The prairie grass turned to brown, the trees on the banks of the nearby
river turning to crimson and orange, the Syrian blue of the skies, holding
here and there a mountainous cloud, the brilliant sunshine of the early
autumn day, all served to emphasize and revivify the splendid mosaic of
colouring worn by the chieftains, as, without the mockery of speech, they
mounted their horses, and faced their final destiny.
The Indian is a superb horseman. Both horse and rider seem to have grown
together. It is poetry in motion. The brilliant cavalcade are fast
leaving the old council lodge in the distance. The word farewell was
baptized with the spirit of peace, and now as they ride forth the banner
of peace floats over them. Peace is in the air. Not far hence there is a
river to cross, whose waters were born amid the snows of the distant
mountains, and the river bathed in sunlight utters its jubilations of
peace. Like “an army with banners” they enter the shaded defile of the
valley—cross the swiftly flowing stream, and pass out upon the plain.
Weird and picturesque is the procession as the long line of horsemen face
the loneliness of the far-flung line of desert waste—the flat and sombre
serenity of sand and sage and cactus. Clouds of dust are lifted from the
immensity of the arid stretches, like smoke signals to the matchless
immensity of the sky. The burning haze, the molten heavens, the weird and
spearlike cactus, the valiant horsemen, hold the eye. We follow their
trail until they are almost lost to view in the drapery that enshrouds
sand and sage and riders. There seems now to be a tragic soul roaming
these infinite wilds, restless and burning with passion, the companion of
storms and the herald of violent deeds.
[Vanishing into the Mists]