When my young men began the killing, my heart was hurt.

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.

My father... had sharper eyes than the rest of our people.

The first white men of your people who came to our country were named Lewis and Clark.

It required a strong heart to stand up against such talk, but I urged my people to be quiet and not to begin a war.

I would have given my own life if I could have undone the killing of white men by my people.