Reflecting on the 150th Anniversary of the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon
As we approach the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon, I find myself reflecting on a piece of Texas history that’s largely been forgotten. It’s a chapter not often spoken about, yet it reshaped the very identity of this land. On September 28, 1874, the U.S. Army launched a devastating attack on the Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne tribes in Palo Duro Canyon. This event marked the beginning of the end for Native American life in the Texas Panhandle. Their homes were burned, their food supplies destroyed, and the survivors were forced to move into Oklahoma, leaving behind a land that had been theirs for centuries.
Growing up in New Mexico, I was surrounded by Native American culture. It’s a defining element of the state’s identity. From art to architecture to the deeply rooted traditions of the pueblos, the Native American influence is ever-present. When I moved to Amarillo 15 years ago, I was struck by how little of that history is represented here. I assumed it was because no tribes had ever called this land home. After all, if they had, surely their legacy would be more visible, right?
It wasn’t until I began researching local history for a short film earlier this year that I discovered how wrong I was. This land was once home to thousands of Native Americans. The Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne thrived here long before cattle ranchers set up shop. In fact, before European settlers arrived, it’s estimated that **over 12,000 Native Americans** lived in this region, depending on the land for sustenance, much like the buffalo they hunted. The Palo Duro Canyon area, with its towering cliffs and abundant resources, was a sacred and vital space for these tribes.
But you wouldn’t know that if you looked at Amarillo today. The entire identity of the region seems to be built on the cattle industry—a proud legacy, sure, but one that sits atop a much darker story. Before cattle roamed these plains, they belonged to the American Bison. The High Plains was home to an estimated 20 million buffalo before settlers arrived and, with the encouragement of the U.S. government, systematically slaughtered them. These vast herds sustained the native populations, provided food, clothing, and shelter, and were integral to their way of life. With the buffalo gone, the native people’s ability to survive in their homeland disappeared with them.
And so, with their homes burned, their food sources destroyed, and their way of life taken from them, the tribes were forced to leave Texas entirely. Oklahoma became their new homes, and the land they had once roamed freely was handed over to settlers, ranchers, and railroad companies. It’s a story that’s hard to reconcile with the proud Texan identity we see today—a state that celebrates its independence, its rugged individualism, and its deep connection to the land.
But what if things had been different? What if, instead of pushing the tribes out, Texas had found a way to share the land with them? What if there had been more compromise, more compassion, and more recognition of the fact that this land had been someone else’s home for generations? I’m not excusing the actions of the Comanche or other tribes. The reality is that violence was a part of life on both sides. But I have to believe that a better solution existed—one that didn’t require the complete erasure of the native presence from Texas.
In New Mexico, the Native American influence is undeniable. It’s woven into the fabric of the state’s culture, economy, and identity. You can’t visit Santa Fe or Albuquerque without being reminded of the deep history and traditions that shaped the land long before any European settler arrived. But in Amarillo, it’s as if that history has been buried. You have to dig to find any trace of the Native American presence here, and even then, it feels like an afterthought.
I’m not trying to make anyone feel guilty. Texans today aren’t responsible for what happened 150 years ago. But I do think it’s worth reflecting on what might have been. The cattle industry that built this region is important, but it’s not the whole story. The land itself tells a much more complicated history, one that includes loss, violence, and a people who were pushed out of their homes with little to no recognition of their humanity.
The Battle of Palo Duro Canyon was a tragedy. It marked the end of Native American life in the Texas Panhandle, and with it, a way of life that had existed for centuries. As we approach the 150th anniversary of this event, I’m not suggesting we celebrate it. But perhaps we can take a moment to pause and think about the land we call home, and how different it was before settlers arrived. Maybe we can consider how things could have been done differently—with more empathy, more compromise, and a recognition that this land was once home to thousands of people who were here long before us.
What if Texas had made room for them? What if, instead of erasing their existence, we had honored it? What kind of state would Texas be today if the native influence were still present, not just in the history books, but in the culture, the art, and the identity of this region?
It’s not too late to remember, to acknowledge, and to think about what could have been. And maybe, in doing so, we can ensure that the future of Texas includes a more complete understanding of its past.
