Our Chiefs Are Killed. . . .

We Live, We Die, And Like The Grass And Trees, Renew Ourselves From The Soft Earth Of The Grave. Stones Crumble And Decay, Faiths Grow Old And They Are Forgotten, But New Beliefs Are Born. The Faith Of The Villages Is Dust Now... But It Will Grow Again... Like The Trees.

Cursed Be He That Scalps The Reputation Of The Dead.

I Only Ask Of The Government To Be Treated As All Other Men Are Treated.

When The Last Deer Disappears Into The Morning Mist, When The Last Elk Vanishes From The Hills, When The Last Buffalo Falls On The Plains, I Will Hunt Mice For I Am A Hunter And I Must Have My Freedom.

When My Young Men Began The Killing, My Heart Was Hurt.