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

Is it wrong for me to love my own? Is it wicked for me because my skin is red? Because I am Sioux? Because I was born where my father lived? Because I would die for my people and my country?

I surrender this rifle to you through my young son, whom I now desire to teach in this manner that he has become a friend of the Americans. I wish him to learn the habits of the whites and to be educated as their sons are educated. I wish it to be remembered that I was the last man of my tribe to surrender my rifle. This boy has given it to you, and he now wants to know how he is going to make a living.

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

There are things they tell us that sound good to hear, but when they have accomplished their purpose they will go home and will not try to fulfill our agreements with them.

A cold wind blew on the prairie on the day the last buffalo fell. A death wind for my people.

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