It was upon the Hill of Dreams that his people buried White Calf, the last great leader of the Plains tribes, who fell in the combat with the not less savage giant who came with the white men to hunt in the country near the Hill of Dreams.

Since that time the power of the Plains tribes had waned, and they had scattered and passed away.
The swarming white men--Visigoths, Vandals--had found out this spot for centuries held mysteriously dear to the first peoples of that country.
They tore open the graves, scattered the childlike emblems, picked to pieces the little packages of furs and claws, jibing at the "medicine" which in its time had meant so much to the man who had left it there.
The Visigoths and Vandals laughed and smote upon their thighs as they thus destroyed the feeble records of a faith gone by.

Yet with what more enduring and with how dissimilar a faith did they replace that at which they mocked?
White but parallels red.

Our ways depart not widely from the ways of those whom we supplanted, our religion is little more than theirs, our tokens of faith but little different from theirs.

We still wonder, we still beseech, we still grope, and continually we implore.