For days they traveled, the young man and the Yavapai girl
She told him her name and they spoke in the language
They rode the horses until they gave out
Then their throats were slit and meat was taken to eat later
No fires were lit
They ate berries and raw jackrabbit as well to keep going
After a week they relaxed more as they entered Apache area
They saw dust way off like dust-devils but they knew it was horses
They could hear shots and no more

When all was quiet a day later, they moved silently towards the killing ground
The buzzards told them the story before they got there
Dead white people, a lot of them, maybe a half dozen
Burnt wagons and arrows, but not from one tribe
Some of the arrows were different and shot hoof marks
And moccasin tracks that were shaped like a white man's way of walking
Some white men had done this loosely disguised as Apache
They took what they could use and walked on
The purple mountains and red ochre earth swallowed them up
And the young man smelt his own blood as they ran
And it was a good smell, the smell of being alive