“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.”