Gen. Oliver 'The Christian General' Howard: The Bible I read preaches brotherhood for all of God's children.
Tom Jeffords: Suppose their skins weren't white. Are they still God's children?
Gen. Oliver 'The Christian General' Howard: My Bible says nothing about the pigmentation of their skin.
Geronimo: It is not the Apache way to be grandmothers to cattle. Cochise has lost his taste for battle and so he is ready to surrender. He throws away our victories. It is not this false peace that we need, but a new chief.
Tom Jeffords: Now, I was told that Apache boys and girls often pick those that they want to marry. Well, how can they do that if they can't get acquainted?
Sonseeahray: Oh, they get acquainted. There are ways.
Tom Jeffords: What ways?
Sonseeahray: They meet by accident where no-one sees them. Like my mother could see me here with you.
Cochise: I break the arrow. I will try the way of peace.
Geronimo: You did not kill. We will not kill this time. But not again.
Cochise: To talk of peace is not hard. To live it is very hard.
Cochise: You know what I am thinking? Maybe someday you will kill me, or I will kill you. But we will not spit on each other.
Tom Jeffords: They found a pouch on one of the wounded men, and in the pouch were three Apache scalps. So they dug a pit in the ground and they rubbed his face with the juice of the mescal plant. And they made me watch the ants come.
Geronimo: I trust none of it. Four days ago, we were given our territory on a piece of paper. Today, we cannot go into Mexico. The American general says 'No.' Already our territory is smaller. Where will we get corn, blankets, horses if not by taking them from the Mexican as we always have?
Cochise: The American government will give us cattle. We will raise them and trade them for our needs.
Geronimo: The answer of a woman.
Tom Jeffords: When the Indian wishes to signal his brother, he does so by smoke sign. This is the white man's signal. My brothers far away can look at this and understand my meaning. We call this mail. And the men who carry the mail are like the air that carries the Apache smoke signals.