We are standing at the centre of a mighty circumference. An Indian world
revolves for the last time upon its axis. All the constellations which
gave it light have burned out. The Indian cosmos sweeps a dead thing amid
the growing lustre of the unfading stars of civilization and history. The
solemn hour passes, unmarked by any cataclysm of nature—volcano and
earthquake utter no speech—darkness and tempest rend no veil of this
crumbling life temple. In the deepening twilight all is silent—all speech
is vulgar. To utter a word here would be profanation. The remnant of a
race have gathered for shelter within the sacred walls of their council
lodge. The ashes of the council pipe have been scattered upon the ground.
In silence, deep, profound, awe-inspiring, the old Indian guard—the Last
of the Great Chiefs—break not the silence. Who can ask death to retreat?
And who put in shackles the decrees of destiny? The world annals contain
no heroism and no bravery more lofty and enduring than that furnished by
the record of the red man. But the summital requirement is at hand.
These old heroes, few in number, must with their own moccasined feet
measure the distance in yards and inches from that council lodge to the
grave—the grave of their race. It were almost sacrilege to invade their
thoughts. The old question of the carven Sphinx sat on each bronze face.
The far cry of the hills and plains—the memories of other days—forged new
lines until the brow of each solemn warrior seemed like a page in the book
of fate. They saw again the slowly rising smoke column, as in the sunrise
and from the far off hilltop it lifted its call for the chiefs to
assemble. The memory of the old days stirred their hearts. Again they
saw the flaming council fires, and heard once more the burning speech of
their brothers as they counselled for war or the welfare of the tribe.
The blood of youth again chased in their veins as they felt once more that
they might sit in council as in the old time and then die in peace. The
old war-bonnets and war-shirts were brought out; the coup stick with its
trembling eagle feathers, the ancient bows and arrows. The favourite
horse was blanketed, and the journey begun. Old scenes and landmarks were
made new. Here they crossed a river through whose rushing waters they
had, in other days, pursued a foe. Over there was a coulee where in
exciting patience they had sought to ambush the enemy. Yonder was a plain
that had been a battlefield. Winding over the pine-girt hilltop they
traced an old buffalo trail. And now they had reached the council lodge.
They had partaken of the bread and meat. They had exchanged greetings,
and pledged themselves to brotherhood and peace. How familiar it all
seemed! For one splendid moment they were once again really Indians. The
same historic river wound its way among the purple hills and through the
lacework of alder and aspen trees that like a green ribbon festooned the
valley. How peaceful seemed even this place—once also a place of battle.
And now the far stretch of the years loomed up: boys again, trapping
foxes, learning to shoot the arrow which finally found its mark in the
buffalo calf; capturing and taming the wild horse; the first war party;
the first scalp, and its consequent honour among the tribe; the first coup
counted; the eagle that was shot to get the coveted feather that to all
men should be a pledge of victory; then the love for an Indian maiden, the
ponies and furs and beadwork willingly given in exchange for this new
love; the making of a new home. Thoughts of war parties, and war’s bitter
struggles; other coups counted, other scalps taken, were thoughts that
lighted new altar fires. In imagination vast herds of ponderous buffalo
once again thundered across the plains, and the exhilaration of the chase
quickened the pulse beat, only to give place to the tireless lament that
the buffalo were all gone. Memories of tribal tragedies, of old camping
places, of the coming of the white man, of broken treaties, of the advent
of the soldiers—all thronged for recognition; the wigwam around which
happy children and the merry round of life sped on, the old men, their
counsellors and friends, who had gone into the spirit land, and now this
was to be the last, the very last council. The heart grows tense with
emotion as they break the silence, and in Indian fashion chief looks into
the face of chief, and, without an uttered word, they pass one by one
through the doorway that leads to a land without a horizon.
[The Fading Sunset]