houghts 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]

The Fading Sunset

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,