Em . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A . . . . . . . . . . E
Word has come to our town that Pete LaFarge is dead
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B7
At the age of thirty-five. That's what the paper said.
E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A . . . . . . E
I can't believe it's true, that Peter's really gone.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . E
Who'll fight for the Indians now and who will sing their song?

    E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A . . . . . . . . . . E
    Why did you leave us, Pete? Why did you go?
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B7 . . . . . C7 . . . . . B7
    You still had songs to sing and write I know.
    E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A . . . . . . . . . . . E
    I still sing your songs. I guess I always will.
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E
    Why did you leave us, Pete? Why is your voice still?

As long as the grass shall grow on the grave of Ira Hayes,
There's a people who will remember this boy from Santa Fe.
Cisco waits to shake his hand, to tell him it's all right.
He fought hard and he fought well, and it was an honest fight.
    Chorus.

The peace pipe now is shattered. The lance is on the wall.
The moccasins are empty. There's none one here at all.
But though the room is empty, a song's ringing in the night.
Peter's not forgotten us or given up the fight.
    Chorus.