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"When I was young I walked all over this country,
east and west, and saw no other people than the
Apaches. After many summers I walked again
and found another race of people had come to
take it. How is it?
I am alone in the world. I want to live in these mountains; I
do not want to go to Tularosa. That is a long way off. I have
drunk of the waters of the Dragoon Mountains and they
have cooled me: I do not want to leave here.
We were once a large people covering these
mountains. We lived well: we were at peace. One day
my best friend was seized by an officer of the white
men and treacherously killed. At last your soldiers did
me a very great wrong, and I and my people went to
war with them.
The worst place of all is Apache Pass. There my
brother and nephews were murdered. Their bodies
were hung up and kept there till they were skeletons.
Now Americans and Mexicans kill an Apache on sight.
I have retaliated with all my might.
My people have killed Americans and Mexicans and
taken their property.
Their losses have been greater than mine. I have
killed ten white men for every Indian slain, but I know
that the whites are many and the Indians are few.
Apaches are growing less every day.
Why is it that the Apaches wait to die -- That they
carry their lives on their fingernails? They roam over
the hills and plains and want the heavens to fall on
them. The Apaches were once a great nation; they
are now but few, and because of this they want to die
and so carry their lives on their fingernails.