A groan is again heard—rising above the hum of the excited hearers.
“Proceed, sir!” directs the examining counsel. “State what other circumstances came under your observation.”
“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time.
The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black.
At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.
“I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the beheading. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere—in addition to that made by the knife.
“It proved that I was right.
On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serape; that all around the place was saturated with blood.
“On lifting it up, and looking underneath, I saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone.
I could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, I knew it must be still inside the body.”
“In your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?”
“Most certainly it was.
If not instantaneous, in a few minutes—perhaps seconds.”
“The head was cut off, you say.
Was it quite severed from the body?”
“Quite; though it was lying close up—as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment.” “Was it a clean out—as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?” “It was.”
“What sort of weapon would you say?”
“It looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade.” “Did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? Or had the severance been effected by a single cut?” “There might have been more than one. But there was no appearance of chopping. The first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. It was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. From that I knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered.”
“Had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?”
“Not then, not the slightest. I was so horrified, I could not reflect.
I could scarce think it real.
“When I became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, I could only account for it by supposing that there had been Comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young Poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness.
“But then there was his scalp untouched—even the hat still upon his head!”
“You changed your mind about its being Indians?”
“I did.”
“Who did you then think it might be?”
“At the time I did not think of any one.
I had never heard of Henry Poindexter having an enemy—either here or elsewhere.
I have since had my suspicions.
I have them now.”
“State them.”
“I object to the line of examination,” interposes the prosecuting counsel. “We don’t want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner’s suspicions.
Surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with his very plausible tale?”
“Let him proceed, then,” directs the judge, igniting a fresh Havannah.
“State how you yourself acted,” pursues the examiner.
“What did you do, after making the observations you have described?”
“For some time I scarce knew what to do—I was so perplexed by what I saw beside me. I felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot—the same I had heard.
“But who could have fired it?
Not Indians. Of that I felt sure.
“I thought of some prairie-pirate, who might have intended plunder.
But this was equally improbable.
My Mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars.
That would have been taken.
It was not, nor anything else that Poindexter had carried about him. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it!
“I came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young Poindexter, or a grudge against him.
“I never had.
“Besides, why had the head been cut off?
“It was this that filled me with astonishment—with horror.
“Without attempting to explain it, I bethought me of what was best to be done.
“To stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. To bury it would have been equally idle.