Hastily—perhaps too truly—construing the sinister evidence, the half-frantic father leaped into the bloody saddle, and galloped direct for the Fort.
Calhoun, upon his own horse, followed close after.
The hue and cry soon spread abroad. Rapid riders carried it up and down the river, to the remotest plantations of the settlement.
The Indians were out, and near at hand, reaping their harvest of scalps! That of young Poindexter was the firstfruits of their sanguinary gleaning!
Henry Poindexter—the noble generous youth who had not an enemy in all Texas! Who but Indians could have spilled such innocent blood? Only the Comanches could have been so cruel?
Among the horsemen, who came quickly together on the parade ground of Port Inge, no one doubted that the Comanches had done the deed. It was simply a question of how, when, and where.
The blood drops pretty clearly, proclaimed the first. He who had shed them must have been shot, or speared, while sitting in his saddle. They were mostly on the off side; where they presented an appearance, as if something had been slaked over them. This was seen both on the shoulders of the horse, and the flap of the saddle. Of course it was the body of the rider as it slipped lifeless to the earth.
There were some who spoke with equal certainty as to the time—old frontiersmen experienced in such matters.
According to them the blood was scarce “ten hours old:” in other words, must have been shed about ten hours before.
It was now noon. The murder must have been committed at two o’clock in the morning.