The Whetstone Mountains are at peace.
The desert, silent, lies…
No longer hears the thud of hooves…
Or fierce, bloodthirty cries.
The human wolves no longer range-
Or paint for war, and prowl-
Goyathlay…and his jackal pack…
No longer raid and howl.
Goyathlay? You may ask me whom-
Or what that name may mean…
“One who yawns” defines it well-
Innocuous it seems.
Born in eighteen twenty-nine…
Down in New Mexico….
Goyathlay had another name…
Which everybody knows.
Apache war chief without peer-
The last to lay down arms.
No settler home was without fear
Ranches, towns, or farms.
“Talking Boy”, that’s Tom Horn-
A breed named Mickey Free-
Al Sieber, scout who had no peer
Were on his trail you see?
From fifty eight, to eighty six
He ranged the desert land-
Raping, robbing, killing all-
Whom fate put in his hand.
I think his ghost still walks the land
Where, now, no people go-
This warrior was a fighting man…
He’s called “Geronimo”.
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