The Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter. Tribes are made up of individuals and are no better than they.
Men come and go like the waves of a sea.
Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see. We will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. I here and now make this first condition, that we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting the graves of our ancestors and friends.