Land Acknowledgement

Swift Coyote’s Warpath: Drumming Through the Bloodlands

The Comanchería night was a howling void, the plains reeking of dust and blood, the stars above sharp as arrowheads. Swift Coyote, a Comanche brave with a lean frame and eyes like burning coals, crouched in the buffalo grass, his war drum—a stretched hide taut as a scalp—thumping low, its beat a pulse of death.

He was no farmer, no builder; his people roamed the vast plains, claiming a territory bigger than empires, from the Rio Grande to the Arkansas River, yet touched only scraps of it with their hooves and hide tents. The Comanche were lords of the saddle, (AFTER horses were brought to the Americas by Spanish colonizers…) not the soil, and Swift Coyote, at twenty winters, was ready to carve his name in blood, stealing land from the Apache as they’d stolen it from the Jumanos before them.

His drum thumped, a mocking rhythm like a heart ripped from a chest, as he prepared to slaughter for the Comanchería. Older, at forty winters, he’d face the white man’s guns, fighting a losing war against colonizers who’d claim his world.

This was his tale, a saga of conquest and loss, spitting on woke lies of indigenous purity and justifying the colonizers’ iron will, for only assimilation could forge a path in America’s brutal, multi-ethnic crucible.

The Comanchería stretched endless, a sea of grass where the Comanche roamed, their camps fleeting as shadows, their “territory” a boast won through terror. They’d driven out the Apache by the 1700s, who’d themselves crushed the Jumanos and others in a bloody chain of conquest. Swift Coyote’s war drum was his soul, its beat a taunt to enemies and a middle finger to the woke myth of peaceful natives, their supposed harmony with the land, and their shamanic nonsense.

His story would shred those illusions, showing the Comanche were raiders, not saints, and the colonizers as victors in a game of strength, where assimilation was the only road to survival.

Segment 1: The Comanche’s Bloody Claim

Swift Coyote gripped his lance, the war drum slung across his horse, its thump like a skull cracking under hooves. The year was 1740, and the Comanche were hungry for Apache land in the southern plains. The Apache, who’d bullied the Jumanos into oblivion a century before, thought they owned the buffalo trails, but the Comanche, with stolen Spanish horses, were a storm of hooves and arrows. Swift Coyote’s band targeted an Apache camp, its fires glowing like a fool’s hope.

“They think this land’s theirs,” he sneered to his brother, Iron Hoof, his voice dripping with scorn. “We’ll paint it red.” The Comanche didn’t farm or build—they raided, killed, and moved, claiming a vast Comanchería they barely touched. Woke fools in 2025 would call them “stewards of the land,” but Swift Coyote’s drum beat for slaughter, not harmony, mocking their fairy tale of indigenous virtue.

The raid was a whirlwind—arrows flew, Apache warriors fell, their women and children taken as slaves or corpses. The Jumanos had faced the same fate from the Apache, who’d crushed them to claim the plains. Swift Coyote laughed, blood on his hands, as his drum thumped a victory dirge.

“Peaceful natives?” he mocked, spitting on a dead Apache. “We take what we want, like they did.” The woke would wail about “stolen land,” but the Comanche conquered it before the Europeans came, and the Apache before them—a chain of blood, not entitlement.

The Battle:

The Apache Slaughter

The southern plains night was a black maw, swallowing the stars, the air heavy with dust and the sour reek of horse sweat. Swift Coyote, Tonight, in 1742, led a raid on an Apache village, their fires flickering like a fool’s hope on the Llano Estacado. The Apache, who’d crushed the Jumanos a century before, thought they owned these plains, but the Comanche, armed with stolen Spanish horses, were a storm of iron and hate.

His drum pounded, a mocking snarl like a skull splitting under a tomahawk, as he prepared to butcher the Apache and claim their land. The Comanchería was a warpath, not a home, the Comanche raiders, not farmers, claiming a territory they never tamed. Swift Coyote’s drum was his soul, its rhythm a taunt to enemies. Comanche were predators, not quaint demur victims, and the colonizers as victors in a game of strength, where the conquered had to join or die.

Swift Coyote signaled his band—thirty warriors, faces painted black with ash, lances gleaming under a sliver moon. The Apache village, a cluster of brush wickiups along a dry creek, slept unaware, its sentries dozing by dying fires.

The Comanche had scouted for days, their horses silent as ghosts, knowing the Apache’s strength—fierce fighters, but no match for Comanche speed. “We’ll paint this land Red with their blood, this night.” Swift Coyote’s only stewardship was slaughter, his lance hungry for Apache scalps—taken to prove kills, a custom both tribes shared.

The charge came like a thunderclap—horses surged, hooves churning dust into a choking fog. Swift Coyote’s lance pierced an Apache sentry’s chest, the man’s scream cut short as blood sprayed like ink. Arrows hissed, Comanche bows loosing death, each shaft finding flesh—throats, eyes, hearts. An Apache warrior lunged with a stone club, but Swift Coyote’s horse danced aside, his tomahawk splitting the man’s skull, brains spilling like porridge.

“Peaceful natives?” he laughed, scalping the corpse with a quick slice, the bloody trophy dangling from his belt. “Tell that to their ghosts.” This was conquest, same as the Apache’s against the Jumanos.

The Apache village was a charnel house, wickiups ablaze as Comanche torches lit the night. Swift Coyote’s drum pounded, its beat a sarcastic jab at the chaos—women screamed, children fled, warriors fought and died. An Apache elder swung a spear, his war cry fierce but futile; Swift Coyote’s arrow took his eye, dropping him like a sack. He knelt, slicing the scalp free, the hair matted with blood, another token for his lodge.

“Sacred land?” he sneered, kicking the corpse. “It’s ours now, old man.” The Comanche didn’t build or farm—they raided, killed, moved on, their Comanchería a trophy of terror. The Apache had done the same to the Jumanos, driving them into the dust, and now they paid the price.

Swift Coyote’s paranoia flared—every shadow could be an Apache ambush. He eyed Iron Hoof, wondering if his brother’s glance hid betrayal. “Watch the flanks!” he barked, his drum’s thump a warning. His only spirit was the thrill of the kill, his healing the crunch of bone under his blade. An Apache boy, no older than ten, swung a knife; Swift Coyote’s tomahawk ended him, the scalp small but taken all the same.

“No mercy,” he growled. This was war, and the land as far as anyone could see went to the strongest.

The Apache rallied, a dozen warriors forming a line by the creek, their bows and spears desperate. Swift Coyote’s band circled, horses like demons in the smoke, arrows raining death. An Apache chief, face painted red, roared defiance, his lance grazing Swift Coyote’s arm. Blood dripped, but Swift Coyote laughed, a black chuckle like a vulture’s croak. “You fight well, but you’re done,” he spat, driving his lance through the chief’s chest. The man’s scalp came off in one clean cut, wet and heavy, pinned to Swift Coyote’s saddle.

The village was a pyre now, survivors fleeing into the dark, their cries swallowed by the plains. The Comanche took horses, women, scalps—leaving nothing but ash and bones. Swift Coyote knew the truth: the Apache stole it first, from the Jumanos, who took it from others. This Land was no one’s birthright—it was won by blood, as the Comanche had done tonight.

His drum thumped, a bitter jest at the carnage, mocking the idea of indigenous unity. “We’re all wolves,” he muttered, wiping blood from his face. The Apache’s defeat was just another link in the chain of conquest.Segment 4:

Years later, 1765, Swift Coyote, now over forty and scarred, led a raid against a Spanish fort on the Rio Grande. The whites—Spanish, then Americans—came with muskets and steel, claiming the Comanchería as their “New World”. The Comanche had raided their missions, stolen their horses, but the settlers’ numbers grew, their forts sprouting like boils.

“They call us victims?” he snarled, eyeing the fort’s walls. “We scalped their priests, burned their homes.” But the whites’ guns were relentless, their cities rising where the Comanche only roamed. His charge faltered, Spanish volleys cutting down his warriors, blood pooling like tar. Today’s woke would scream “genocide,” but this was conquest, same as the Comanche’s against the Apache—stronger hands took the prize. Assimilation was the only path.

The whites offered schools, tools, a chance to join their world. Clinging to nomadic ways meant death or chains. Swift Coyote saw his sons’ future: learn English, trade, build, thrive in a land where strength, not myths, ruled.

Segment 2: The Apache’s Fall, The Comanche’s Rise

The plains were a slaughterhouse, the Comanche’s horses trampling Apache dreams. Swift Coyote’s band had no use for fields or villages; they lived for the hunt, the raid, the open sky. Their Comanchería, a million square miles, was a warpath, not a home. They’d subdued the Apache through terror—night raids, scalping, burning camps—driving them south to scrabble in the desert. The Apache, in turn, had ousted the Jumanos, who’d fought earlier tribes like the Tonkawa for scraps of prairie. Land wasn’t “sacred”; it was a prize, won by the strongest.

Swift Coyote’s drum pounded, a sarcastic jab at woke claims of indigenous unity. “They say we’re one with the earth?” he snorted, sharpening his knife. “We’re one with their blood.”His paranoia matched his pride—every shadow could be an Apache counterattack. He trusted no one, not even Iron Hoof, fearing betrayal in every glance. The woke’s “spiritual insight” was a joke—Swift Coyote’s only spirit was vengeance, his healing a blade through an enemy’s heart. As he prepared to strike another Apache camp, his drum’s beat was a grim chuckle, promising more graves in a land his people never tamed.

Segment 3: The White Man’s Shadow Looms

Twenty years later, 1760, Swift Coyote, now scarred and forty, led a war party against a Spanish fort on the Rio Grande. The whites—Spanish, then Americans—came with guns and crosses, claiming the Comanchería as their “New World.” The Comanche had fought them before, raiding missions, stealing horses, but now settlers poured in, their forts sprouting like sores. Swift Coyote’s drum thumped, “They call us noble?” he growled, eyeing the fort’s walls. “We burned their churches, took their scalps.” His people weren’t victims—they were wolves, but the white man’s pack was bigger, their guns deadlier.

The Comanche had crushed the Apache, but the colonizers’ numbers and steel were a tide no raid could stop. He led a charge, arrows flying, but Spanish muskets roared, cutting down half his band. Swift Coyote’s drum fell silent, its hide torn like his hopes. The woke would cry “genocide,” but this was conquest, same as the Comanche’s own—stronger tribes, or nations, took what weaker ones claimed they held. The Apache learned it, now the Comanche would too.

His paranoia flared—were his own warriors turning? He’d kill them first, just to be sure.

Segment 4: Colonizers’ Triumph, Natives’ Reckoning

The fort burned, but the whites kept coming—Americans now, after the Mexican War, their wagons and soldiers flooding the plains. Swift Coyote, wounded, hid in a gully, his drum’s beat faint as a dying pulse. The Comanche’s reign was crumbling, their vast Comanchería shrinking to reservations. The woke would scream about “stolen land,” but Swift Coyote knew the truth: land belonged to the victor, as it always had. And now the Comanche to the whites.

Conquest wasn’t theft—it was life’s brutal law. The colonizers’ guns, farms, and cities were proof of their strength, building where the Comanche only roamed. Swift Coyote’s drum mocked the woke’s “spiritual wisdom”—his people’s spirits didn’t save them from bullets, and their “healing” was just smoke and chants, useless against smallpox. Indian life-spans were a fraction of the life-spans of European settlers. Assimilation was the only path. The whites offered schools, tools, a chance to join their world. Clinging to old ways—nomadic, unchanging—meant death or cages.

Swift Coyote saw it: his sons could learn English, farm, trade, thrive in America’s melting pot, not wail over lost buffalo. The obsession with indigenous “entitlement” was a trap, chaining tribes to a past that never was peaceful or wise.

Segment 5: The Drum Falls Silent

The Comanchería was a graveyard now, 1870, Swift Coyote’s hair gray, his band reduced to ghosts. He faced American cavalry, their rifles gleaming like death’s teeth. His drum’s final thump was a bitter jest, laughing at his own defeat. The whites’ victory was no crime; it was the same game his tribe had played and lost. Assimilation wasn’t surrender—it was survival, a chance to forge a new path in a multi-ethnic America, where strength and skill, not myths of native purity, built futures.

“Learn their ways, boys,” he rasped, clutching his torn drum. “Or die like fools.” He spoke to his sons, voice a snarl of dust and defiance. “This is Swift Coyote, 4 Da Boys. The woke cry for our ‘sacred’ land, but we stole it first, blood for blood. Peace? A lie. Spirits? Smoke. The whites won—join ‘em, learn, fight to live. Keep your blades sharp, your hearts hard. The warpath’s over—build, or rot.”

Music by Musicarea

and by Vensadams