The Vanishing Race: The Last Great Indian Council

by Joseph K. Dixon

The Final Trail

THE FAREWELL OF THE CHIEFS

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 [pg 213] 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 [pg 214] 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; [pg 215] 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 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 [pg 216] 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

The chiefs bravely emerge from these echoless silences, dust-covered but intrepid. They must now make the ascent of abrupt and massive bluffs. The summit attained, they pause for rest and retrospect. The trail has been obliterated. Every hoof-print in the sands has been erased. The trackless, yellow expanse now assumes alluring miles of colour; the royal purple of the shadows seems like tinted bands binding all the intervale back yonder to the far distant council lodge. They are familiar with the speech of the granite hills, from whose heights they now view the prospect. In these rocks, so [pg 217] red that it would seem as though the molten fires had not yet cooled, the Indian listens to the tongues of ten million years. Earth's heart fires had here and over there split the land and left jagged monuments of stone and red ash bearing still the tint of flame which had been cooled by the breath of countless winters. Still subject to the inner and absorbing passion of his life, the Indian made an altar in this weird sanctuary, and waited to worship.