides of the excavation until I had reached the surface; whereupon, with one firm, decisive thrust of my legs, I propelled myself out of the excavation and onto the ground!
Struggling to my feet, I quickly took stock of the situation. By dint of his unparalleled fighting skills, the frontiersman had by now achieved a superior position, kneeling above the supine figure of his opponent and delivering a succession of blows to the villain’s face. Crockett’s ascendancy, however, had placed him in an exceptionally vulnerable situation, exposing him to the murderous designs of Neuendorf’s henchmen. Indeed, at that very moment, the shovel-wielding villain was standing directly above the frontiersman, poised to bring his implement crashing down upon the latter’s skull!
I parted my lips, intending to shout a warning. Before I could produce a sound, however, Crockett—evincing an instinctive, almost preternatural alertness and agility—flung himself away from the body of his opponent and rolled to one side, just as the shovel descended. At that instant, Neuendorf groggily raised his head. Completely missing its intended target, the heavy blade struck Neuendorf on the left temple with a sickening thud.
Bounding to his feet, Crockett sprang at the shovel-wielding henchman and—drawing back his tightly balled right hand—delivered a staggering blow to the scoundrel’s jaw. Dropping his implement, the villain let out a quivering moan and fell crossways over Neuendorf’s unconscious body.
At that instant, the second of Neuendorf’s minions leapt to the attack. Wielding the gnarled branch like an aborigine’s warclub, he charged madly at Crockett, who stooped—snatched up the fallen shovel—and, as the enraged attacker came at him with a roar—drove the rounded end of the wooden handle into the latter’s abdomen. With an agonized expulsion of breath, the ruffian doubled over at the waist; whereupon Crockett elevated the shovel high over his head and, in one savage, sweeping motion, brought the edge of the blade crashing down upon his antagonists neck, causing the cervical vertebrae to break with an awful—an appalling—snap. As heavily as an overstaffed sack of feed, the toothless villain dropped lifelessly to the ground.
For a moment, Crockett stood panting over his vanquished foes, eyes still enkindled, clothing dishevelled, hair hanging wildly about his flushed and weather-creased countenance. His shovel was poised to deliver another blow—if needed—to the prostrate figure sprawled at his feet. At length—perceiving that his antagonist would never rise again—Crockett dropped his heavy implement to the ground and stepped in my direction, pausing momentarily to extract Neuendorf’s long-bladed dagger from the tree trunk in which it was lodged.
“I am happy as a soaped eel to see you alive and kicking, Poe,” he declared as he came up beside me. “Here. Swivel around, and I will have you free quicker than winking.”
Obeying, I turned my back to the frontiersman and—tilting my body forward from the waist up—extended my tethered wrists in his direction. “But how,” I inquired as he proceeded to saw at the rope with his blade, “did you manage to arrive so expeditiously—even before Neuendorf and his minions could put their unspeakable design into action and entomb me, while still living, in the earth?”
“Why, that’s easily told,” answered Crockett. “I woke a mite earlier than I figured, had me a thumping big breakfast, and headed off for your home. But when I showed up, your Aunty Clemm told me that you had set out to find me. Well, that struck me as rather queer, since I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you. So I backtracked, and soon come across a feller who said he’d seen something almighty peculiar a while afore. It appears he was out on a stroll earlier that morning when he spied a couple of ornery-looking varmints slinging a big heavy sack onto the back of a hoss. Only the sack had two legs poking out of it!
“Well, I suspicioned the truth right off. So I borrowed a mount and lit out after the varmints like the devil on a gambler’s trail. Before I’d gone too far out of the city, I run into that rapscallion named Dawson, who was sent to fetch me. After exchanging a few words, I pitched into him like a streak of forked lightning, and sent him straight to kingdom come. Then I took his firearm and followed his trail back here as easy as falling off a log.”
By this point, Crockett had succeeded in severing the rope. Massaging the sorely chafed wrists of my now-liberated hands, I turned to face my comrade, whose back was to the tree against which he had leaned Dawson’s flintlock.
“Well, Colonel Crockett,” I began in a tone of the warmest gratitude, “owing to the frontier skills of which you are so supremely possessed, I have once again been saved from—” I did not, however, manage to complete this heartfelt declaration; for—glancing over Crockett’s right shoulder—I was startled into silence by a paralyzing sight.
There, standing several yards away, was the shaggy-browed reprobate who had been felled by Crockett’s punch. This ruffian had evidently regained consciousness while Crockett was in the process of freeing my wrists, and—making his way stealthily towards the tree—had taken hold of the rifle, the muzzle of which was now aimed squarely at Crockett’s back!
Even before I could utter a warning, Crockett—perceiving the expression of utmost alarm on my countenance—quickly spun around, facing the cowardly villain just as the latter drew back the hammer of his weapon.
“No!” I shouted. With one determined stride, I stepped directly in front of the frontiersman. “I shall not permit you to slay my companion in so craven, so ignominious a fashion!”
“Step aside, ol’ hoss,” Crockett muttered grimly into my ear. “I will extinctify this reptile quicker than hell can scorch a feather.”
Shaking my head decisively, I declared: “Colonel Crockett, I owe you my life, which you have saved on several separate occasions. To shield you now from certain destruction is an obligation that I will not—that I cannot—shirk.”
“Why you damn blabbering pip-squeak,” snarled the shaggy-browed villain. “At this range, one ball’ll do for the both of you!” And so saying, he took careful aim at my bosom. I saw at once that his assessment of the situation was all-too-disconcertingly accurate. From so near a distance, a single bullet would pass directly through my heart and enter the body of my companion, who was positioned directly to my rear.
I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the fatal roar of the firearm. In that instant, several things occurred in swift succession. First, I felt a firm hand grab me by the shoulder and fling me so violently to one side that I went crashing to the ground. Almost simultaneously, I heard a whooshing in the air directly above me. This was immediately followed by an anguished cry of pain from the would-be assassin and, an instant later, by the explosive discharge of the rifle.
Glancing up, I saw an astonishing sight: the shaggy-browed assailant leaning heavily against the tree trunk, his smoking rifle aimed directly into the air. He was staring down with a look of utter incredulity at the center of his chest, from which the handle alone of Neuendorf’s dagger protruded, the blade itself being entirely embedded in his body. A moment later, his knees buckled—he emitted a fluttering moan—his pupils rolled back—and he slid lifelessly onto the ground.
I saw at once what had happened. Even as our would-be executioner had begun to squeeze the trigger, Crockett had shoved me aside and, with unerring accuracy and lightning speed, hurled the dagger into the breast of the villain, who, recoiling from the impact of the blade, had discharged his rifle harmlessly into the air!
The danger was past. My life had again been spared. A feeling of profound, of overpowering,. relief flooded through my bosom. As I attempted to rise from the ground, however, I became cognizant of an altogether different—and infinitely less pleasurable—sensation: an intense, if not excruciating, pain in the area of my right wrist, upon which I had fallen with the full weight of my body when hurled to safety by my companion.
“Are you all right, Poe?” Crockett solicitously inquired as he stepped to my side and, reaching down to grasp my left arm, assisted me to my feet.
“I am still among the living,” I replied, “a condition I owe entirely to the extraordinary prowess for which you are so universally—and, I have come to perceive, so justly—renowned.” Indicating my right wrist, which had begun to assume a most unnatural coloration, I added: “I fear, however, that I have badly sprained, or perhaps even broken, my arm.”
Closely examining the limb in question, Crockett clucked his tongue and declared: “She’s swole up mighty bad, for a certainty.” Tearing off his striped cravat, he quickly draped it about my neck—arranged it into a makeshift sling—and tenderly slipped my wounded arm inside.
As he performed this deft maneuver, I took the occasion to articulate a concern that had been gathering force within my bosom. “Perhaps,” I suggested, “it would be prudent to make a closer inspection of the main instigator of this entire catastrophe, Hans Neuendorf. It would be most inconvenient if he, too, should suddenly surprise us by unexpectedly emerging from his seemingly inanimate state.”
“That ain’t no slouch of an idea,” Crockett said. Stepping over to the prostrate body of Neuendorf, he extended the toe of his boot and nudged the fallen man’s head. From the utter limpness with which it lolled to one side—as well as from the sheer quantity of blood that had issued from his nostrils, ears, and mouth—I perceived that our nemesis was in fact absolutely deceased: slain by the unintended blow from his henchman’s shovel.
“Deader than a herring,” Crockett said as he returned to my side. “Killed by his own pard.”
No sooner had these words issued from Crockett’s lips than the black, roiling clouds above the horizon released a jagged bolt of lightning. This was followed, seconds later, by a booming peal of thunder. Then heavy droplets of rain began to fall from the sky, pattering on the grass around us.
“Poe,” said Crockett, casting an appraising glance at the heavens. “I reckon you and me best find us a place to hole up for a spell. We don’t stand a Chinaman’s chance of getting back home afore that storm lets rip—especially since there ain’t but one mount for the two of us.”
“One?” I exclaimed. “But what about the steeds belonging to our vanquished opponents?”
“Why, ain’t you noticed?” said Crockett. “Them nags has took off like drunks to a barbecue.”
Gazing towards the hillside upon which the three beasts had been grazing, I observed that Crockett was right: the untethered horses had indeed bolted— frightened off, perhaps, by the booming discharge of the rifle.
“But where shall we find shelter in this godforsaken expanse of countryside?” I inquired, wincing from a sudden throb of pain in my injured right wrist.
“Why, there’s a place not a half-mile from here that’ll serve just fine,” said Crockett. “C’mon, pard. You can ride my hoss, and I will lead the way.”