Whence came that horse?
From the prairies. The negro had caught him, on the outside plain, as, with the bridle trailing among his feet, he was instinctively straying towards the hacienda.
To whom did he belong?
The question was not asked. All present knew him to be the horse of Henry Poindexter.
Nor did any one ask whose blood bedaubed the saddle-flaps. The three individuals most interested could think only of that one, who stood to them in the triple relationship of son, brother, and cousin.
The dark red spots on which they were distractedly gazing had spurted from the veins of Henry Poindexter. They had no other thought.