We did not think of the great open plains, the beautiful rolling hills, and winding streams with tangled growth, as ‘wild’. Only to the white man was nature a ‘wilderness’.
When the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe.
I am tired of fighting. Our chiefs are killed… The old men are all dead… My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.