University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
BRUTALITY AND SUSPICION.

Warncliff's party having now returned—at least all
that ever would return, for some five or six had been killed
in the affray—it was speedily decided that we should leave
the village without delay, as there was no knowing what
moment the chief and his warriors might get back from
their expedition; and should we be followed, while our
trail was yet fresh, there was no telling what might be the
consequences. All therefore soon became confusion—the
men seeking the deserted cabins for plunder, and stripping
the dead of such of their apparel as they fancied might
prove of any value hereafter.

It was my wish, and Clara's also—whom I sought out
in the confusion and found weeping—that poor Dundenah
should at least have decent interment; and getting Walter
to join Harley and myself, we hastened to the corpse, and
were about to remove it, when Warncliff appeared, and in
an insolent tone demanded to know what we were about
to do with that — Indian.

“It is the desire of Clara and ourselves,” replied Walter,
reddening, “that this poor girl—who, whatever her
faults, proved a true friend to the captives—should have
decent burial.”

“And do you not account the assassination of our
guide, and this,” he cried, fiercely, holding up his arm,
which was now bandaged, “an offset to all the good she
ever did?”

“But she paid for all that with her life,” put in Harley.

“'Tis false!” cried Warncliff, fiercely: “the lives of
fifty such wenches would be no equivalent for the death of
one white man, to say nothing of her attempt upon my
own life.”

“In proper time and place,” returned Harley, pale
with anger, which he strove to keep under control, “your
insolence shall be met with proper chastisement.”

“This to me?” fairly yelled Warncliff, his features
contorted with passion.

“Come, come,” interposed Walter, “let there be no
quarreling here. You know, Willard, my father has
expressly forbidden it.”

“Umph!” sneered the other: “I command here—not
your father.”

Again Walter reddened—but merely said:

“Well, well, never mind—let us proceed with the
corpse.”

“No,” said Warncliff, “it goes not hence!”

“But it is Clara's wish.”

“It should not leave the building even if it were your
father's wish.”

“Eh! what is the dispute?” said the Colonel, who
entered the door behind Warncliff just in time to hear the
last remark.

Walter explained.

“Why, Willard,” said the Colonel, “there is nothing
unreasonable in this wish of Clara's; for whatever harm
the girl might have intended to do you, she was certainly
the preserver of the life and honor of my daughter, and
as such I also could wish to see proper respect paid to her
remains.”

“Well,” answered Warncliff, sulkily, “I have said she
should not have more respect paid to her dead carcass
than is paid to the rest of her accursed tribe; and I'll

make my words good; and unless you, Colonel Moreland,
wish to get yourself embroiled in an unnecessary quarrel,
you will not interfere.”

“He that would treat with disrespect the dead, even
though the body be that of a bitter foe, is a coward and
no gentleman!” cried Clara, indignantly, who had silently
joined the group during the discussion.

Warncliff turned fiercely toward her; and there was a
something so wicked in the expression of his features, that
I involuntarily shuddered, and Clara shrunk back as if
alarmed. Nothing further passed between them, however
—for the Colonel interposed, addressing his daughter
sternly.

“Silence! girl,” he said, “and retire!” and as Clara,
obedient, moved away, he turned to Warncliff. “And as
for you, sir,” he continued, “being the commander of this
party, you will please to have your own way for the present;
but I am one not likely to forget in what manner I
have been treated by one I have heretofore esteemed a
gentleman.”

“And would you insinuate—” began Warncliff.

“No!” interrupted the Colonel—“I would insinuate
nothing—for what I believe, I make a point to speak
boldly. But let the matter drop for the present—I am in
no humor for a wrangle. Nay,” he added, as he saw
Warncliff about to reply, “by the memory of your father,
who was my friend, I charge you not to answer me now?”
and turning on his heel he strode away.

At this moment several of Warncliff's men, having heard
high words between their leader and others, began to enter
the building, headed by the ruffian Tom. They were certainly
a cut-throat looking set; and their garments and
persons bore tokens of the recent affray—the former being
rent in many places, and both more or less bloody.

“What's the row, Cap'en?” said Tom, looking from one
to the other, and addressing Warncliff.

“Why, these gentlemen,” answered the latter, with a
sneer, emphasising the italicised word, “are anxious to
pay more respect to the remains of this squaw (pointing
to the corpse of poor Dundenah) than to those who have
freely shed their blood in their cause. In short, they wish
to give her Christian burial.”

Tom ripped out an oath, exclaiming:

“And you going to let 'em, Cap'en?”

“No, not if my men stand by me.”

“Let's see the one that won't,” said Tom, savagely.
“You're not agoing to do it,” he continued, scowling at
us. “Pick her up, boys, (to others of his party) and take
her further inside; and then we'll fire this—old shanty,
and that'll end the muss.”

It would have been madness for us to resist a force ten
times our own, and we knew it; therefore we prudently
relinquished our design, and quitted the building, the
Colonel and his daughter immediately following.

“Poor Dundenah!” sighed Clara; “luckily thou art
beyond feeling the further brutality of these ruffians—for
I can call them by no milder term.”

The sun was now above the hills—but it here shone
upon a scene of human butchery and desolation, at which
the heart not steeled to pity sickened.

“This, I trust, will prove the crowning act of this
bloody business,” said Harley to me; and he pointed to
several of the cabins, from which smoke now began to
issue simultaneously, while parties of the incendiaries
were seen running to and fro, carrying burning brands,
and removing such articles as they thought might be of
use to them.

Colonel Moreland now withdrew from the common with

his daughter, and Morton, Walter and I followed. In a
few minutes we were joined by Warncliff and his men—
the latter, most of them, loaded with articles of plunder,
a portion of which were sacks of skins filled with corn.

“Come,” said Warncliff, in a surly tone, “we have no
more time to spare in sentimental delay;” and he set off
down the valley, we all following in an irregular manner.

Soon we came to a bend of the hills, on turning which
the village of the Wepecoolahs would be hid from our view.
Here we all halted to take a last look of the work of
destruction behind us. The village was one bright sheet
of fire, and we could distinctly hear the roar of the flames,
as they reged with fury above the combustible roofs of the
different huts. Conspicuous over all was the Council
House, which at this moment was smoking dismally, the
turf outside preventing the fire from getting the same
headway which it had acquired over its smaller and more
combustible neighbors. But as I looked, its earthen
covering gradually crumbled away, and then it stood
a skeleton building wrapped in flames. Presently the
whole fabric sunk down with a crash, and a thousand red
cinders shot up into the bright sunlight, above the mortal
remains of poor Dundenah and Langee, who had been so
mysteriously connected in life and in death.

I involuntarily sighed as I thought of the fate of poor
Dundenah; but I had little else to regret; for my treatment
among the savages—aside from Omema and the
daughter of Kenneloo—had not been such as to enlist my
sympathies for them beyond the wish that a wanton
and unncessary sacrifice of life, particularly of women
and children, had not been made. As for Kenneloo and
his ferocious warriors, I little cared what might be their
feelings when they should return from their hostile expedition
against the frontiers of Texas and find their village

a heap of ruins. It seemed, in my view, rather like
a just retribution for their own aggressive, inhuman acts,
and a verifying of the holy text, that “He who sows the
wind shall reap the whirlwind.” Nor could I gainsay
that in the slaughter of the innocent—if any who had
fallen might be so termed—they had justly felt the avenging
hand of Him whose finger had written upon tablets
of stone, thousands of years before, that “The iniquities
of the fathers shall be visited upon the children, even to
the third and fourth generation”—a doom that even those
who profanely deny it the great attribute of justice,
cannot deny has sacred fulfillment.

With these reflections I turned away, to behold the
home of the Wepecoolahs no more.

A walk of some three hours brought us to the horses
of the party, which were found in the thicket where they
had remained through the night. We here made a
frugal repast on rather coarse fare, but which to me was
rendered palatable by reason of hunger. Harley now
furnished me with an over-coat, and for a want of a cap I
tied a handkerchief over my shaved crown. This, while
it rendered me more comfortable, and gave me more of a
civilized look, added so much of the ludicrous to my appearance,
that all who beheld me were excited to laughter.
This did not annoy me, however; but the dirty paint on
my face did; and I took an early opportunity of removing
the greater portion of it at a neighboring stream.

There was no want of horses; for, as I said before,
several of Warncliff's men had been killed in the affray.
Two of these, thus deprived of their late riders, were
assigned to Clara and myself; and the others were loaded
with sacks of corn, and other plunder, which had been
brought from the village. Toward noon we all mounted
and set out on our long and toilsome journey.

As a monotonous detail of our daily progress, aside
from such incidents as do not form concomitants to a
similar journey in the wilderness, would be more likely to
weary than interest the reader, I shall omit it, and hasten
to bring forward scenes and circumstances more worthy
of his attention.

Let it suffice, therefore, to say, that for eight or ten
days we made slow but fatiguing marches, over upland and
prairie, through forests and across streams, without
meeting with any adventures worth recording.

During this period I scarcely exchanged a dozen words
with Colonel Moreland, who was unusually reserved toward
every one; and as he kept Clara almost constantly by his
side, night and day, I seldom had an opportunity of speaking
with her, except in the presence of her father; which,
under the circumstances, I did not care to embrace. As
to Warncliff, I held no communication with him whatever;
and I saw without regret that he studiously kept himself
aloof from all save his ruffianly band, with whom he from
time to time conferred. As a general thing, he rode at the
head of his troop in sullen silence—or, if he spoke at all,
addressed himself to Tom, who appeared to hold the position
of second commander or Lieutenant.

I say I saw this studied reserve without regret; for it
seemed to widen the breach between him and the Colonel,
and left Clara unmolested; and I reasoned from this that
the engagement between them would eventually be broken
off altogether; for the Colonel was a man not likely to
urge his daughter to wed with one to whom he had himself
taken a dislike.

One eve, when we had encamped as usual on the borders
of a wood and prairie, near a little stream, I noticed that
the Colonel looked long and anxiously at the setting sun,
and, as it sunk below the horizon, turned away, and sought

out Warncliff, who was engaged in giving some directions
about the horses. I chanced to be in such proximity, that
I could overhear what passed between them.

“It seems to me, Mr. Warncliff,” said the Colonel,
rather coldly, “that you have missed your way.”

“By no means,” answered Warncliff, dryly, glancing
significantly at Tom, who was standing near.

“Judging from the time we have been on the journey,
and the rate at which we have travelled, we should be now
at Fort Houston, or in its immediate vicinity,” replied the
Colonel; “unless, as I fear, you have taken a more
westerly course.”

“We have taken a more westerly course,” rejoined
Warncliff, sententiously.

“May I know for what reason?” inquired the Colonel,
a little sharply, evidently more irritated by this reply than
he wished to have appear.

“Because it suited my inclination to do so,” answered
Warncliff, surlily.

“But it does not suit my inclination to do so,” rejoined
the Colonel, quickly.

“That may be; but who commands this party, you or
I?” said the other, in an insolent tone.

“You command your own men, of course.”

“Then I trust I may take such direction as I see
proper.”

“But I am not bound to follow you,” replied the
Colonel, angrily.

“No,” said Warncliff; “you can withdraw from our
protection if you like, and get scalped for your wisdom.”

“Sir!” began the Colonel, in a fierce tone.

“No more!” interrupted Warncliff, haughtily. “I am
in no mood to be dictated to by the father of a girl who
openly professes to hate me!” and turning upon his heel,

he strode away to Tom, with whom he entered into conversation.

The Colonel looked after him for a short time, his face
red with anger; and then biting his lips, as if to keep
down his rage, he walked slowly back to Clara, and I
fancied I could hear him mutter to himself:

“Insolent puppy! he shall pay dearly for this!”

What is the meaning of all this? what new rascality is
now afoot? I soliloquized; and seeking out Harley, I
communicated to him what I had just overheard.

“I have thought for some time that all was not going
right,” he replied; “and now I am certain of it. I fear,
Harry, we have only got out of one difficulty to get into
another. This Warncliff is evidently a deep, designing
villain, and these rough fellows are completely under his
command.”

“But what do you apprehend?” inquired I, anxiously,
my thoughts instantly reverting to Clara.

“I scarcely know what I apprehend,” he replied; “but
you and I, at least, have not now to learn that persons of
wealth, and even refinement—that is, refined so far as
education goes—may be connected with desperadoes of
the worst stamp, especially here in Texas.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed I, startled at the suspicion
his words excited: “Surely, you do not mean to
insinuate that these fellows are of the same class as those
with whom we once became involved, and whom we had
good reason to believe were under the command of that
villainous Count D'Estang?”

“And why not?” said Harley.

“Why not?” echoed I: “why—”

But I paused; for a single moment's reflection convinced
me that I had no grounds for saying why not; and
the more I reflected, the more I became excited and

alarmed at the idea. I recalled to mind what Clara had
told me concerning Warncliff; of his known legitimate
resources being inadequate to his lavish expenditure; also
how he had given out that he was speculating in lands on
the Brazos; and adding to this my general knowledge of
his character—my previous suspicions that he was following
the dishonorable profession of a gambler—and the
fact that these very men, these rough, brutal fellows,
whom he termed his friends, had been raised away from
home, and seemed to regard him rather as an old than a
new commander—and I could find nothing improbable in
the idea suggested by Harley.

On the contrary, he was a young man who, when unsuspected,
I had believed devoid of principle—vain, arrogant,
licentious—and therefore one well fitted by nature to
embrace the first temptations offered of increasing his
pecuniary resources without honest labor.

Yes, the more I pondered upon the matter, the more
ready was I to believe that, so far from there being any
thing improbable in his having connected himself with a
band of outlaws, it seemed inconsistent with his character
that he should not have done so, if a proper opportunity
and temptation had at any time been offered him.

But had he gone to the rescue of Clara with the premeditated
design of throwing off his mask at the first convenient
opportunity? I could hardly think so; but rather
that he had so gone prepared for any thing that might
happen; and that his altercation with the Colonel, the
feeling of detestation with which he could not but perceive
Clara regarded him, combined with other circumstances,
had decided him to adopt this course; but whether he
would proceed to acts of violence against those he had at
one time esteemed his friends, was more than I could

determine—though I had my fears, and was not long left
in doubt.

After discussing the matter with Harley, I grew so
uneasy, that I expressed my determination of communicating
my suspicions to the Colonel forthwith, and taking
counsel with him as to what we had better do under the
circumstances: but my friend deterred me.

“Let us rather wait and watch,” he said; “for as you
are not a favorite of the Colonel's, it is more than likely
that he would receive your communication with coldness
and distrust—regard it as an uncalled-for interference on
your part—and, peradventure, for there is no calculating
the obstinacy of a man like him, might wilfully blind himself
to real danger, for no other reason than that it had
been hinted at by you, and consequently defeat the very
purpose we have in view. No, no—let matters take their
own course—but let us be ready for any emergency. If
the Colonel sees any thing to alarm him, he may seek our
counsel; and in that case he would be likely to heed what
we say.”

“But in the meantime we may all have our throats
cut,” said I; “and bear in mind, that it is not on the
Colonel's account that I would have this interview, but on
Clara's and our own.”

Harley shook his head.

“It will not do,” he said; “depend upon it, the result
would be what I have predicted. And moreover, whatever
design Warncliff has in view, cutting our throats
forms no part of it, or that would have been done long
ago.”

I was far from being satisfied with Harley's reasoning
and advice; and took the first opportunity of laying my
suspicions before Walter, who, having been somewhat intimate

with Warncliff, I thought would probably know whether
they had any good foundation or not.

He seemed struck with the facts and my deductions, as
one after another I brought them forward; and replied
that it was possible my suspicions were just—but agreed
with the advice of Harley, that it were best I should say
nothing to his father about it, nor in any manner make
Warncliff aware that he was suspected.

“We will keep our own counsel for the present,” he
said, “and watch Warncliff closely; and if we find that
he is playing us false, it will be time enough to act—at
least so far as we can act in the matter—that is, put a
ball through his head, and trust to our power of intimidating
the others. To-morrow,” he continued, “I will
seize the first favorable opportunity, and talk the matter
over with my father.”

“But why not to night?” said I, anxiously.

“Because my father, according to your showing, can
be in no very amiable mood; and I fear that, in the heat
of passion, he might do that which would be most imprudent.
To-morrow, Mr. Walton—to-morrow he shall know
all.”

“To-morrow,” said I, despondingly—“who knows what
the morrow may bring forth?”