The image of God is defaced in the hearts of the savage.

Cain-like does the child of the forest put forth his hand and stain it with a brother's blood.

But are there no deeds of darkness done in our own favored land?
But the country of the Dahcotah,--let it be new to those who fly at the beckon of gain--who would speculate in the blood of their fellow-creatures, who for gold would, aye do, sell their own souls,--it is an old country to me.

What say the boundless prairies?
how many generations have roamed over them?
when did the buffalo first yield to the arrow of the hunter?
And look at the worn bases of the rocks that are washed by the Father of waters.

Hear the Dahcotah maiden as she tells of the lover's leap--and the warrior as he boasts of the victories of his forefathers over his enemies, long, long before the hated white man had intruded upon their lands, or taught them the fatal secret of intoxicating drink.
The Dahcotahs feel their own weakness--they know they cannot contend with the power of the white man.