together—taking the best of each. The Red men and White men would dance their dances not only here, but on other worlds as well. And as the Voice described things more and more beautiful I began to weep. And I was caught up in my weeping and it was some time before I discovered that I was alone. I thought perhaps the family nearest me had moved away—closer to the center to hear the still voice. But I walked and then I ran from place to place where the people had been. The earth was still warm with their presence and sometimes as I turned I could hear the whispering in the wind—a word, a syllable—nothing more. Then I only heard the wind. Dawn found me alone. Even Baptiste was gone.
I climbed the grave platform of Pigeon’s Egg Head. The corpse was there. So who or what had led the people away I do not know. My capacity for hope had become lame. Maybe the people are in the lying medicine world. Civilization took my hope away, but maybe they hadn’t had that experience.
The wind blows and I know what the lame boy of Hamlin felt.
Yr obt. serv’t.,
(signed) George Catlin
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