When the earth was torn by the boots of invaders,
and the drums of the ancestors were drowned out by gunfire,
the Native people did not rise with weapons alone —
they rose with heart, and they rose with horses.
The horse was more than a mount.
It was a companion, a heartbeat, a spirit that understood without words.
It needed no reins to follow.
Only trust.
They speak of horses painted in red, blue, and ash —
not from war paint, but from the dust of stolen land.
Upon their backs rode warriors who carried the dreams of their ancestors,
charging through smoke and gunfire like wind that remembers the mountains.
One warrior fell in battle.
But his horse did not flee.
It stood guard beside his body for three days,
until the tribe came to bring him home
to the sacred circle of his people.
Since then, the horse is not painted as an animal,
but as a flame — burning across sacred ground.
A flame that cannot be put out,
for it is not just speed,
it is freedom, loyalty, and the memory of a people who would not kneel.
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