“I could never resist the call of the trail.”

I had the best buffalo horse that ever made a track.

My first plan of escape having failed, I now determined upon another.

Washington newspaper men know everything.

I thought I was benefiting the Indians as well as the government, by taking them all over the United States, and giving them a correct idea of the customs, life, etc., of the pale faces, so that when they returned to their people they could make known all they had seen.

The Indians were well mounted and felt proud and elated because they had been made United States soldiers.

Wild Bill was a strange character. In person he was about six feet and one inch in height. He was a Plains-man in every sense of the word.

Indians were frequently off their reservations.

I had many enemies among the Sioux; I would be running considerable risk in meeting them.

My brother was a great favorite with everybody, and his death cast a gloom upon the whole neighborhood.

Every Indian outbreak that I have ever known has resulted from broken promises and broken treaties by the government.

My wife was delighted with the home I had given her amid the prairies of the far west.

On reaching the place where the Indians had surprised us, we found the bodies of the three men whom they had killed and scalped, and literally cut into pieces.

Quick as lightning Wild Bill pulled his revolver. The stranger fell dead, shot through the brain.

The McCarthy boys, at the proper moment, gave orders to fire upon the advancing enemy.

Major North and myself went out in advance of the command several miles and killed a number of buffaloes.

The Indians said the bones were those of a race of people three times the size of a man.

The resistance to the unpleasant situation is the root of suffering.

Comprehension, in short, means the unpremeditated, attentive facing up to, and resisting of, reality—whatever it may be.

Politicians should resist the temptation to consider themselves experts in fields where they have no experience.

Where there is power, there is resistance.

There’s another part of me which resists you, which loves me.

Where there is oppression, there will be resistance.

Whatever you fight, you strengthen, and what you resist, persists.

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.