Across the prairies, thunders the hooves;

The hooves of horses, the clack of wheels;

The stage coach lurches, shudders, and groans;

The rocks beneath clatter, and shatter, as it goes onward ho;

A man in black, a whip in hand, reaches out with outstretched hand;

A whooping cry, a heart sinking, as they raced across the land;

Rifles fire, bullets ricocheted, a man ducks his hat blown off;

A horse squeals and flairs its nostrils, oh the frightened animals scream;

Appaloosas grey and white, tails fluttering like banners in the wind;

A crack of a whip resounds through the opening of the canyon, riders peel left and right;

A lead horse stumbles, and is crushed by the others, a man flies off and lands on dirt;

The Coach is flipped, the contents spilled out, two men and two women, a child too;

A victorious cry rises from the braves, with rifles lifted high, a chief trots forward;

Down the goat paths and towards the Coach, a soft groan is heard, the wail of a survivor;

"What do we have here?" The question remains, a hand reaches in, a child is pulled out;

Squirming and kicking, crying and biting, the small boy of no more than eight bawls;

"A little warrior!" The chief chuckles loudly, the boy hanging by the shirt collar;

Braves smirk and laugh, but respect the boy's attempt, they nod in agreement;

The boy smacked his fists against the bronzed, hardened muscles; he let out a holler;

"Calm yourself!" The command was clear, heavily accented English drew more tears;

Taking him home to teach him there ways, the village rejoiced at the sight of a new member;

A family of braves, a family of people, quite different than those before;

A mourning child, soon brought to the wild, learns to hunt, learns to live;

And now he sits, 20 years later, a young man who is fighting to survive;

The Americans have come, come to take and come to claim;

To fight for freedom, give it a shot, a bow drawn back with arrow knocked;

Leaping from the string, a target falls, arrow through chest and the battles begun;