Against this glorious background the Indians were riding away, in dense groups, in long straggling lines, in small parties, down to couples. It was an austere and sad pageant. The broken Indians and the weary mustangs passed slowly out upon the desert. Shoie, the tongueless, was the last to depart. It appeared that he turned with gleaming visage and gesture of denunciation. Far to the fore the dark forms, silhouetted against the pure gold of the horizon, began to vanish, as if indeed they had ridden into that beautiful prophetic sky.
“It is–symbolic–“ said Marian. “They are vanishing–vanishing. Oh! Nopahs!... Only a question of swiftly flying time! My Nophaie–the warrior– gone before them!... It is well.”
At last only one Indian was left on the darkening horizon–the solitary Shoie–bent in his saddle, a melancholy figure, unreal and strange against that dying sunset–moving on, diminishing, fading, vanishing–vanishing.
THE END
Copyright © for the Polish edition 2017 by Ventigo Media Sp. z o.o., Warszawa 2017
Copyright © for cover photo
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