When I was a boy, the Sioux owned the world. The sun rose and set on their land; they sent ten thousand men to battle. Where are the warriors today? Who slew them? Where are our lands? Who owns them?

God made me an Indian, but not a reservation Indian.

What white woman, however lonely, was ever captive or insulted by me? Yet they say I am a bad Indian.

Behold, my friends, the spring is come; the earth has gladly received the embraces of the sun, and we shall soon see the results of their love!

I do not wish to be shut up in a corral. All agency Indians I have seen are worthless. They are neither red warriors nor white farmers. They are neither wolf nor dog.

As individual fingers we can easily be broken, but all together we make a mighty fist.

Strangely enough, they have a mind to till the soil, and the love of possessions is a disease in them.