When I was a kid I used to love to hunt for arrowheads on my grandfather's farm. His "home" place was located on Runningwater Draw. There was evidence of a major encampment in a meander in the draw (a draw is similar to a creek but has water only seasonally). Occasionally I would find "perfect" points, but most of the time they were broken pieces. There also were a few small pot shards.
Runningwater Draw was one of the major roads for the Comancheros that came out of New Mexico to trade with the Kiowa and Comanche tribes on the plains. During the chaos of the "War of Northern Aggression" (Civil war for you non-southerners), the Comanche tribes pushed back the Texas frontier through aggressive raiding of the few brave pioneers settling westward toward the plains. They would take captives in their raids and then trade them as slaves to the Comancheros to be sold in New Mexico. Ransom Canyon, near Lubbock, Texas, was one of the primary rendezvous points for these trades.
In my earliest years, as I hunted for the arrowheads, my imagination would run wild. I would think of myself as the lone cowboy attacked by a whooping band of Indians racing their colorful ponies across the Plains. Such ideas were shaped by watching Roy Rogers on early Saturday morning television. He was my hero growing up. From what I know of him now, he probably was a fairly worthy hero -- not like the sports figures and actors of today.
Some years ago, I wrote the following poem:
Ghosts of the Plains
Out on the wild prairie where tumbleweeds roll
and the dust-devils play in the sun,
There rode a young cowboy all hell-bent for leather,
and high in his hand was a gun.
The shimmering heat made him look like a specter
as he came flying over a rise.
The cloud of his dust looked just like a smudge
on the blue of the West Texas skies.
Suddenly, behind him there rose a wild band
of Kiowas quick on his heel.
The arrows were flying, the horse fell to earth,
and fear rent the air from his squeal.
The valiant young cowboy lay down 'hind his mount
and thunder spoke forth from his gun.
His Colt took a toll on the redskins that day
as they fell 'neath the hot Texas sun.
With blood streaming down he fought to the last
while the sun slowly sank from the sky.
When the fiery orb painted dark red the horizon
both day and young cowboy did die.
So were the dreams of my youth as I hunted
for arrowheads out on the Draw.
With visions so vivid I touched each found point;
It could only be ghosts that I saw.
