I am alone; and not
afraid to die! Strike: eighty winters are on my head--they are heavier
than your sword! They weigh me to the earth! Strike, and let me go to
my squaw, my sons, and my daughters, and let me forget my wrongs!
Strike, and let my grave be here, where all I have is in the ground!
Strike: I would sleep where I was born--all around me are the graves
of my people, let mine be among them; and when the Great Spirit shall
come, let Him find us all together, here with our fathers of a
thousand winters, who first built their wigwams here, and who first
taught their children to be more cautious than the panther--more
watchful than the turkey!"
"I will not strike you," said the General. "No, I will not strike my
foe, a prisoner; but here is my hand in friendship."
"No," said the chief; "you have put your sword in its pocket, put your
hand in its pocket; do not let it reach out to blind me, or to take my
home. I am the white man's enemy; his friendship I fear more than his
anger. It is more fatal to the red man. It takes away his home, and
forces him living to go away and grieve for his country, and the
graves of his fathers, and to starve in a strange land.
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