By 1872, both the U.S. Government and Cochise's dwindling Chokonens had had enough of war.  For the United States, the era of the Indian Wars was at long last winding down, but not without high cost in terms of both revenue and precious lives.  For the Apaches, at least for those like Cochise who had the foresight to see and appreciate the depth of their desperation, bringing the conflict to an end was nothing less than a matter of the survival of their kind.

     Cochise had fought long and hard in a passionate bid to deliver his people from the scourge of the "white eye", and in part to avenge the death of his beloved brother Coyuntura at Apache Pass in 1861.  He proclaimed in one famous speech that he figured he was about even, and that he had grown old and tired and longed to rest.  He and his band had been mercilessly hounded by troops stationed at Fort Bowie and other neighboring facilities to the point that it had become impossible for his people to stay long enough at any one camp to recuperate.  He had lost irreplaceable warriors and had watched his beloved people suffer endlessly -- always fearing surprise attacks -- afraid even to light fires at night to cook their meals.  If not by victory on the battlefield, then by attrition had the hated Whites scored a certain and decisive defeat.

     In 1871, after a failed attempt to settle in peace on the newly formed reservation at Cañada Alamosa, Cochise must have considered the notion of living harmoniously alongside the Americans utterly hopeless.  He had taken the Whites at their word, with great hesitation and a mountain of apprehension, and had delivered himself to that far away place in the company of Tom Jeffords.  He had camped in the mountains nearby, watching and weighing the options, growing comfortable in spite of himself with the location.  He was most likely very close to committing himself to reservation life.  But after only a few weeks, and seemingly without cause, the Whites had decided to close the new reservation and force the Apaches living there to move to higher, less desirable ground at a place called Tularosa.  Cochise was familiar with the place and would have nothing of it:
 

     Within ten days of the meeting from which the above speech is taken, Cochise slipped away with his followers and headed south to Janos, Mexico where he planned to take refuge and, hopefully, leave the Americans behind.  After this failed attempt at living under the Whites' rules, few people in Arizona believed that Cochise could ever again be induced to try reservation life.

     When it became evident to the Americans running Cañada Alamosa that Cochise had left the area, a new urgency made itself known in the region.  Cochise was still regarded the most dangerous of all surviving Apaches, and he certainly was the most powerful -- in spite of his age and apparently flagging health.  The Arizona population steeled itself for a return to desperate times and once again no one took their safety for granted.