| For days they traveled, the young man and the Yavapai girl
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| She told him her name and they spoke in the language
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| They rode the horses until they gave out
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| Then their throats were slit and meat was taken to eat later
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| No fires were lit
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| They ate berries and raw jackrabbit as well to keep going
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| After a week they relaxed more as they entered Apache area
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| They saw dust way off like dust-devils but they knew it was horses
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| They could hear shots and no more
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| When all was quiet a day later, they moved silently towards the killing ground
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| The buzzards told them the story before they got there
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| Dead white people, a lot of them, maybe a half dozen
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| Burnt wagons and arrows, but not from one tribe
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| Some of the arrows were different and shot hoof marks
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| And moccasin tracks that were shaped like a white man’s way of walking
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| Some white men had done this loosely disguised as Apache
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| They took what they could use and walked on
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| The purple mountains and red ochre earth swallowed them up
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| And the young man smelt his own blood as they ran
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| And it was a good smell, the smell of being alive |