The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

The clamourers succeed in carrying their point. It is decided to go on with the trial – as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. He may be back before the time comes for calling him. If not, the Court can then talk about adjournment.

So rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. The spectators do the same.

The prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted.

“You were about to tell us what you saw,” proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. “Go on, and complete your statement. What was it you saw?”

“A man lying at full length upon the grass.”

“Asleep?”

“Yes; in the sleep of death.”

“Dead?”

“More than dead; if that were possible. On bending over him, I saw that he had been beheaded!”

“What! His head cut off?”

“Just so. I did not know it, till I knelt down beside him. He was upon his face – with the head in its natural position. Even the hat was still on it!

“I was in hopes he might be asleep; though I had a presentiment there was something amiss. The arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. So were the legs. Besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light I had not at first seen.

“As I stooped low to look at it, I perceived a strange odour – the salt smell that proceeds from human blood.

“I no longer doubted that it was a dead body I was bending over; and I set about examining it.

“I saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. I saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!”

A sensation of horror runs through the auditory – accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions.

“Did you know the man?”

“Alas! yes.”

“Without seeing his face?”

“It did not need that. The dress told who it was – too truly.”

“What dress?”

“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter.”

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 serapé; 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?”