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Atop a knoll, amid a plain
In Llano Estacado,
His hand clenched tight ahold her mane
Sat Quanah on his pinto.
With fate his lot, the weight of war
Bore he upon his shoulders,
While far below, fatigued and sore
Rode Carson and his soldiers.
In boredom’s wake they’d lost all sight
Of Sherman’s lofty mission:
To clear the land through use of might
While sating greed’s ambition.
The trap, though set, would not be sprung,
Though odds were in his favor,
For Quanah heard from wisdom’s tongue
The time had come to waiver.
Though last to leave the land they’d lost
His band and he surrendered,
But on those plains remains the ghost
Of Quanah and his kindred.
— Lon Roberts
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© 2004 · Pneuma Center