Woody Taptto wouldn’t have been in Palo Duro Canyon last month, shaking a metal rattle to the pulsing beat of a drum, if history had played out just a hair differently. The 83-year-old was among the eldest of two dozen dancers gathered at a pavilion on the canyon floor for the gourd dance, a Southern Plains tradition with roots going back to at least the nineteenth century. Taptto wore a blue broadcloth vest and a beaver-skin hat bearing the U.S. Marine Corps insignia as the setting sun rimmed the canyon with a pink line of fuzzy, fading light. Just two years ago, the resident of Albuquerque, New Mexico, traded regalia and rattle for a hospital gown; a bad fall caused an aggressive infection in his shoulder that required months of inpatient care. But as is family tradition, Taptto, who is a member of the Kiowa Tribe and a former marine, overcame the odds. He was still kicking—and moving and grooving—on Saturday, September 28, when he helped mark a milestone of Native life 150 years in the making.
On the same date in 1874, there was another inflection point in Taptto’s family story. The Fourth U.S. Cavalry, under the direction of Colonel Ranald Mackenzie, launched a vicious and devastating attack against Native people who were camped out in the canyon. Mackenzie sought to eliminate a small cadre of Southern Plains Indians who were deemed troublemakers. The troops marched to Palo Duro under cover of night, ambushing the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa who had started to gather there for the winter. By the time the fighting was done, the soldiers had killed three Native fighters and slaughtered at least a thousand Indian ponies—the horses were led down into Tule Canyon, where they were shot en masse. The white soldiers (and a contingent of Tonkawa scouts who had joined them) also torched Indian villages in the canyon and destroyed their food stores.
The Battle of Palo Duro Canyon was the climax of the Red River War, a series of skirmishes set off when the U.S. government failed to make good on promises to keep Indians fed on southern reservations. It was a short war, lasting less than a year, but when it was over, Native resistance to Texas’s new Anglo regime was finally snuffed out. Surviving Indians scattered; some were captured by various military columns, while others fled to Fort Sill or the Darlington Agency, in present-day Oklahoma.
On September 28, a group of about three hundred Indigenous people, historians, and spectators gathered at the state park’s Mack Dick Pavilion to commemorate the battle. The brutal events were revisited by heavyhearted speakers, and dances were held. Texas Parks and Wildlife, along with Texas Tech University, organized the event with tribal leaders. The day marked the first time all four tribes involved—Arapaho, Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa—have gathered together at this site since the battle happened. “This memorial dance marks a historic milestone,” said Michael Jordan, an associate professor of anthropology at Texas Tech University, who helped organize the event. “In effect, they are honoring their ancestors by carrying on their cultures and preserving these songs and dances.”
Taptto’s ancestors were here when the attack happened, he says. His great-grandfather, Luca Maukeen, was camped in Palo Duro while taking care of his young son, Lucius Aitsan, when he saw the soldiers approaching from the south. He evaded the troops and got his son out of harm’s way. “They didn’t get captured,” Taptto said. “They hid and they got away—or else I wouldn’t be here today.” With no horses, the father and son struck out on foot for Fort Sill, in current-day Lawton, 225 miles away. There they reconnected with others who’d been caught up in the conflict. They heard stories of the arduous trek, which some at the 2024 event referred to as “our own Trail of Tears.” Some of their tribe were chased to the military installation in such heavy rain that by the time they arrived, their hands were wrinkled.
Those who survived were largely responsible for the diaspora of Native people from the region that exists today. That includes Taptto, whose home in Albuquerque is like a library, packed with books on his tribe’s history. Taptto, who claims three kids, nine grandkids, and five great-grandkids, hopes his reverence for the past will continue down his lineage. “Every time we’re doing the [gourd] dance, I wonder if we’re doing it the right way. If our ancestors would approve. And I think they would. I feel proud,” he says. The dance was banned outright by the U.S. government from 1883 to 1933; it was part of the sun dance, which was performed as an annual Kiowa tradition just two months before the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon.
Emcee Coy McLemore, a member of the Kiowa Tribe, broke up the eight-hour program of singing and dancing by weaving a narrative of the battle—the events leading up to it, the destruction that occurred, and then the harrowing escape to the reservations. “They left nothing but destruction in their wake. With winter approaching, we were in the grips of despair. It reminds us that . . . the reservations were not just a place but the death of our way of life.” Sporadically, McLemore lightened the mood by announcing raffles and giving the occasional play-by-play updates from the college football teams in his home state. (The University of Oklahoma won a come-from-behind victory against Auburn, 27–21; Oklahoma State was buried by Kansas State, 42–20.)
Attendees were treated to a revolving cast of Native speakers, including tribal leaders and dignitaries. “Ancient songs are part of our DNA. And we’re proud of that,” said Lawrence SpottedBird, chair of the Kiowa Tribe. “They tried to bring us to our knees. . . . We’re supposed to be gone.” Listeners chimed in with the Kiowa word aho, or “thank you,” as he and others spoke. During one somber moment, Reggie Wassana, governor of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes, said, “You can almost visualize what they were doing while being chased. What the emotion was like.” Most of the day’s speakers emphasized the need for the next generation to pick up wherever the previous one left off, to continue practicing traditional customs and keeping languages alive.
The next generation was well represented at the gathering. Six-year-old Kingston Menthorne stomped and shook during the afternoon gourd dance. If Taptto was the eldest in the circle, Kingston was the youngest. Kingston wore a beaded necklace that hung low down the front of his sky-blue, button-up shirt. After the drumming ceased, Kingston said the dance made him feel “shy,” though in the next breath, he asked a photographer to take his picture, shared excitedly that his birthday was coming up in December, and showed off his newly missing front tooth, from the top row. Before Kingston could confide any more, he was off for another dance, giving a gap-toothed grin as he waved goodbye.
Also in attendance was Shandiin Kaline, age nineteen, who holds the title of Miss Northern Cheyenne. She won the distinction on Fourth of July weekend after competing in a tribal pageant. (The contest included writing an essay, giving a speech, and participating in a dance competition.) Kaline and other members of her tribe drove down to Texas from the Muddy Creek district of their reservation in Montana—a thirteen-hour ride in a cramped van. While en route, Kaline learned more about the Cheyenne’s involvement in the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon. “I was saddened when I learned about the battle,” she said. “I didn’t know that the Cheyenne people fought here in Texas. And I did some research and saw that it was not a win. It was the start of the end of our way of life.”
Still, she balances an awareness of the atrocities her people have suffered with a sense of joy and pride. “A lot of princesses travel to powwows and they’re, like, stoic. You know, real serious. And then there’s me. I try to be more approachable.” Kaline said she appreciated the rugged beauty of the canyon, which was far afield from what she expected: a flat, barren expanse populated by tumbleweeds. To drive her point home, she imitated the birdlike whistle made famous in Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, as if a gunfight might happen at high noon.
Seated inside of the group hall at the pavilion, Kaline looked through the windows and studied the colors of the canyon strata. Red, pink, purple, tan, gray, black. Too many to count. This was once a place of abject devastation for her people. But that doesn’t have to be the end of the story. “Oh my gosh, inspiration is everywhere,” she said. “The way the mountains look, it’s art. Mother Nature is art.” Kaline is currently attending Chief Dull Knife College, in Montana, and has her sights set on eventually studying digital art at her “dream school,” the Institute of American Indian Arts, in Sante Fe.
Later, by the dancing ring outside the hall, Kaline addressed the crowd of her elders and other listeners. She reminded them that Native people may have been forgotten by many, but they’re far from gone. She thanked her ancestors for their sacrifices, for the choices they made that allowed her, Taptto, Kingston, and so many others to live and breathe today. “Everything has a ripple effect,” Kaline said. “We are their prayers answered.” With wet eyes, the crowd responded. “Aho,” they said.
