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                                        Written by

                                        John Fusco

                                                                Fourth draft

                                                                Oct. 5, 1990


               A DRUM. Beating slow. And deep. Like a heart.

               FADE IN:


               Something is rising from the Black Hills. A sphere of light, 
               too red to be the sun. A sphere of contained fire, undulating 
               in crimson and ochre, and rising slowly, majestically, to 
               the pulse. To the DRUM. It is the sun. But it is a Paha Sapa 
               sunrise. A Black Hills sunrise. And it is spectacular.

               The DRUM, pounds deeper, bigger, as the sun gets higher. 
               Stronger. Igniting a vast landscape of gentle slopes and 
               foothills; throwing shadows on the plains that look like, as 
               the Indians say, an old man dancing. The grass is golden. 
               And high. The wind moves through it, snakes through it. 

               BEGIN CREDITS.

               Voices; a TRADITIONAL INDIAN SONG (Lakota), summoning Wakan 
               Tanka - The Great Mystery.

               And now, rising up over one of the small land waves, a head 
               comes into view. Shoulders. A man, running in ghostly SLOW 
               MOTION, his long black hair trailing in the wind. The INDIAN 
               MAN wears only buckskin pants and a bone choker around his 

               Legs and arms churning, the man runs with antelope grace, 
               backlit by the sunrise, bounding toward us. Running... his 
               heart pounding. SONG RISING... DRUM POUNDING... FIVE MORE 
               VOICES in high-pitched tremolo join the song.

               And then the runner soars, like an eagle from a bluff, 
               airborne, flying over a small dip, arms outstretched, and it 
               would be a wondrous thing if there were not a fine, crimson, 
               mist all around him and if slow motion was not suddenly 
               overtaken by LIVE SPEED, revealing the brutal force of gunfire 
               which has slammed the Indian into the air, throwing him. 
               Slamming him hard into the grass. And it is over as quickly 
               and violently as a deer shot dead.

               LAKOTA SONG ends abruptly.


               the sun burns like lava at the horizon. DRUM beats like a 
               heart. And Somewhere off in a distant cottonwood, an OWL. 
               Then Silence. Deep, disturbing stillness.


               ROCK N'ROLL shatters the silence.

               Cars -- a multicolored metallic criss-cross reflecting off a 
               building made of mirrors -- races past an electronic billboard 
               that blinks in red skyhigh digital: PRUDENTIAL LIFE INSURANCE. 
               7:59. 73 degrees.

               The D.C. Superhighway. And off behind it, in the distance, 
               Capital Hill holds imposing vigil, the massive cast iron 
               dome of The Capital, catching the sun. But everything is 
               soon smothered by a METRO BUS, hogging the far lane of the 
               Beltway, leaning on its HORN.

               Good morning.

               And the rock n'roll is everybody's radio, everybody's tempo.


               shimmers across the beltway hugging then releasing a solitary 
               vehicle that we stay with... move with... A black Nissan 240 
               SX, hard-waxed.

               INT. 240 SX - TRAVELING

               Behind the wheel -- an intense young man with close-cropped 
               black hair, eyes hidden by sunglasses. Whatever he does for 
               a living, he does in a suit (not expensive but well-fit. But 
               we might also note that any extra suit cash has gone instead 
               into the silver-plated watch on his left wrist). Lean as a 
               rake, sallow in the cheeks, there is something insatiable 
               about him -- a hungry energy that won't let him go.

               RAY LEVOI, late 20's, early 30's, pulls out of a threatening 
               traffic jam and races on the narrow right between thirty 
               cars and a cement girder.


               The black SX has jumped off an exit and has entered the light-
               industrial section of Washington. It pulls up near a loading 
               dock behind an old gray building and several parked cars and 
               vans. Ray steps out, smooths his jacket, locks and SETS HIS 
               CAR ALARM.

               Another young man -- chubby, clean-shaven; in a nicer suit 
               than Ray's -- steps out from a parked Miata, and approaches 
               Ray. CARL PODJWICK balances a coffee, a U.S.A. Today and a 
               black eel-skin briefcase.


                         Hey. Nice tie.

                         Don't get too attached.

               They start walking briskly toward the loading dock.

                         Ya got the paper?

               They mount steps.


                         You're my hero, Carl.

                         Heroes ain't supposed to shake. I'm 
                         shakin', man, look at me.

                         Breathe, Carl. Four, nice, deep ones.

               They stop at the door of a service elevator and Carl breathes. 
               Expanding his chest, exhaling. Ray adjusts Carl's tie for 
               him, his collar. He speaks quietly. Quickly.

                         Anyone stops us going in, we're with 
                         the Bowen-Hamilton Textile Company. 
                         We have rug samples.

                         Rug samples.

                         We are one-dimensional, boring 
                         peddlers of fine carpet, Carl.

               Carl nods. Ray hesitates, adjusts his own collar and enters 
               the service elevator. Carl follows. Door closes.

               BEGIN CREDITS END.


               Carl follows Ray into the big sparse room of unfinished 
               sheetrock walls. There is nothing in here but cardboard boxes, 
               and two people; a bearded HISPANIC MAN standing behind a 
               counter, writing on a clipboard. The other is a middle-aged 
               BLACK MAN in a purple silk shirt sitting in a chair with a 
               newspaper held open. He barely looks over the top of the 
               Wall Street Journal.

                                     BLACK MAN
                         Hey, look who's here.

                         Louis, my man, what's happenin'?

               Ray walks up to the counter. Carl lingers, fidgeting. Ray 
               sets his briefcase on the counter and click-clicks it open. 
               The Hispanic fence man looks inside, and begins pulling out 
               stacks of treasury checks.

                                     FENCE MAN
                         Clean ones?


               Ray gestures to Carl and he nervously sets his briefcase on 
               the counter, fumbles with the first latch. The second. He 
               flips it open.

               The fence man casts his eyes down at a neat cache of Grade A 
               Treasury. A lot of it. Then his eyes rise to Carl.

                                     FENCE MAN
                         What ya got there, seventy-five 

                         A hundred and ten. Count it.

                                     LOUIS (BLACK MAN)
                         Have the girl count it, we can't sit 
                         around here countin' bonds, we got 
                         things to do here.

               The fence man pushes an intercom button and yells into a 

                                     FENCE MAN

               Carl's eyes flit to Ray. Ray's eyes flit to Carl.

               Louis crushes his newspaper down and lifts a big Colt Python 
               from his lap just as --

               A section of sheetrock kicks open and THREE FEDERAL OFFICERS 
               bust out, each clutching a handgun, SHOUTING inaudibly.

                         F.B.I.! Get your face on the fuckin' 
                         floor! MOVE!

               Carl startled, does an almost effeminate dip down to one 
               knee, but that knee is swept out from under him, slapping 
               him flat onto plywood where he is instantly frisked down by 
               the fence man who is wielding a 9 mm handgun. But the white 
               collar criminal is more stunned by the fact that --

               Ray is walking across the floor with his hands in his pockets 
               over to the Mr. Coffee. He pours one, and adds some milk. 
               Turns and watches the bust while opening a packet of Sweet 

                         Slam dunk.

                         Beauty. Beauty...

               Ray rests his weight against the coffee station, takes a 
               careful sip. Carl is yanked to his feet by the fence man and 
               he stands there, looking at Ray, baffled. Completely shocked.

                         Jesus Christ, Larry, what the fu-- 
                         Larry. That's not even your name, is 
                         it? What's your real name, you fucking 

                         Don't have one, Carl. I have a number, 
                         man. Just like the numbers on those 
                         treasury checks. You stole from your 
                         own country, Carl. Shame on you.

               Coffee in hand, Ray walks briskly toward the door.

                         Sugar Ray.

               Ray turns. Louis takes a few steps toward him, putting his 
               gun back in his waistband.

                         They want ya Home. Upstairs wants to 
                         see ya.

               Ray stands frozen, holding the door knob, and digesting what 
               are apparently influential words.

                         Make sure ya spell my name right.

               Ray just stares for a moment. Then hurries out the door.

               Carl, being arm-gripped by two agents and photographed like 
               a trout, gazes bewildered at the door.

                         We just spent four months together... 
                         I thought he was my friend... what 
                         the fuck, man?
                              (even more incredulous)
                         He had dinner at my mother's.

               CAMERA FLASHES at him, an agent on either side, striking a 
               natural pose.


               The huge, imposing, mausoleum-like Hoover building, bordered 
               by artificial turf, hemmed by cherry trees in blossom. Turning 
               out to be a nice day on Pennsylvania Avenue.


               8x10 BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOS dealt like cards onto a table, 
               one on top of another.

               1 -- an aerial shot of some wasteland.

               2 -- a closer bird's eye of the same, what looks like a NASA 
               photo of Mars.

               3 -- a vast expanse of the Great Plains.

               ROBERT F. TULLY, Number-Two-in-Command, deals a fourth photo 
               onto the table. He is an understated, fatherly man, well-
               manicured in cotton pencil-striped shirt, white-tab collar 
               and tie. The photos and maps and files a foot deep on the 
               huge table are neatly organized.

                         SA Levoi, Sir.


               Seated, at the far end of the table, engrossed in the deep 
               spread of information, SA (Special Agent) FRANK COUTURE is 
               about to break the record for longest single ash on the end 
               of a cigarette and the smoke forces his eyes into tight, 
               concentrating, slits. "COOCH" as they call him in the Bureau 
               has seen thirty years in some rough "provinces". He has 
               survived the Hoover era and is a legend in the Sessions era 
               but survival has honed an edge. An edge with a touch of ironic 
               cop humor.

               Ray enters, walks into a firm shake.


                         Mister Tully.

                         Do you want a coffee?

                         No. No, no. Thank you.

               Ray sits nervously across from Cooch who looks up from the 
               photos and studies the younger man through reading glasses 
               and cigarette smoke, and he looks at him like he doesn't 
               know who the hell he is or why he's sitting there.

                         Levoi, Cooch. Raymond Levoi, Criminal 

                         Oh, yeah -- right.

               Cooch sticks his cigarette in his left hand, shakes with his 

                         Ray this is --

                                     RAY / TULLY
                         Frank Couture.

                         That's right.

                         Hello, Ray.

               The handshake is still locked. Cooch is still squinting at 
               the younger agent. Ray obviously knows something about Agent 

                         It's an honor.

               Tully leans back in his chair, crosses his legs casually.

                         Ray, we're taking you off the street. 
                         We need you out in South Dakota.

               Ray's enthusiasm suddenly deflates.

                         South Dakota...
                         Did I do something unsatisfactory, 

                         No, Ray. You're gonna have to blame 
                         that on your grandmother.

               Ray looks completely baffled now, swinging a look from Cooch 
               to Tully.

                         Interesting bloodline you have, Ray.
                              (scanning file)
                         French, Scots-Irish, Italian, ...and 
                         one-eighth American Indian.

                         Sioux Indian, right?

                         I'm not that sure. Yeah, I think --

                         -- yes, Teton Sioux. Father's side.

               Ray nods, looks from Tully to Cooch. What's going on here?

                         Ray, there's been a homicide out in 
                         an area known as The Badlands. Indian 

                         It's not the first. There's been 
                         several. And our field office in 
                         Rapid City is getting a lot of heat... 
                         none of the investigations have turned 
                         up jack shit.

                         The main problem is, Ray, these people 
                         are extremely distrustful of 
                         outsiders, non-Indians. Relations 
                         have not been amicable.

                         Different culture. Hard to penetrate. 
                         The Indians don't like white cops 
                         poking around. And that's why we're 
                         in a position where we have to bring 
                         in an American Indian agent.

               Tully straightens the edges of a bureau memorandum.

                         With an Indian representative out 
                         there, we hope to keep hostilities 
                         dormant; this is a COINTELPRO, 
                         Selective Operations Unit, and it'll 
                         be easier on Agent Couture if you 
                         can gain the people's trust and maybe --

                         Woh, excuse me, Sir... I see what 
                         you're saying... I've got a little 
                         Indian blood, that's true. But --
                         I am not an... an Indian. I can't 
                         just go in and --

                         -- your father was part Sioux.

               A beat. Ray lowers his eyes to the photos.

                         I didn't know him, Sir. He passed 
                         away when I was six.


               Ray looks up at Cooch. Another uneasy beat. Cooch lights a 
               cigarette as if lighting a cigarette was a science.

                         Don't worry about it, Ray. As long 
                         as the people have proof that we 
                         sent them one of their own, no one's 
                         gonna ask you to weave baskets or 
                         make it rain.

               Ray sits before the files and photos, looking unsure. He has 
               come to garner a promotion but has just been sent to The 
               Graveyard. Or in the FBI argot, Indian Country.

               Tully pivots his leather chair in a full circle and slaps an 
               assignment folder down in front of the young agent.


               The very landscape from opening image. Gentle waves of land, 
               rolling out to touch the Black Hills. The sun rises up out 
               of the distant silhouette like a waking God. HEARTBEAT DRUM. 

               And then a car blows by, throwing up gravel and agate and 
               gypsum. ZOOOOM! Right by us. Gone.

               When a dense screen of red dust clears, an old, bent, metal 
               sign at roadside becomes visible. It reads, through punched 
               and rusted bullet holes: "Entering Bear Creek Indian 

               HEARTBEAT DRUM calls in the high-pitched, mournful voices of 
               LAKOTA SINGERS. The same haunting song.

               INT. LE BARON - MOVING

               Cooch is at the wheel. Ray, passenger. His lap is a desk for 
               several folders, and he works through them as they drive. 
               Both agents eat a sandwich as they travel.

                         Eight murders in less than a year. 
                         All of them Indian. All of them 
                         unsolved. Is the law a non-entity 
                         out here or what?

               Cooch opens a folder that sits between them, and taking his 
               eyes off the road for a dangerous five seconds, locates some 
               photos, and hands them to Ray. Ray's expression tells us 
               they are not pretty.

                         Those are two agents who went into a 
                         reservation a few years ago to serve 
                         a warrant. They were executed at 
                         close range. That one there is a 
                         police officer killed by the Mohawks 
                         up in Canada more recently.


                         The agents who have worked out here 
                         say its like going into Nam. 
                         Unfamiliar terrain, foreign language, 
                         foreign customs... and you never 
                         know when you might walk into a few 
                         rounds. They hold a lot of old anger 
                         for the white man out here.

               Ray considers this as he looks out at the unfamiliar terrain 
               while on the RADIO, a D.J. speaks in LAKOTA LANGUAGE. Ray... 
               back at Cooch, studying his face.

                         Were you in Nam?

                         Airborne. That's where they used to 
                         get us agents from. Now we get 'em 
                         from Carnegie-Melon, Ivy League. 
                         Accountants and computer whiz-kids. 
                         Yuppies with guns.
                              (lights a smoke)
                         That's scary shit.

               Ray smiles, sets the AC on high.

                         Not as scary as a Hoover man with a 

               Cooch throws a quick look Ray's way. And a smile. He 
               appreciates the sting of a right off a left.

                         Hey, hey, hey. J. Edgar would've 
                         loved you. He'd love anybody who 
                         joined the bureau to, what was it? 
                         "To enforce the laws of my country 
                         and protect her interests"?

                         You crashed my file?

                         No. I consulted it. We're going into 
                         Indian Country, I wanna know what 
                         kind of individual is covering my 
                         ass. Don't you?

               Ray has finished his sandwich. He wipes his hands on a 
               kerchief while taking in the sight of chalky buttes cramming 

                         You've been in the bureau for thirty 
                         years. You survived The Hoov, the 
                         Black Panthers and Abscam. I don't 
                         see any bullet holes. That's good 
                         enough for me.

               Cooch looks at Ray, amused. He likes this guy. And then he 
               notices a look of growing consternation on his partner's 

               RAY'S POV - MOVING

               as they drive through the first settlement, a little, broken 
               and scattered community, littered with wrecked cars on blocks, 
               and overpopulated with hungry dogs. HEARTBEAT DRUM softly 

               SIX INDIAN CHILDREN with dirty but beautiful faces and long 
               blue black hair run alongside the car, curious. One of them 
               YELLS SOMETHING we don't understand.

               PAST the trading post -- a white man's store -- where SIX 
               OGLALA SIOUX -- four men, two women sit like wax figures, 
               only their eyes moving to light on the freshly waxed 
               government car.

               A little house has a tipi erected beside it. And a satellite 
               dish. The house beside that one has been half chopped away 
               to feed the wood stove.



               The federal car drives out of the community and further into 
               vast bluffs and strange rock formations where it is swallowed, 
               leaving the ramshackle village in dust.

               A lone dog -- all its ribs showing -- chases, BARKING.


               We are on the Moon. Or Israel. But not America. Not any 
               America we've ever seen. A thirty-mile eroded landscape of 
               dunes and crevices, soft rock strata and fossils. Barren. 
               And eerie. A LAKOTA DEATH SONG underscores the otherworldly 
               ambiance of this place as --

               SHOES scuff through the gumbo and multi-colored stones. Two 
               pair of black, spit-shined, lace-ups. Three. Tripping. 
               Scuffing. And then a fourth pair. But they are not loafers. 
               They are Georgio Brutini's and they belong to --

               Ray, as he and Cooch follow two Special Agents from the 
               regional office. SA MILES is about Cooch's age, balding. SA 
               SHERMAN is closer to Ray's age but instead of a suit like 
               the rest, he favors an army-green jacket. Neither is a South 
               Dakota shit-kicker but transplanted field agents. All four 
               shield their eyes with dark glasses, and here in the Badlands 
               it is wise because the sun makes dunes shimmy and craters 
               become faces. It plays mischief on the eye, making Ray and 
               Sherman nearly trip on --

               A DEAD BODY

               lying face down in the rainbow sand. Dried blood and horse 
               flies cover his blown out torso. The agents stand over him, 
               breathless from the rugged walk.

                         Who found him?

                         Indian kids. Hunting fossils.

               Cooch studies the body from where he stands. Sherman hands a 
               file over to Ray.

                         Okay. I think Agent Levoi and I can 
                         proceed from here. What are your 
                         call signals?

                         PX-10 and 11. Anything we can do to 
                         help you out, just radio.

                         Good. Thanks, Guys.

               The agents start back through the Badlands. Ray is already 
               squatting a safe distance from the body, covering his nose 
               with a kerchief while looking in the file.

               Cooch takes a bended knee on the other side of the body. 
               Flies buzz on and around the corpse.

                         Leo Fast Elk... Thirty seven... 
                         single... Member of the Tribal 

               Cooch makes a note then slowly circles the body. He holds a 
               hand out to Ray and the younger agent turns the file over.

                         Looks like Fast Elk wasn't fast enough 
                         to outrun that load. What do you 
                         make of the damage?

               Ray gets closer, swats at Flies with the folder.

                         Six rounds. 357.

                         That's what it looks like, doesn't 
                         it? But that's what a ten gauge, 
                         choke-bored, shotgun will look like 
                         when it hits your lower back from 
                         five feet away.

               Ray looks up impressed. Cooch rises and walks off gingerly, 
               scanning the surroundings.

                         Somebody was serious about doing 
                         this guy, that's for sure.


               Cooch is standing ten feet away, staring at the ground. Ray 
               walks over, carefully. He follows Cooch's frown down at the 
               twisted layers of earth.

               ON THE GROUND

               a circle has been etched deep in the soft gumbo, and in the 
               center of the circle, a white eagle plume sticks straight 
               up, dancing in the wind.

               Cooch and Ray each lower themselves to their haunches to 
               study the strange sight. Cooch puts his reading glasses on, 
               stares at it. Then lights a cigarette.

               Ray hefts up a camera and begins CLICKING off shots. He starts 
               moving around it, taking shots at different angles. And then 
               the sound of a DISTANT MOTOR draws both agent's attention.


               way out in the bizarre moonscape of eroded rock and earth, a 
               lone figure on a motorcycle bounces and grinds, born out of 
               a silvery heat mirage. It's fifty yards off but heading 
               straight for us. The HEARTBEAT DRUM.

               REVERSE - RAY AND COOCH try to make the figure out.

               IN THE BADLANDS

               the archaic mud-caked Harley chugs and stalls, spits and 
               choices, and begins an incredible drive straight up the steep 
               side of this natural wonder. At the throttle is an imposing 

               WALTER CROW HORSE is a portly Indian in his late-thirties 
               with a black reservation hat worn low over a face that seems 
               to have been cast from a bust of Sitting Bull. Sitting Bull 
               with aviator shades. Denim jacket over checkered shirt. Faded 
               jeans. Well broken duct-taped boots. His hair is worn long 
               in tight duel braids.

               The rusted bike bajas up and down slopes, finally stalling 
               out, twenty feet or so from the murder site. Crow Horse swings 
               his bulk off the bike like dismounting a horse. He looks 
               around suspiciously then pulls a rolled-up blanket from the 
               carrier rack.

               LEO LITTLE SKY

               lies in death. Crow Horse's boots move in stealthily, creaking 
               like saddle leather.

               He squats and looks at the corpse... then looks around with 
               animal alertness. He reaches into the front pocket of his 
               jacket and pulls out some Bull Durham tobacco. He pinches 
               some and offers it to the four directions around the body.

               He then unrolls the blanket, begins to move the dead man... 
               sense something and wheels to see Cooch standing behind him, 
               one hand behind his back where his gun must be, and the other 
               hand holding up open wallet. The sun hits his badge.

                         Good morning.

               Crow Horse hawks his eyes onto a big rock, a full second 
               before Ray steps out, his .45 drawn but held at ease.

               Crow Horse slowly raises his arms as Ray moves up to him, 
               studying him.

                         Taking ol' Leo somewhere?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Leo's been out here too long, man. 
                         I'm taking him to ceremonial burial.

                         This is a restricted area.

                         Check him out, Ray.

               Ray frisks the Indian, finds an old leather wallet, and then 
               a gun. A .38.

                         Nice piece. You come back here to 
                         cover your tracks, Geronimo? What's 
                         your name?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         It ain't Geronimo.

                         Who are you?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I think maybe you guys got off the 
                         wrong exit, yeah? This is the Bear 
                         Creek Indian Reservation.

               Cooch walks around to the front of Crow Horse, and studies 

                         I know where I am. I'm on federal 
                         land, doing a federal investigation, 
                         and if you don't wanna cooperate you 
                         can take a ride in a federal car, 
                         and spend the rest of the day in a 
                         little room, answering federal 
                         questions. It's your call. Who are 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I'm a full blood Oglala Sioux, born 
                         and raised on this reservation.

                         You're a wise-ass. Ray check his 

                         I did.

                         Who the fuck is he?

                         -- a fucking cop.

               A pause. A long, dead of South Dakota, Badlands pause. Cooch 
               turns and looks at Ray who holds up the open wallet, revealing 
               a badge. Like Cooch's it shines in the sun.

                         Walter Crow Horse. Tribal Police.

               Cooch stands staring at the Indian... then takes a few steps 
               over to Ray and grabs the wallet. He examines it. Then looks 
               at Crow Horse and laughs.

                         He's a fucking cop.

               The Indian cop has plenty of time to get up on his own but 
               he kneels there, tauntingly, waiting for Ray to help him. 
               Ray walks over and offers a hand. Crow Horse takes it, and 
               pulls himself up, looking square into Ray's sunglasses.

               Cooch walks over and hands the officer his wallet, and his 
               .23. Crow Horse takes the items, eyeing the older agent.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         We got the wire ya was comin'. You're 
                         the Indian official, yeah?

                         No. No, that's Ray, here. Ray, uh...
                              (searching his 
                         Ray... Little Weasel.

               Ray does a take but quickly recovers, meeting Crow Horse's 
               scrutinizing gaze. Crow Horse nods to Ray, and Ray nods back 
               in case it's the Indian thing to do. Crow Horse nods again. 
               Ray nods again.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Leo's gotta get to burial, Brother. 
                         He's gotta make the journey.

                         What journey?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Tell him, Ray.

               Ray stares at Crow Horse, uneasy. The wind sings through the 

                         Leo has to take the journey, Cooch.

                         We'll have to give Leo a refund. 
                         Because he's gotta go to the M.E. In 
                         case you don't know, Officer, 
                         violation of the Major Crimes Act on --

                                     CROW HORSE
                         -- an Indian Reservation is within 
                         the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau 
                         of Intimidation. I know that.

                         Good. Thank you.

               Crow Horse says something in Sioux to Ray. Ray just stares.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I said when can Leo be taken to 

                         After we've completed our 

               Crow Horse is staring at Ray.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         That's a nice suit.

               Ray looks offended. Cooch puts a hand on Crow Horse's shoulder 
               and walks him toward his beat-up motorcycle.

                         Somebody must be doing something 
                         somewhere in your jurisdiction, 
                         Officer Crow Foot.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You ain't gonna cut his hands off 
                         and send 'em to Washinton, are ya? 
                         They done that to one of our girls 
                         once. Leo did quillwork, he's gonna 
                         need his hands.

               Crow Horse turns and looks at Ray. Ray is quick this time.

                         Leo's gonna need his hands, Cooch. 
                         He does quillwork.

                         I think Leo's retired from quillwork 
                         for the moment.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Respect the dead, Hoss. Because when --

                         -- did you understand me when I said 
                         that --

                                     CROW HORSE
                              (walking away)
                         -- violation of the Major Crimes Act 
                         on an Indian Reservation is within 
                         the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau 
                         of Instigation. I know that.


               Crow Horse appears to be getting on his bike when suddenly 
               he moves like a cat and lays his knife to the dead man's 
               head. He cuts away a patch of hair.

                         What the hell you doing?!

                                     CROW HORSE
                         His mother needs a piece of his hair. 
                         It's for the Keeping of the Souls 
                              (wrapping lock of 
                         Has to be kept for four days.

               Cooch and Ray stand there, watching Crow Horse mount his 
               bike and push off down a nasty slope back through the 
               Badlands. He starts his motor. It dies. Then starts again.

                         Keeping of the souls. Do they still 
                         burn their dead or something?

                         Beats the hell outta me.

               Ray and Cooch look off across the Badlands, as far out of 
               their element as they can be.


               in the circle in the sand, fluttering in the wind.

               The gold spit-shined Le Baron eases to a crawl, passing an 
               old wooden sign. "Leaving Bear Creak Indian Reservation."

               And immediately pulling in front of a squat old bar with a 
               burned out neon Miller light. DWIGHT YOAKUM croons "Youuuuuu-
               Got-Your Little-Ways" on the jukebox from inside.

               The Buffalo Butte bar has several cracked and sun-bleached 
               buffalo skulls hanging off the edge of its flat roof and big 
               faded white letters painted across the front read: "No Indians 

               (This sign actually exists today in the res-line border town 
               of Scenic, South Dakota). The car pulls up beside a pick-up 
               and parks. Ray and Cooch step out, careful to walk wide around 
               a PITBULL in the bed of the truck.

               A WHITE LOCAL walks out of the bar and looks askance at the 
               suits. As the two feds approach the bar, Cooch looks up at 
               the warning sign. Ray sees it too.

                         Sorry, Ray. You're gonna have to 
                         wait in the car. I'll bring you out 
                         a cheeseburger.

               The young agent smiles, amused, starts to enter the bar but --

                                     VOICE (O.S.)

               Ray spins quickly, paranoid about entering. But the man 
               calling to them is --

               An Indian himself. TRIBAL PRESIDENT OLIVER CLEAR MOON, a 
               small man in his late fifties who peers out at the agents 
               through fat bifocals. He wears a straw cowboy hat, red 
               windbreaker and his hair is cut short, or "bobtailed" as the 
               Indians say.

               Clear Moon is walking away from a parked pick-up truck, toward 
               the white men, eyeing the two with deep curiosity.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                              (heavy Indian accent)
                         You made it. Was-te.

               Cooch discreetly peeks into a folder as he walks toward the 

                         You must be... President Clear Bone.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Clear Moon.
                              (pointing to the sky)
                         Moon. You must be the Sioux.

               He is pointing his long, skinny finger at Cooch.

                         No. That's Ray here. Ray...

                         Ray Levoi, Sir. Pleasure.

               Clear Moon beholds the young agent with hopeful eyes, a smile 
               breaking across his flaccid brown skin. He takes Ray's hand 
               in a respectful double-clutch and grips him tightly... almost 

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         It's about time they sent us one of 
                         our own. Was-te.

               He keeps pumping Ray's hand, looking into his face with great 
               admiration. Cooch looks on with amusement.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Things are no good here. It is like 
                         war zone. We need an official who 
                         understands what is good for the 
                         Indian people. Who knows Indian way.

               Clear Moon has not released Ray's arm as he leads them to a 
               string of seedy motel units across the street.

                         I thought we were staying on the 

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Yes. Rooms thirteen and fourteen are 
                         on Indian land.

                         I see.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Are you hungry? I have some nice raw 
                         kidney in the truck.

                         Oh, I'm set, Sir. I'm set.

                         He's starving, Mr. Clear Moon. Get 
                         him some raw kidney. He hasn't had 
                         any Indian food in days...

               And Clear Moon guides them through the front door of room 
               13. Ray looks over his shoulder threateningly at Cooch who 
               winks and pats his back.


               A lone headlight appears out of the black. HEARTBEAT DRUM. 
               But faster. Relentless. A "res" car, a dented, rusted, peeling 
               old station wagon, drives slowly toward the reservation.

               Then suddenly, someone steps in front of the car. A BIG MAN 
               in cowboy boots and blue jeans.

               INT. MOTEL - ROOM 13 - NIGHT

               Ray lies in bed. Awake. He is hanging off the bed with a 
               file open on the floor and using the moon to light photos 
               and memorandums. And then he hears LAUGHTER outside. And 
               GLASS BREAK.

               He gets out of bed quickly, snatching up his pants, putting 
               their on, and going to the window.

               POV - OUT WINDOW:

               SEVERAL LOCALS out in front of the bar help a middle-aged 
               INDIAN MAN out of the station wagon.

                                     WHITE LOCAL
                         Where you goin'? Back to the res?

               A young local bends down behind the Indian while another 
               shoves him, sending him tripping over the bent man and onto 
               his back in the dirt.

                                     WHITE LOCAL
                         What ya doin'? You drunk?

               MORE LOCALS come out from the bar, beers and drinks and 
               interested in what's going on.

               REVERSE - RAY

               at the window, observes. Cooch enters from the connecting 
               room, puffy-eyed but quickly buttoning his shirt. He shares 
               Ray's view.

                         Let's take a walk.

               Ray is transfixed.


               The Indian man, is pushed into a stumble, and caught by 
               another white man as a little game of catch takes place. 
               Cooch, stepping into the circle, shirt half unbuttoned, hair 
               a mess, looks on. Then steps in front of a big local and 
               catches the Indian as he comes stumbling. He holds onto him, 
               looking at the faces that turn his way. Ray steps up beside 
               him, looking tense.

                         What's goin' on here?
                              (a beat)
                         I can't walk across the goddamn street 
                         without some breed-ass fallin' all 
                         over me?

               And then Cooch shoves the Indian with all his might back 
               across the road. The locals resume their fun, and Cooch looks 
               at a local man and shares a chattering laugh that makes Ray 
               do a serious take.

                         Watch out now, he wants a kiss, Ray, 
                         wants a kiss --

               The Indian ends up stumbling back toward Ray, and Ray catches 
               him this time. The man maintains a perfect vacant expression 
               and keeps acting as though nothing of the sort is happening. 
               But he is dizzy, and exhausted, and Ray keeps him from 

               Cooch looks at Ray. Their eyes meet. Ray shoves the man 
               forward. This time, instead of catching him, the local on 
               the receiving end, hauls off and punches him in the face. 
               The Indian drops.

               Cooch runs in, grabs the Indian under the arms and drags him 
               back to his car.

                         Go ahead, skin, get your ass back on 
                         your sacred land. Get outta here.

               He shoves him behind the wheel as the locals crowd around. 
               They don't see Cooch throw the wheel stick in drive, and 
               lean into the man's ear.

                         Get outta here. Drive.

               Cooch slams the door, and kicks it, and the vehicle lurches 
               forward. A beer can clanks off the rear window, and rolls 
               clanking into the middle of the road.

               Ray stands there with the locals as they all watch the car 
               drive off across the reservation line. Cooch, belly sticking 
               out of his unbuttoned shirt, and a breathless smile on his 
               face, heads to the bar without breaking stride. This man has 
               done "underground" before.


               Cooch and Ray sit in a booth with DENNIS VAUGHN, a strapping 
               local man, ranch-raised, and gentlemanly. In fact, downright 

                         So what type of salesmen are you 
                         gentlemen anyway?

                         Liquor. We heard they like their 
                         drink on the reservation, and we 
                         were gonna see if we couldn't unload 
                         some surplus on the way to Nebraska.

                         Now keep that between us, Dennis, 
                         cuz I don't know what kinda Johnny 
                         Law they got here.

                         Hey, Brooks, come over here. I want 
                         you to meet a coupla fellas from 

               BROOKS, a small, older man with a feed store cap and a clean 
               cowboy shirt, comes over with a beer and a pensive look on 
               his face. He pulls up a chair and positions himself at the 
               end of the booth.

                         Liquor salesmen. Be nice to them, 
                         maybe they'll give you a sample of 
                         some of that gin you like.
                              (to Ray)
                         He likes that Russian shit that --

                         They ain't liquor salesmen. They're 

               Cooch and Ray don't flinch. Dennis does. He looks between 
               the two, cautiously.

                         Brooks, what's a perceptive fellow 
                         like you, doing in a joint like this? 
                         Let me buy you a glass of some of 
                         that Russian shit you like.

                         FBI? What you investigatin'?

                         A murder. On the reservation.

                         Again. Figures, man.

                         You'll never find out who did it.

                         You underestimate me, Brooks.

                         No. You underestimate these grass 
                         niggers. They're killing each other. 
                         That's all they do. Get drunk and 
                         kill each other. Then cover for each 
                         other. Who gives a damn really as 
                         long as they stay on their 
                         reservation. You ask me, the 
                         government shouldn't care one 

                         You know how in your big cities, you 
                         got your niggers and you got your 
                         Puerto Ricans? Well out here we got 
                         Indians. That's just the way it is.

                         The only good Indian is a dead Indian, 
                         does that old adage still hold true 
                         out here?

               Cooch laughs good-naturedly. Ray smiles. But Brooks looks 

                         That set-to you saw out front, was 
                         nothin' more than a message we were 
                         sendin' to the sonsabitches that are 
                         divertin' water from the river.

                         We got rights. We got a ranch just 
                         up here.

               Ray catches this. Glances a look off Cooch who works on a 
               cold draught beer.

                         Did any of you gentlemen know Leo 
                         Fast Elk?

               Both men shake their heads. Get quiet.

                         You fellas are here to investigate a 
                         Indian crime, you should keep to 
                         Indian land, and talk to them, not 
                         us. But you wanna drink here and 
                         shoot stick here, that's your right, 
                         and we respect that.
                              (to Dennis)
                         Come on, Son, we're up on the table.

                         You fellas wanna play doubles?

               Cooch shakes his head, distracted, and the two locals leave, 
               enroute for the pool table. Ray watches them go, curious.


               Ray and Cooch, cross the street back to the motel. It is 
               black and chillingly still.

                         Water. Worth killing for out here, 
                         I'd think.

                         Get the plate numbers off everyone 
                         of these cars.

                         I already did.

               Cooch looks at Ray, impressed.

                         Couldn't sleep.


               They stop in front of their rooms and Cooch pulls a small 
               tape recorder from his waistband. A micro-cassette recorder 
               that he examines in the dim door light.

                         -- out here we got our Indians. And 
                         that's the way it is.

               Cooch shuts it off.

                         By the time you get to the main 
                         village, sun'll be up. I want you to 
                         fraternize. Socialize. Penetrate. 
                         Infiltrate. Eat some raw kidney, and 
                         get these Indians talking. I'm gonna 
                         Powwow with Big Chief Clear Moon and 
                         find out more about Leo.

               He hands Ray the recorder.


               Cooch starts for his room but in a long, exaggerated country 
               step as he breaks into the HANK WILLIAMS tune that has all 
               but driven him insane inside the joint. Ray watches him go, 
               and cracks a laugh.


               Ray's at the wheel, looks intense as he studies the vast 
               expanse of slopes and rock formations and the rising sphere 
               of flame that lights the road in strange color. He is reading 
               a name list that he traps against the wheel.

                         Hobert Standing-Buffalo-That-Walks-
                              (a dry run)
                         Hello, I'm looking for Hobert Standing-
                         Buffalo-That-Walks... Dreamer.

               Ray pulls up a long dirt drive and parks.


               Ray walks to the front door of a war-torn trailer that is 
               halfway swallowed by weeds and plants. It is static out here. 
               Dead still. Ray approaches the front door. There is a huge 
               hole in it. He knocks above the hole.

               After a moment, the door opens a crack. A dark, weather-beaten 
               face barely shows.

                         Good morning. I'm looking for Hobert-
                              (cheat sheet)
                         Hobert Standing-Buffalo-That-Walks--

               The door closes. Locks.


               Ray stands there for a moment then lowers himself to look 
               through the huge hole in the door.


               A tattered chair is pushed against the door, covering the 
               hole. Ray stands up, turns on the steps. And before he can 
               let out a flustered sigh, he spots something across the dirt 
               road. Something that makes him remove his shades, look again. 
               Whatever it is, it doesn't make him happy, and he is hurrying 
               across the road.

               EXT. BADLANDS - DAY

               A motorcycle, parked between the road and the badlands. We've 
               seen the ancient bike before. Ray walks past it, looking at 

               He pushes his shades up on the bridge of his nose and looks 
               down into the moonscape.

               Walter Crow Horse is down there, on his haunches, "feel 
               tracking", laying his fingers inside tracks and reading them. 
               He doesn't even look up at the sound of the FBI agent's 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Ray Little Weasel. FBI. I like the 
                         way ya sneaked up on me. Must be 

               The wind whistles and moans through the Badlands as Crow 
               Horse continues feel tracking.

                         What are you --

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Watch out!

               Ray draws back.


                                     CROW HORSE
                         You're steppin' on sign.

               Crow Horse lowers his face to the ground and blows some 
               scattered dust out of a print. Lightly lays his fingers inside

                         Hey, you, listen up --

                                     CROW HORSE
                         -- Leo wasn't killed here. He was 
                         dumped here. Out of a vehicle. Bald 
                         tread. Muffler held on with baling 

               Crow Horse checks out another track.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         The man you want... stepped outta 
                         the car, dragged Leo out, laid him 
                         down. Then walked over here and made 
                         a circle in the earth with a stick. 
                         I can't find the stick. He stuck an 
                         eagle plume in the circle, got back 
                         in his car, dustin' his own prints 
                         with a pine bough for about six feet, 
                         but he missed a print, right here, 
                         see. He got in his car and went Hell-
                         bent-for-Holy-Sunday outta here. He 
                         ditched that pine bough three miles 
                         across the flat, in the Little Bear 
                         River, it floated down to 
                         Thundershield Gap. The car hit paved 
                         road, and was outta here.

               Crow Horse rises, points down the road.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         The killin' was done where Leo's 
                         mother lives. But he was driven here 
                         into these Badlands.

               Ray is frowning at the big Indian, trying to get a fix on 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Big sonuvabuck. Based on the depth 
                         of that print, pressure releases... 
                         I'd say he goes two-ten, two-fifteen --


                                     CROW HORSE
                         -- Well, maybe two-seventeen.

                         You're trying to tell me you can 
                         read all that from a track?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         No. Not just a track. You gotta listen 
                         to the trees, man. To the leaves. To 
                         this sand, you FBI's kicked all up. 
                         You gotta listen to the earth.

                         Is that right? Well, listen to this: 
                         drag your ass. This is a restricted 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         No, this is the home of the Oglala 
                         Sioux and I want the dog-fucker who 
                         killed Leo. Whether you get him or I 
                         get him, I just want him. Shit's 
                         been goin' on too long.

                         You've got no jurisdiction.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You got no know-how. About Indian 
                         Way. Or about Jack Shit for that 

                         Maybe you're not aware of this, Crow 
                         Horse, but I just flew in from a 
                         place called the Twentieth Century 
                         where we have such things as 
                         electrostatic tracking methods, 
                         psycholingusitics, DNA fingerprinting; 
                         I don't have to crawl around with 
                         the scorpions and talk to the fucking 
                         trees to get answers. Leo was killed 
                         right here.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Go back to the M.E., take a look 
                         inside Leo's exit wounds and tell me 
                         how chicken feed got in there. Trust 
                         me, there ain't chickens in the 
                         Badlands. His mother's place is --

                         -- his mother never lived here. She 
                         was from up in North Dakota.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I'm talkin' his spiritual mother. 
                         Maisy Blue Legs.

                         His spiritual mother...

                                     CROW HORSE
                         To us Indians, our spiritual relatives 
                         are as close as family. I've got 
                         seven mothers on this reservation. 
                         Sisters. Brothers. You ain't one of 

                         Thank God. Now listen to me, asshole. 
                         I'm giving you a break. But if my 
                         partner finds out you're here, you're 
                         gonna be reading rat tracks in Sioux 
                         Falls Maximum Security.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Easy. Easy... I'm goin'.

               Crow Horse walks back up toward the road.

               Ray lets him leave then crouches where Crow Horse was, begins 
               looking at tracks.

                                     CROW HORSE (O.S.)
                         Hey, Little Weasel.

               Ray turns, and sees Crow Horse perched on a high bank -- the 
               one Ray came down -- and he's in a tracking stance.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You weigh one sixty-three, yeah? Not 
                         a beer drinker. You're one of these 
                         tofu and pilaf characters. Pack your 
                         gun, under your coat -- left shoulder. 
                         But you got backup; a little .32, 
                         .38 maybe, in a ankle holster that 
                         gives you a right foot drag, Shoes 
                         are too tight at the toe but, man, 
                         they look cool. And that's what 

               Ray just stands frozen, blown away. Crow Horse rises, dusting 
               off his hands, and heading to his vehicle.

                         Crow Horse.

               The Indian turns. The wind moans. Ray scrutinizes him, 

                         Fuck you.

               Crow Horse grins and waves, and ambles away. DOWN IN

               THE BADLANDS

               Ray stands, sweating under his suit jacket, and not sure if 
               he's amazed or pissed off.


               A trailer sits off from the river in beaten solitude. There 
               are two junked cars and one burned black.

               Wind blows across deep bald tire tracks. Ray walks slowly 
               beside them, surveying, following them to a place where they 
               become puckers and skids next to a dilapidated outhouse. 
               There is a shotgun blast in the side of it. Ray studies it, 
               enters the outhouse. Exits, and walks the rutted gumbo earth 
               to where it meets rolling hills of golden grass. He stands 
               here, mesmerized.

               CHICKENS scratch around in the dirt.

               Like so many far-off res homesteads, this is a haunting place. 
               Made more so by a persistent SQUEAKING, a rusty, metallic 
               squeal coming from --

               A WATER PUMP

               across the yard, where MAISY BLUE LEGS, a Sioux elder, works 
               the handle. She wears thick bifocals and keeps her hair under 
               a bandanna. No water comes forth from the pump, and she tries 
               again and again until she breaks a sweat. And then she sees 
               the waal'cu standing out there.

               Urgently, she turns and starts back to her trailer with an 
               empty coffee can.

               Ray starts after her.

                         Mrs... Blue Legs? Can I ask you a 
                         few questions --

                              (1/3 res speed)
                         -- go away. Leave us alone...

                         Ma'am, Please --

               She mounts the metal steps. Ray is losing her. He gets a 
               foot on the bottom step, and attempts something he does not 
               want to do.

                         Mrs. Blue Legs. I'm Indian.

               Halfway through the screendoor, Maisy turns and looks at the 
               young man in suit and shades.

                         I'm Sioux.

               Maisy lowers her bifocals, studies him. Then walks in, slaps 
               the door shut, and locks it. A towel hung as a shade folds 

               Ray lingers at the bottom of the steps.

                         Yeah, right.

               And he walks around the side of the trailer, looking at the 
               ground. In the gaping space between the trailer blocks, and 
               the grass, there is much junk stored, and Ray kneels to look. 
               He is drawn to a pair of cowboy boots, caked with dried mud. 
               He picks up a boot, looks at the sole, then touches the mud. 
               His fingers break through the hardened crust and come back 
               moist and blue. He looks at this sniffs it. There is a tense, 
               water-torture like tempo coming from the old pump where water 
               barely drips onto a hub cap in the dirt. Ray sets the boot 
               down. Goes to grab the other boot and --

               a WESTERN DIAMOND BACK RATTLER coils out from the shade of 
               the boot, RATTLING and HISSING from white mouth and three-
               inch fangs, and Ray has done a backflip and roll, slapping 
               his shoulder holster and pulling lead and BLAM! BLAAAM! he 
               unloads two, and the reptile is so dead, there's not even 
               enough snake left to make a truck-stop key chain.

               He kneels there, flushed in the face, holding his breath and 
               double-clutching his gun. The SHOTS ECHO through the Badlands 
               like the aftermath of dynamite. From inside the trailer, he 
               can hear CRYING. A low moaning. Praying softly.

                         Shit. Mrs. Blue Legs! It's okay!

               Then his RADIO CRACKS IN.

                                     RADIO (COOCH)
                         X21, give me a 20.

                         Black Tail District, X22. You ready 
                         for this? Leo wasn't killed in the 
                         Badlands. I... I found the location.

                         Maisy Blue Legs place?

                         How'd you know?

                         I got one up on ya.

                         Go ahead.

                         I've got the doer. I know who he is.

               Ray looks relieved.

                         Meet me at base. Over.

                         Cooch. You're my hero.

               Ray looks down at the dead snake, still rushed from it, and 
               he hurries out of there.


               the snake's RATTLE moves spasmodically, still kicking with 


               CLOSE ON an AMERICAN FLAG, flapping in the hot night wind. 
               But something is wrong about the image. The flag is hung 
               upside lit by --

               A full moon that also illuminates an overgrown field that 
               fronts a small, one-level house where the flag hangs. Three 
               old cars decorate the front yard. A busted screendoor creaks 
               in the wind, and somewhere off in the hills, a DOG BARKS 
               away his boredom.

                                     COOCH (O.S.)
                         Jimmy Looks Twice.

               INT. LE BARON

               SA Couture and SA Levoi sit inside the car, staking out this 
               little place far down a dirt road on the outskirts of the 

               Cooch has the suspect's file on his knee.

                         Who is he?

                         One of the leaders of the Warriors 
                         of All Red Nations. Militant 

               He hands an open file over to Ray.

               CLOSE ON - FILE PHOTO: a raging fire and six long-haired, 
               fist-raising Indians, yelling at the camera.

                                     COOCH (O.S.)
                         The progressive Indians don't like 
                         them because they want everybody to 
                         go back to the old Indian ways, and 
                         the old way Indians don't like them 
                         because they use violence to get 

               RAY SHUFFLES TO

               PHOTO 2 -- a big Indian in a wheel chair, holding a rifle. 
               He is shirtless under a vest and on his muscular right 
               shoulder there is a clearly defined tattoo of a circle with 
               an eagle feather through it.

               PHOTO 3 -- a Close Up of the tattoo.

               PHOTO 4 -- a propaganda flyer with the letters W.A.R.N. and 
               the same symbol -- perfect circle, pierced by a white eagle 

                         White eagle feather through the 
                         circle. That's their symbol.

                         That's right.

               Ray shuffles through more of the same with great interest.

                         They obviously wanted it to be known 
                         that they offed Leo. Some kind of 

                         Jimmy Looks Twice put Leo's head 
                         through a glass door of the tribal 
                         offices three months ago. And 
                         threatened him several times since. 
                         President Clear Moon and the regional 
                         FBI feel he made good on that threat.

               Cooch takes a long, tight breath then turns around in his 
               seat, coming up with an M-16. Ray lifts one of his own. He 
               looks out the car window.

                         I'd just like five minutes alone 
                         with the motherfucker who hung that 
                         flag upside down.

                         Easy, Cowboy. No vendettas on my 
                         ship. Now: remember what I told you 
                         about Nam? Watch the grass, watch 
                         the trees, watch the shit house, be 
                         on your toes, and if we get committed, 
                         don't hesitate to empty that sucker.

                         Alright. Alright.

               Cooch whacks a top clip into the M-16. Ray slams a clip in 

                         It's show time.

               Car doors open in skillful silence.


               and Ray maneuver toward the house, rifles ready. Cooch gets 
               under the picture window, sneaks a look. Nothing. He follows 
               Ray around the side.


               off in a backfield, lit by a hot fire, a small round hut 
               covered in patchwork quilts, canvas and buffalo hide. A 
               strange mist floats around it, and from inside, voices are 
               heard -- A DRUMMING AND CHANTING in LAKOTA. And EAGLE SOUNDS. 
               Dozens of shrill whistles. Are there birds inside this thing?

               REVERSE - RAY

               and Cooch, kneeling in the weeds, look dumbfounded. And more 
               than a little unnerved.

                         What the hell is that?

               NEAR THE INIPI LODGE

               An INDIAN YOUTH DOOR TENDER with shoulder length hair falling 
               over a T-shirt, steps out of the dark and walks to the fire. 
               He prods it with a broken pitch fork.

               He turns to get some more wood and walks right into an M-16, 
               trained chest level. Ray stares him down.

                         On the ground.

               The boy drops boot camp fast.

               Cooch moves up on the sweat lodge, looking quizzically at 
               it, trying to figure out how to open it. He grabs a canvas 
               flap at the front and after a moment's hesitation and a look 
               at Ray, he tears the flap away.

               A BLAST OF 200 DEGREE STEAM explodes forth and Cooch dances 
               back, throwing up his rifle.

                                     VOICE (O.S.)
                              (inside lodge)
                         Mitakue Oyasin!

               GRANDPA SAMUEL REACHES, a rail-thin Sioux elder, appears 
               through the steam like a vision. Bent in the tiny doorway, 
               he searches out the interruption.

               Cooch aims the M-16 at the old man.

                         This is the FBI! Come on out of there 
                         nice and slow. Let's move it! Hands 
                         on your head!

               Grandpa Reaches crawls out first, ignoring the "Hands on 
               your head" order from Cooch. His eyes move back and forth 
               between the two agents.

               FIVE MORE INDIANS, from 16-45 come out, looking confused. 
               Cooch makes the towel-wrapped men spread out in a line. The 
               old man is speaking to the others in LAKOTA, and Ray steps 
               up to him, cuts him off.

                         Hands on your head, Sir. Come on, 
                         come on...

               The archaic figure just looks through him. Starts to walk 
               away. Ray takes his thin arm. He locks eyes with the old 
               man. Slowly, he obeys, raising his hands and laying them on 
               his head.

               From the lodge, the last man emerges. It's Crazy Horse reborn 
               out of the burning sage. JIMMY LOOKS TWICE is in his mid-
               thirties -- big, well over two-hundred pounds. But lean. His 
               braids fall nearly to his hips. His face is handsome but at 
               the moment, twisted in a full-blood's scowl.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         What are you doing?

                         James Looks Twice?

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         That's right. What are you doing 
                         here? This is a religious ceremony 
                         you're desecrating.

               Looks Twice shoots hawk-like black eyes onto Ray.

                         We're FBI, James. We just need to 
                         ask you a few questions.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         We are in the middle of a sweat lodge 
                         ceremony. Do you drag people out of 
                         your churches when they're in the 
                         middle of prayer?

                         Let's take a walk, Jimmy. Come on.

               Cooch takes a careful step behind Jimmy and cuffs him. Looks 
               Twice speaks to the others in LAKOTA, and they disband, 
               heading to a shade arbor where their clothes hang.

               As Cooch starts marching Looks Twice toward the house, Ray 
               keeps an eye on the departing. One of them stops halfway to 
               the fence and turns. Grandpa Reaches looks at Ray with eyes 
               that have seen one hundred and one hard years in Indian 

                         Go ahead. You can all go home.

               And he follows Cooch and the cuffed Jimmy to the house.

                         We just wanna take a look around 
                         your place, Jimmy. We're not here to 
                         bust your balls.

               AT THE BACK OF THE HOUSE

               Cooch leads the half-naked suspect to the backdoor. Cooch 
               show: a warrant, tries the door but it is locked.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         What's this about?

                         Your good friend Leo Fast Elk.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         You think I killed him? Cuz he was 
                         an apple? Well, let me tell you 
                         something about Leo, Man --

                         -- don't "man" me, Jimmy. Where's 
                         the key?

               Jimmy doesn't answer. He glares with hatred into Cooch's 

                         Ray, use the federal master key.

               Ray steps up, gets ready to throw a frontkick at the door.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         No. Don't do that. Don't deface the 
                         property, man. The key's in there.

               With his hands cuffed, he can only jerk his head toward a 
               big hole in the wall down near the foundation. Cooch quickly 
               drops to a knee and checks out the hole.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         Inside... in the coffee can.

               Cooch reaches in, probes.

                         There's no coffee can in --

               Something horrifying happens so fast, Cooch has no time to 

               Whatever has taken his arm has done so with such force, his 
               body jolts like he's touched raw voltage. The South Dakota 
               BADGER rips through his leather jacket -- we get a glimpse 
               of its striped face and yellowed teeth -- through his shirt. 
               Through flesh, and deeper, GROWLING insanely while COOCH 
               HOLLERS in shock tries to pull free and --

               Jimmy Looks Twice spins from the porch with a skillfully 
               executed back kick, knocking Ray off the step and to the 
               ground. The Indian bolts like a deer into the darkness.

               Ray rolls in the grass, throwing his M-16 up. He hesitates. 
               But only for a moment before FIRING and decimating the corner 
               gutter, a junked car, several trees. But no sign of Jimmy.

               Cooch falls back in the grass badly mauled. His arm has been 
               ripped open down to the bone.

                         Jesus... Jesus...

               Ray starts toward Cooch.

                         Get him...

               Ray takes off, crashing through weeds, into a stream, wading 
               through mud. He throws his flashlight left and right. He 
               crosses the river, shines the light in a field of wild sage. 
               Nothing. He runs like a sprinter, looking everywhere. But as 
               he enters an --

               OPEN FIELD

               all he finds is Jimmy's towel. He picks it up and looks around 
               the area, breathing heavily.

               And then suddenly, something leaps up out of the grass. Ray 
               swings his M-16 up, ready to blast. But it is a DEER, taking 
               off into a mystical blue night. THE DRUM. Beating fast. Heavy.


               IN THE YARD

               Cooch traps his bleeding arm between his knees to stanch the 
               blood. He speaks quietly but firm into his radio, trying to 
               stay in control.

                              (into radio)
                         Assault on federal officers. Suspect 
                         has left the area. One officer down. 
                         Issue a Fugitive Alert immediately. 

                         Has the officer been shot, X-22?

                         No, the officer's been bitten by a 
                         fucking badger, okay? Get a Fugitive 
                         Alert fucking now! Over.


               A mind-blowing Aurora. Living clouds. The incredible mesa. 
               PULLING BACK slowly to the dirt road where a line of federal 
               aerials high, enter Indian Country.

               HEARTBEAT DRUM. But a fast heartbeat. A relentless pulse 
               throughout --


               FOUR AGENTS surround a little tar-paper shack, rifles up and 
               ready. Two go in, and flush out an OLD WOMAN, an OLD MAN, 
               and some TEN CHILDREN. DOGS.

               A SMALL TRAILER that has thirty junked cars in its yard and 
               serves as a reservation parts store is crawling with FEDERAL 
               MARSHALS; car doors are being opened, trunks. TRACKING DOGS 
               run through the cars. WARPATH DRUMS...

               -- A BELL UH 1-B "HUEY" HELICOPTER chutters low over the 
               grasslands, over the Badlands, flattening wheat. It swings 
               down over the main settlement. CHILDREN gather in the street 
               to look up at it but then run when --

               -- SIX FEDERAL CARS come down the main road. They pass by --

               -- THE FRONT PORCH OF THE TRADING POST where Ray stands, 
               talking to the elders. A few of the same from earlier but 
               several new ones.

               He is sweat-drenched, and has shed his jacket and tie. He is 
               showing them photos of Jimmy but getting no response. And 
               then, for a little iodine on top of that, a MOTORCYCLE ENGINE, 
               spitting and choking and coughing comes around the corner, 
               Walter Crow Horse, manning the handlebars.

               He pulls up to Ray and just looks at him. DRUMS FADE.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You're an easy man to track, Ray. Ya 
                         walk like a penguin with a hard-on.

                         Is that right? What are the trees 
                         saying today?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         They're sayin' that nobody's gonna 
                         talk to you cuz they don't give away 
                         one of their own. But they did say 
                         there's somebody way across the Little 
                         Walking River who wants to talk to 

               Ray soaks sweat off his forehead as he eyes the Indian on 
               this one. He sees himself in the polaroid shades.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He sent me to find ya. He says he's 
                         got information.

                         Let's go.

               Ray quickly leaves the porch.


               Silent. The unnerving silence of the Great Plains filled 
               only by FLYS, big horseflies, buzzing around drying sage 
               that hangs from the rafters of a shade arbor. A GOAT stands 
               under it, just gazing across --

               the vast spread of grass and dry land where an ancient 
               Airstream trailer sits lop-sided. Sheets are hung as curtains. 
               Six old cars -- two from the early 50'a -- sit stripped to 
               the hubs on blocks in the overgrown grass. The air is dry 
               and heavy and the only sound is --

               FLYS. Ray swats at them as he steps over a truck seat that 
               lies in the grass, stuffing and springs hanging out. Crow 
               Horse walk. a few steps ahead, toward the trailer.

                                     CROW HORSE
                              (with reverence)
                         Grandpa Samuel Reaches. Heavy duty 

                         Medicine. As in medicine man?

               Crow Horse nods slowly, looking at Ray in a very serious 

                         Why does he wanna see me?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Good question. Hardly sees anybody 
                         anymore. Hasn't left this place in 
                         twenty years. Did you bring some 

               Crow Horse stops walking, making Ray do the same.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         When you go see an elder, you always 
                         bring some tobacco as a gift.

               Ray reaches into his shirt pocket and fishes out a pack of 
               Marlboro. Crow Horse glances at it, and shrug-nods. They 
               continue on toward the trailer.


               Grandpa Samuel Reaches sits in a taped and tuckered easy 
               chair, his alert black eyes moving from side to side. We 
               recognize him from the sweat lodge ceremony at Looks Twice' 
               although today he wears a straw cowboy hat giving him a more 
               youthful look despite a face like a map of the Badlands.

               He wears a vest over a western shirt, baggy work slacks, old 
               cowboy boots.

               His brown wrinkled hands run over the top of the Marlboro 
               pack as if he's reading braille.

               Crow Horse sits across from him on a stool. Ray leans on one 
               of the plain green walls, looking uncomfortable. A three 
               foot adhesive fly strip hangs from the ceiling, thick with 
               dead ones. There is a black and white TV with Sesame Street 
               wailing, honking and guffawing through static.

               Grandpa fixes his eyes on Ray for only split seconds at a 
               time but one gets the feeling he's doing an incredibly deep 
               reading of the young man. Slowly, he sits up -- focusing 
               intensely on Ray.

               He begins to speak. A hoarse, strained, string of LAKOTA, 
               spoken like it used to be, gesturing toward Ray. When he 
               finishes, he sits back in his chair. Ray looks intrigued.

                         What did he say?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He wants to know if you ever watch 
                         the Cookie Monster. He says the Cookie 
                         Monster is not to be trusted -- a 

               Ray looks puzzled. Crow Horse laughs bull-wild as Grandpa 
               takes up a fly swatter and takes out a big horsefly. The old 
               man begins speaking Indian again.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says there's something wrong with 
                         Big Bird -- he's crazy,
                              (stops laughing)
                         He says you stopped the Inipi ceremony 
                         last night...?

               Crow Horse turns a questioning look at Ray. Ray doesn't 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         But he is not unhappy with you because 
                         he knows you.

                         He knows me?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says he saw you in a vision some 
                         time ago.

               Crow Horse stops translating suddenly even though the old 
               man continues speaking. Crow Horse looks concerned, and ASKS 
               A QUESTION IN LAKOTA. We don't know what he's asking but the 
               tone is absolute amazement.

               This question triggers an exchange between he and Grandpa, 
               the old one getting angry. Grandpa wins.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I guess he had this vision some time 
                         ago, in the Moon of the Popping Trees -- 
                         uh, back in the winter. He says you 
                         come from Wasi'cu city in the East 
                         but that your people... way back... 
                         are of the Minniconjou Sioux. But 
                         you yourself don't know that.

               Ray's brow is drawn tense as he stares at the old Indian, 
               absorbing the translation. Grandpa speaks more fervently 
               now, incorporating Indian sign. Each time Grandpa does the 
               hard Sioux HAND SLAP, Ray blinks.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says he knew you'd be coming to 
                         Bear Creek. He was told. It is the 
                         will of Tunkasilia -- the grandfather 
                         that you come here. He says let's 
                         smoke the caanunpa the sacred pipe, 
                         symbol of truth. So that there will 
                         be no lies between us.

               The old man has taken a long wooden stem and a red stone 
               bowl from a beaded pipe bag. He joins the two together then 
               begins offering a pinch of tobacco to the Four Directions. 
               While this goes on, Ray fidgets.

                         What's he smoke in that?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Sacred herbs. Tobacco. Don't worry, 
                         we don't smoke no Mexican agriculture 
                         in The Pipe. That's a white man's 
                         myth. This is a sacrament.

               The old man is offering the pipe to Ray.

                         Mltaku Oyasin.

               Ray looks at Grandpa. The old man offers the pipe again.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You don't smoke with him, it means 
                         you're hiding something.

               Ray takes the pipe, looks at it... then passes it to Crow 
               Horse. The big Indian takes it from Ray, giving him a long 
               eye, then offering the pipe to The Directions before smoking.

               Crow Horse puffs hard, eyes closed, then slowly releases 
               some smoke upward. Ray watches it climb and fade. The old 
               man then takes up an old turtle shell rattle. He speaks.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says Wakan. Sacred. Five hundred 
                         year old turtleshell rattle, passed 
                         down from the Grandfathers. Heavy 

               He shakes the rattle very slightly, moving it in front of 
               Ray. He speaks just above a whisper.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says, it is good. The Spirits are 
                         here. The Spirits want to know what 
                         you're doing here?

               Ray smirks.

                         Tell him I'm trying to find the man 
                         who murdered Leo Fast Elk. Ask him 
                         if he knows where he is.

               Crow Horse asks the old man in Lakota. No answer. The pipe 
               is back to grandpa, and he offers it to the Directions, to 
               the Earth then upward before smoking himself. He begins to 
               speak again.

               Passionately. In long glottal Sioux sentences, adding sign, 
               fingers crossing, brushing an arm, a slap here and there,

               He is working himself into an excited state, and Ray keeps 
               looking at Crow Horse, very interested in the old man's 

               Finally Grandpa's breath comes up short and wheezing, he 
               ends his oratory with a solid hand slap.

                         What did he say?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He said he doesn't know.

                         He just did the Gettysburg Address 
                         in Sioux. What did he say?

               Crow Horse ignores him. Grandpa speaks again. More hand 

               The old man is staring at Ray while whispering to Crow Horse. 
               He strokes his badger claw necklace.

               Crow Horse looks at Ray and seems hesitant to translate this 
               new piece of information.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Uh... Grandpa likes to trade; no one 
                         stops by here without gettin' stuck 
                         in the old Indian barter. He, uh... 
                         he likes your shades.

               Grandpa smiles toothlessly. Ray who has his driving glasses 
               in hand, lifts them to say "these?" but Grandpa sees it as 
               an accepted deal, and swiftly removes his necklace. He holds 
               it out.

               Ray slowly, hesitantly surrenders his sunglasses, and takes 
               the necklace. Crow Horse bursts into laughter and so does 
               Grandpa, enjoying a good trade. He draws a hand through the 
               air in a sort of horizontal karate chop, meaning done deal. 
               Ray looks confused. Out of his element. And out of his shades.

               Another fly gets snagged on sticky tape.


               Crow Horse is hurrying toward his bike, Ray with him.

                         What was he saying?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Why should I tell you.

                         Because he was talking to me.

               Crow Horse keeps walking.

                         Does he know something?

               Crow Horse stops walking and eyes Ray, deliberating.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         The old man saw an owl. Over there 
                         in the dry wash. Last week.


                                     CROW HORSE
                         He saw an owl.

               A silent moment. Ray tries to figure out what he's missing 

                         So what?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         The owl is a messenger. When one 
                         shows itself to a Sioux... it means 
                         someone's gonna die. The owl told 
                         him about Leo.

               Ray stares vacantly.

                         The owl told him about Leo. That's 
                         incredible. I guess we just broke 
                         the back of this investigation, didn't 
                         we? Evidence doesn't get any harder 
                         than that -- not for my money. Is 
                         there anyway we can seduce this owl 
                         into Federal Court?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He also said "listen to the water."

                         Listen to the water. Listen to the 
                         owl. He also said, don't trust the 
                         fucking Cookie Monster.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Go back to your DNA finger-printin'.

               Crow Horse KICK STARTS his bike and burns off down the drive

               Ray feels the presence of the old man, standing behind the 
               busted screen door. Just watching.

               that takes us straight into --


               CLOSE ON A TERRIFYING FACE -- painted in blazing red and 
               yellow, black around the eyes. A ridge of feathers high along 
               the hairline, and a mouth open, tongue trilling -- SCREAMING.

               A WACIPI

               is going down. A Powow. Held in the center of a huge arbor. 
               This DANCER, a traditional Kit Fox dancer, is dressed in 
               authentic costume and is dancing with TEN OTHERS dressed in 
               various traditional garb and paints.

               Under the arbor, TWO HUNDRED INDIANS in modern clothing sit 
               on blankets or in lawn chairs, watching the dancing. A group 
               of SINGERS sit around a big drum, beating on it, and wailing 
               the song that keeps the dancers hopping.

               SIXTY CARS (res beaters) are parked off around the arbor, 
               less interested kids sitting on them, smoking cigarettes. A 
               few actually have MTV hair-cuts.

               Drifting through the cars and people are Special Agents 
               Couture, Miles, Sherman and Levoi. They stroll through, 
               incongruously, checking out faces. Vehicles.

               Ray slows his step and takes in --

               THE POWWOW CIRCLE

               as the dance ends. WEAK APPLAUSE. The POWWOW CALLER, a big 
               Sioux with a crew-cut and cowboy shirt, speaks through a 
               scratchy P.A. system.

                         Was-te Yelo! Let's have five more 
                         veterans. Five more veterans. Hoka 

               An OLD-INDIAN MAN sitting in a lawn chair, removes his cowboy 
               hat and reaches down toward a blanket. He brings up his VFW 
               hat, adorned with medals and puts it on. Slowly, he rises, 
               and shuffles out to the center pole along with --

               FOUR OTHER VETERANS who have exchanged cowboy hats for 
               veteran's caps. There is even a traditional dancer in there, 
               wearing a veteran cap. As a mournful WAR SONG is banged out 
               by the singers, a flag is unrolled by the veterans. An 
               American Flag. Unrolled, and set on the mast. And together, 
               all five Indian men, hoist --

               THE AMERICAN FLAG

               high. Slowly it climbs. Proudly. It blows in the hot South 
               Dakota wind.

               OUTSIDE THE ARBOR

               Ray stands, watching this. And then the SONG ENDS. A loud, 
               angry voice breaks across the P.A.


               ANDERSON CHASING HAWK, a young Indian in ribbon shirt and 
               long hair has taken possession of the microphone. SIX W.A.R.N. 
               MEMBERS stand behind him. He speaks loud, firm, with the 
               sharp gestures of an old way Chief.

                                     CHASING HAWK
                         What is that that you honor there, 
                         uncles? After all the Wasi'cu country 
                         has done to you, after all he still 
                         does to you, you honor that flag?! 
                         That flag has been desecrated by the 
                         United States, because they have not 
                         honored what that flag represents!

               The veterans just stand under the flag, solemn, looking at 
               Chasing Hawk. The flag undulates soundlessly.

                                     CHASING HAWK (O.S.)
                         To them, we are the Bank of America. 
                         Whenever they get into a little 
                         difficulty, they go to The Bank, 
                         withdraw a little land, withdraw a 
                         little oil --

               OUTSIDE THE ARBOR

               the four FBI agents stand, watching.

                         Okay. Here we go.

                         Who's this guy?

                         Anderson Chasing Hawk. Second in 
                         command behind Jimmy.

               AT THE CROW'S NEST

               Chasing Hawk hands the mic over to another Warrior. MAGGIE 
               EAGLE BEAR would be the most beautiful woman Ray has even 
               seen if she was not the meanest-looking. Her thick black 
               hair falls over a denim jacket down below her horse-hair 
               belt. Her faded jeans are stuffed into worn cowboy boots. 
               And she is full of fire. She begins speaking in LAKOTA. 
               Fluently. And with hand sign, like the old man.

               OUTSIDE THE ARBOR

               the agents stand. Cooch is writing into a small notebook.

                         Magedelana Eagle Bear. Eagle's claws 
                         and a bear's balls.

                         She keeps an AR-15 assault rifle in 
                         her truck. And she'll use it.

               As Ray watches her, someone approaches in a less hostile 
               manner. It is President Clear Moon, looking very upset. He 
               holds the hand of a LITTLE GIRL, dressed in traditional 
               dancing garb.

               He approaches Ray.

                         Mr. Clear Moon.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Our police are afraid of them. Please 
                         get them out of here.

               Clear Moon gestures for the little girl to run off. He leans 
               in close to Ray.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         They're going to kill me next. That's 
                         what I hear. These new Indians are 
                         destroying everything. Our people 
                         are a quiet people.

                         They can lead us to Jimmy. Just let 
                         them go. We're tightening the net on 
                         him. We know he's on the reservation.

               Clear Moon is looking past Ray at the Warriors. They are 
               approaching the agents, and Clear Moon looks at Ray with 
               great concern.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Help us.

               And he slowly retreats to his lawn chair under the arbor.

               Chasing Hawk, Maggie and the other Warriors strut up to the 
               agents. All but one who is bound to a wheelchair. We've seen 
               RICHARD YELLOW BIRD, the big Cheyenne who wears a Red Power 
               baseball cap, an earring, and thick bifocals -- in one of 
               the file photos. His arms are plastered with tattoos.

                                     AGENT SHERMAN
                         Where's Jimmy? We thought he'd be 
                         dancing today.

               The warriors make a show of not acknowledging the FBI 
               presence. They have walked over here just to walk by them. 
               That is there statement. But Yellow Bird stops cranking the 
               wheels of his chair and stop: long enough to look up at Ray.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Are you the Washington Redskin?

               Even the agents crack grins at this bit of Indian wit. All 
               but Ray who just stands there, arms folded across his chest, 
               considering the crippled activist.

                                     AGENT MILES
                         Say hello to Richard Yellow Bird, 

               Yellow Bird sits there, staring up at him through thick 
               glasses But then Maggie Eagle Bear takes the handles of Yellow 
               Bird's wheel chair. She looks at Ray with eyes that are choke-
               cherry black, eyes that look right through him. He returns 
               the glare. And then she pushes Yellowbird forward and leaves 
               the feds alone.

               Ray turns to Cooch who is lighting a cigarette, and 
               concentrating on the movements of this group as they wander 
               under the arbor, visiting people. LAKOTA SINGERS start up.

                         Ray, get to Jimmy's place and keep 
                         it tight. I'm gonna get a tail on 
                         his Warriors.

               IN THE POWWOW CENTER

               the under ten year-old "fancy dance" -- TWENTY-FIVE INDIAN 
               CHILDREN, whirling and stomping and dancing.


               The battered old house sits under a full moon. The upside 
               down flag moves slightly in the cross winds.

               ACROSS THE ROAD

               several junked cars. Among them a black, rusted out VW van 
               with a smashed windshield. A PACK OF RES DOGS sniff at its 

               INT. JIMMY'S VAN

               In the dim light, a boot. A black cowboy boot. Up on the 
               dash. Bluejeans. T-shirt. Second hand leather. And a black 
               cowboy hat. Ray is staking out Jimmy's house.

               Across the passenger seat and console is an M-16 rifle. On 
               his belt, a .357 Red Hawk. He yawns. From outside, he hears 
               a sound.

               POV: down below the van, a small, patchy RES DOG with a 
               missing leg is looking up at him with his tongue long and 

               RAY breaks off a piece of sandwich and drops it down to him 
               just as -- HEADLIGHTS catch his face. He slides down low, 
               watching an old pick-up truck creak onto the dirt road, 
               leading to Jimmy's.

               POV: the truck parks. Someone jumps out, gracefully. Indian. 
               Long braid. Quick steps. Front door. Inside.

               RAY lifts his radio.

                         X22. Read.

                         Go ahead, Ray.

                         I have a pick-up truck. No plates. 
                         Subject -- Indian -- entering 
                         suspect's house. Over.

                         Okay, Ray. I'm coming in. If he starts 
                         to leave the area, move in. And hold 
                         him. Over.

               Ray sets his radio down, unclips the leather guard on his 
               handgun. Picks up the Big Mac.


               The front door creaks open, and the subject dashes back out. 
               In the dark we cannot latch onto features.

               Suddenly the junker van comes alive, guns onto the dirt road, 
               racing toward the running Indian who gets the door of the 
               truck open but freezes in the van's highbeams as --

               Ray leaps out, M-16 in hand.

                         FBI, freeze, Motherfucker -- drop 
                         it, drop it!

               Ray maneuvers in Quantico fashion, keeping the rifle on the 
               Indian's back. The Indian drops what he's holding. And turns 
               around. It's not a he. We've seen her before. At the Powwow. 
               Maggie Eagle Bear. Her hair is pulled back tight, braided.

               Ray moves in toward her, surprised at first, but still 

                         Turn around, put your hands on the 
                         roof of the truck.

               She does what he tells her. As Ray moves in on her, he notices 
               an INDIAN CHILD sitting in the passenger seat, looking out 
               into the highbeams, frightened.

               Ray toes Maggie's legs out wider, frisks her one-handed, 
               pats down her boots.

                         You're the Indian FBI.

                         That's right. Turn around.

               Maggie turns around, looks Ray in the eye. He looks self-
               conscious in the cowboy hat.

                         The people are glad they sent you. 
                         They usually send in guys who come 
                         at ya with highbeams, screamin' "drop 
                         it, Motherfucker", stick a gun in 
                         your face, frisk ya down. Even if ya 
                         got a child with ya. No, it's good 
                         to have ya. It's gonna be was-te 
                         times on the res.

               Ray is looking down at what she dropped. A bundle lying in 
               the grass. He bends down, starts to untie it.

                         I was gonna warn ya about messin' 
                         with somebody's medicine bundle but 
                         I forgot you know all about that 

               IN THE BUNDLE -- an eagle skull, tobacco strings, sage, sweet 
               grass, and several white eagle feathers.

                         This Jimmy's?

                         You're not gonna catch him. He can 
                         shape-shift into different animals. 
                         Bear. Elk. Porcupine.

                         Is that like an hereditary thing, 
                         Magdelana, or can one take classes?

                         Jimmy didn't kill Leo. Why do you 
                         wanna do this?

                         He tried to kill him twice before. 
                         That's a good place to start don't 
                         ya think? Leo was on the other side, 
                         wasn't he?

                         -- Leo was an apple, that's right. 
                         Red on the outside, white on the 
                         inside. And Jimmy hated him. Kicked 
                         his ass a coupla times. But he didn't 
                         kill him.

                         Who did?

                         You're the FBI. That's your job, 
                         isn't it? Ya know how many of our 
                         Warrior brothers got killed out here? 
                         I never saw any investigating then. 
                         Why now? What's going down here?

                         A Fugitive Alert for a murder suspect. 
                         Before somebody else gets a shotgun 
                         blast in the spine.

                         Try the Fort Laramie Treaty. All 
                         over again.

               Ray doesn't have a clue as to what this radical bullshit is 

                         Look. You and I can stand here in a 
                         culture clash til the sun comes up, 
                         talking about what's right and what's 
                         wrong. You're from the reservation. 
                         It's a different world.

                         I'm from Minneapolis. Fifth Street. 
                         I did four years at Dartmouth before 
                         I ever set foot on this res. So I 
                         know about the other world, Ray.

               If this information doesn't throw Ray, the use of his first 
               name does.

                         Are you gonna keep that medicine 
                         bundle or are you gonna respect its 

               Ray is holding the medicine bundle. He deliberates, then 
               hands it over. She takes it with careful hands, casting a 
               somewhat surprised look up at him.

                         Thank you.

                         When you see Jimmy, tell him the 
                         sooner he turns himself back into a 
                         human being and gives himself in... 
                         the sooner we back off this 
                         reservation. Okay?

               Maggie gets in the truck, starts it up. She looks out at 
               him, studying him. Trying to figure him out. HEADLIGHTS are 
               coming fast from down the main road.

                         Grandpa Reaches says you come from 
                         heavy Indian blood. I used to think 
                         Grandpa was gettin' senile. Now I 
                         know he is.

                         Move it, Magdelana.

               Maggie drives forward, turning down another little wagon 
               road, and bumping into the black night only moments before, 
               Cooch's Le Baron pulls in.

               SA Miles and Sherman's vehicle pull in behind it. The regional 
               feds fall in behind Cooch, everyone, packing rifles.

                         Ray, you alright?

               Ray turns, nodding. An FBI van pulls in from the other 
               direction and FOUR AGENTS empty out, wearing FBI windbreakers 
               and heavily-armed.

                                     AGENT SHERMAN
                         What do we got, Ray?

                         It was just Eagle Bear. I questioned 
                         and released her.

                         What'd she say?

                         She talks a lot of shit. We're not 
                         doing our job. Jimmy's innocent. 
                         "What's the FBI really doing here." 
                         Some shit about the Fort Laramie 

               Cooch nods. The agents form a tight unit out below the upside 
               down flag.

                         She took something from the house. 
                         What she called a medicine bundle. 
                         Most likely Jimmy's.

                         Let's see it.

                         I gave it back to her.

                                     AGENT SHERMAN

                         If it is Jimmy's, she's taking it to 
                         him. We'll have a runner. But I 
                         borrowed a little mojo...

               Ray reaches inside his pant leg, down around his boot and 
               carefully removes a white eagle feather. He gingerly tucks 
               it in a plastic bag.

                         Way to go, Raymond. Miles, take that 
                         to lab. Sherman, I want you to go 
                         back to base and produce some written 
                         material. Something that indicates 
                         that our girl Maggie is leaking 
                         information to us. And make sure 
                         that material finds its way into the 
                         hands of the Warrior Movement.

               Sherman and Miles, take off. Cooch, an impressive master of 
               COINTELPRO, now turns to the van squad.

                         You gentlemen missed that medicine 
                         basket. Go back through the house, 
                         and make sure you missed nothing 
                         else. And lay some wire, too. Let's 
                         do it.

               The van squad moves toward the house, leaving Cooch and Ray 
               alone in the highbeams that light the yard.

                         That's good goddamn work, Ray. Let 
                         the salmon run. Let 'em run Upriver.

                         Why we setting Eagle Bear up as an 

                         Her own people start to suspect her, 
                         it creates discord from within. The 
                         Warriors don't know who to trust, 
                         they start infighting, and Jimmy 
                         loses his support.

               Ray nods, impressed.

               Cooch bends down near the road, touches the dirt.

                         Her oil pan is shot.

                         Cooch. What's the Fort Laramie Treaty?

                         Jesus, I don't know. You tell me. 
                         You're the Indian.

               Cooch wipes the oil on a handkerchief as he rises, smiling 
               playfully at Ray. He starts back toward his car. Some sort 
               of bird is COOING in the night.

                         Get a tail on her, Ray.

               Ray looks up at the upside down flag. Then watches Cooch 
               walking way.

                              (a quiet, tired laugh)
                         Where the fuck did they send us?

                         A long way from home. You be careful 
                         out there.

               Cooch, standing there with his glasses on and his right arm 
               bandaged, looks tired, too. He gets in his car.

               In the yard, Ray starts for the van, the res dog, trying to 
               follow. He chases it away. And then as he gets closer to the 
               van, he looks up to investigate the COOING SOUND.

               AT THE TOP OF THE FLAG POLE

               there is a shadow. What looks to be a large bird. It just 
               hovers. In the shadows.

               DOWN BELOW

               Ray looks up at the pole, watching. Then walking on.

               EXT. BEAR CREEK RES - SUNRISE

               Mind-blowing sunrise of airbrush red. Clusters of lodge-pole 
               pine. The spectacular mesa. PAINT HORSES graze in a field, a 
               few out in the center of the road.


               the old man comes down the front steps in a frail walk, 
               carrying a paper plate. He steps down into the sage clusters 
               that grow just off his trailer, and offers the plate up toward 
               the sky.

               He then stoops, and scrapes a half-eaten English muffin, 
               some potato chips and half a banana onto the Earth in a neat 

               He straightens his back the best he can, looks up again, and 
               prays softly.

               THE BADLANDS

               possess an otherworldly beauty at this magic hour, a maze of 
               shadows and rainbows. In the distance we cannot mistake the 
               frame of Walter Crow Horse. He's out there, long hair blowing 
               against the white bluffs. Stalking. Tracking.

               ON THE VILLAGE ROAD

               a puppy chases a hen in a klutzy, innocent manner then bumps 
               into the tire of a parked car. Taking a shot at doghood, he 
               hikes his leg, squirts a hubcap belonging to --

               Cooch's Le Baron. Cooch leans on the hood, drinking a coffee 
               from a foam-plastic cup, and supervising SIX G-MEN who have 
               a map spread out over the hood and are discussing it.


               is way out in a remote corner of the res, a little home, 
               trailer and tipi right on the river. The river is rushing 
               hard this morning, catching the light of the sun. Maggie's 
               truck is parked in front.

               Out at the river, Maggie, her hair long and unbrushed, and 
               wearing an extra large T-shirt and nothing else is hauling 
               water in buckets from the river.

               THREE INDIAN CHILDREN are with her, helping her. Near the 
               house, an OLD WOMAN in bifocal glasses, feeds some chickens, 
               and a cat that gathers with the chickens and eats feed.

               INT. OLD VAN – NEAR MAGGIE'S

               Ray, still in his field clothes sits, training binoculars on 
               the distant house. He opens a carton of milk, drinks some. 
               Then hears a whimpering. In the passenger seat sits the three 
               legged res dog. Ray has taken him with him. He drinks some 
               milk, then opens the carton up fully and sticks it out so 
               the dog can lap it up. Ray laughs in disbelief, shaking his 

                         For all I know, you're Jimmy. And 
                         you're just waiting for a shot at my 
                         jugular. Drink, Jimmy. Milk is good 
                         for you --

               The dog is lapping the milk, desperately. And then a ROARING. 
               A motorcycle.

               IN THE SIDE MIRROR: Crow Horse, racing up on the left of the 
               van. Ray pulls his hat down low, and sits back. The motorcycle 
               passes on the left, slowing enough so that Crow Horse can 
               flip Ray the middle finger. Then he races on, far down the 

               Ray sits there, shaking his head. He'll let it go. Bullshit. 
               He starts the car.


               Crow Horse guns in, sliding in dirt up to the run-down, low 
               budget shooting range -- six plastic milk jugs on sticks, 
               jammed in the mud.

               A moment later, the van hammers in. Parks. Ray gets out. 
               He's removed his hat so as not to invite any crap from Crow 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Don't be mad. That was just an old 
                         traditional gesture that means hello, 
                         how are you.

                         I see. Forgive my cultural ignorance.

               Ray executes a hard, slapping, "up your ass" gesture.

                         Have a nice day.

               Crow Horse bursts into laughter in his raspy, staccato laugh. 
               He walks off a few steps, picks up a spent shell and pitches 
               it. His laughter simmers and he gets serious.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Jimmy didn't do it, Ray. I checked 
                         it out. You can stop taggin' my 

                         She's your sister?

                                     RAY AND CROW HORSE
                         Spiritual sister.

                         Gotchya. We just nailed a genetic 
                         match between the eagle feather left 
                         at the murder site and one in Jimmy's 
                         medicine bundle. It came from a white 
                         eagle. Same bird.

               Crow Horse fingers an eagle feather that hangs from his hat 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         So did this one. Wambli is a rare 
                         and sacred creature. When someone 
                         finds a dead one, the feathers get 
                         around the res. We share everything. 
                         A lot of power in the eagle feathers. 
                         But you think that's bullshit too, 
                         don't --

                              (ala Crow Horse)
                         -- Leo Fast Elk was sitting in the 
                         outhouse at Maisy Blue Legs when a 
                         car pulled into the yard. He came 
                         out, approached the vehicle then saw 
                         that the man behind the wheel was 
                         Jimmy. He tried to get back into the 
                         trailer, but the car came highballing 
                         at him. He started running for the 
                         open grass. With the car moving, 
                         Jimmy hung his shotgun out the window, 
                         took aim -- missed once, hitting the 
                         shitter -- fired again, and severed 
                         Leo's spine. Leo fell, rolled, and 
                         came to a stop in the grass. And 
                         some chicken feed. Stale chicken 
                         feed with four days mold.
                              (a beat)
                         Electromagnetic printing.

               Crow Horse stares, a little surprised.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Was-te. 'Cept for one thing. Jimmy 
                         Looks Twice was nowhere near there. 
                         Ya see, when Jimmy was twelve years 
                         old, his mother and father was killed 
                         in a car wreck right down there near 
                         Elk Mountain.

                         I don't see the connection.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         The connection is, it did a head 
                         number on him. He's petrified of 
                         cars. Won't drive. I've known him 
                         all my life, and he's never gotten 
                         behind the wheel of a vehicle. He 
                         rides passenger and he rides horses, 
                         and that's it. The man that shot Leo 
                         down was behind the wheel of a moving 

               Ray absorbs this with great interest.

                         That's not solid.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You want solid? That one, single, 
                         print he left in the Badlands -- the 
                         one the FBI missed and then stepped 
                         all over -- it belongs to a man who 
                         walks heels first. Like a white man. 
                         Jimmy has a serious Ind'n walk -- 
                         ball of the foot first. The man who 
                         murdered Leo walked like a Wasi'cu.

               Ray lets a pent-up sigh escape.

                         You're saying a white guy did it...

               Crow Horse chews this over, unable to hide a nagging 
               frustration. He shakes his head.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         When Leo was dumped out there in the 
                         Badlands, he was dropped on his back. 
                         Our man made an effort to turn him 
                         over, onto his face. It's an old 
                         Ind'n belief that if a dead man is 
                         turned face down, his spirit won't 
                         leave. And in the killer's case, it 
                         won't come back and jump all over 
                         his shit. That's an Ind'n thing a 
                         white man wouldn't know.

               The two of them stand there, thinking this over. Ray takes 
               out his notebook and starts writing. Crow Horse walks away, 
               turns to face the propped up targets.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         And that's the way it is. Write it 

               To punctuate, Crow Horse slaps leather, draws his .38, and 
               begins blasting at the milk bottles. He hits the bank. A 
               tree. One of the posts. But not a single target.

               When he is done, he looks over his gun, disappointed. Starts 
               reloading. Ray starts laughing, looking at the missed targets

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You laugh all you want, Breed. Sunset 
                         tonight, I get my man.

               Ray looks at Crow Horse, sees that he's serious, and follows 
               him toward his motorcycle.

                         Alright, Crow Horse. I'm listening. 
                         I'm listening to the trees, to the 
                         stones. Who is it?

               Crow Horse turns toward Ray, and creates a long dramatic 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Damned if I know.

               And he hauls his bulk onto his motorbike.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         But the Old One. He did a Yuwipi 
                         ceremony last night.

               Crow Horse winks at Ray as he slams the kickstart. To no 

                         The old man? He's gonna tell you who 
                         killed Leo?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Go catch Jimmy, Ray. Really. He's 
                         gettin' away. Go ahead, go get him. 
                         I'm late.

                         Hey. Hey, those are my sunglasses 
                         you're wearing.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Grandpa traded with me.
                              (flips the bird)

               And Crow Horse nails his kick start. The BIKE ROARS alive 
               and the Indian works the throttle hard, leaving gravel and 
               black exhaust. Ray stands there, drifting between logic and 
               instinct. He looks at his watch, then starts at a slow, 
               thoughtful shuffle toward his car.


               The dust-buzzard broncs and bounces down Grandpa's driveway, 
               coming to a stop near the wrecked cars. Crow Horse dismounts 
               and unhooks a carton of smokes from the back.

               A moment later, the junker van pulls in, bouncing and shaking.

               Crow Horse stares at the approaching vehicle, his eyes hidden 
               behind Ray's former shades. He cracks a slow smile because --

               Ray is stepping quickly from the van, and carrying two packs 
               of Marlboros.


               Grandpa sits in his chair, his black eyes moving smoothly 
               from side to side. Smoke enshrouds his ancient face, giving 
               the sense of another time and place. He speaks LAKOTA.

               Crow Horse, sitting on a stool across from him, holds The 
               Pipe. He passes it to Ray who sits in a busted lawn chair 
               next to him. The room is dark as the sun sets out the window 
               in red and purple. Ray looks at the pipe. Grandpa will not 
               speak until Ray smokes. And so he does, drawing on the stem, 

               HEARTBEAT DRUM as Grandpa speaks Indian.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says, back behind Red Deer Table, 
                         where the Elk-People-used-to-live... 
                         there are strange creatures from 
                         another world who eat stones... and 
                         who will kill anyone who crosses 
                         into this place.

               Ray looks at Crow Horse, searching for a hint of lightness. 
               But there is only great reverence as he watches Ray blow 
               smoke upward.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says, in the Yuwipi ceremony last 
                         night, he saw you... going back into 
                         the land beyond Red Deer Table. I 
                         was with you. But that was all the 
                         Spirits let him see so he doesn't 
                         know if you were killed or not. But 
                         he thinks you probably were.

               Ray smirks as he passes the pipe to Grandpa. Crow Horse looks 
               nervous. Grandpa offers the pipe to the directions and then 
               disengages the bowl from the stem. He speaks again. Crow 
               Horse translates.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Go to the land where the Elk-People-
                         used-to-live and you will find the 
                         answers you came here looking for. 
                         But you must go as two. That is the 
                         vision. I have spoken. And this is 

               Grandpa leans closer to Crow Horse and whispers some Lakota.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He wants to trade.
                              (a beat)
                         He likes your watch.

               Ray looks at Crow Horse, nervous.

                         I can't do that,
                         It's a Rolex.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         A what?

               And Grandpa is already holding out something to offer. It is 
               a cigarette. Grandpa offers it again.

                         I'm sorry, this is --
                              (loud to Grandpa)
                         -- this is very, very expensive. 
                         It's --
                              (to Crow Horse)
                         Tell him this is an expensive watch.

               Crow Horse tells the Old Man. Grandpa speaks Indian.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He says, you need to go on Indian 
                         time. He says your watch is ruining 
                         your life anyway.

               Ray buries his hands in his jacket pocket. No way. Crow Horse 
               signs to Grandpa "no." Grandpa gets up, crosses between the 
               two young men, up to the TV set. He turns it on.

               WHEEL OF FORTUNE

               explodes in PINGS AND PONGS and a WOMAN'S SHRILL SCREAM.


               Crow Horse and Ray walk down the steps. WHEEL OF FORTUNE is 
               heard from within.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Red Deer Table, Ray.

                         Don't tell me: heavy duty.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Heavy, heavy duty. Taku Wakan. Wanagi 
                         Spirits. It's one of those few places 
                         we'd never go to as kids. Still don't. 
                         Some of the old people say Crazy 
                         Horse is buried back there. We have 
                         to go Ray. Together. Like his vision.

               They step into the yard and Ray stops, turning to Crow Horse

                         Walter. When I fill out my 302, do I 
                         say that evil spirits are killing 
                         everybody on the reservation?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Ray --

                         -- no. No offense to the old man. I 
                         appreciate you trying to help. But I 
                         put my ass on the line coming out 
                         here, man.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         What'd you expect to hear?

                         Not Native American myths and legends. 
                         I'm with the FBI, Walter, remember? 
                         Not National Geographic.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         What you call myths, we call our 

                         It's not real.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         What's real to you? Wall Street? 
                         Capital Hill? Now they are myths.

                         I can't be dicking around here. That's 
                         all I'm saying. I don't carry 
                         crystals, I don't wanna come back in 
                         another life. I just wanna do my 
                         job, and do it right, and get the 
                         fuck outta here.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You ain't no Indian. You're a Sal 
                         Mineo Indian.

               Crow Horse drives "Indian" home with a hard finger in Ray's 
               chest. Ray knocks his hand away, explosively. Crow Horse is 

                                     GRANDPA (O.S.)
                         Knock it off!

               The old man is standing at the top of the steps. Ray and 
               Crow Horse are YELLING OVER EACH OTHER, and hands are up.

                         Will ya knock it off? You're actin' 
                         like a couple of old women.

               Ray stands there, one hand up in defense, another poised to 
               throw a punch. Bewildered, he stares at the old Indian holding 
               onto the porch railing.

                         For cryin' out loud. Knock it off.

                         He speaks English.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Only when he's really pissed off.

                         Come inside. Watch TV.

               And Grandpa goes back in, screendoor slapping shut behind 
               him. Ray is just staring, his jaw dropped. Crow Horse starts 
               laughing. Harder than he has yet, and Ray starts walking 
               toward his car in fuck-this steps.

               He gets into the car, closes the door and looks out the open 
               window at Crow Horse. The Indian moves first.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Don't accuse nothin' of not bein' 
                         real, Little Weasel. Cuz the only 
                         thing around here that ain't real is 

               Ray lifts his arm off the door, and springs his middle finger 
               up at Crow Horse. He holds it there for a long moment just 
               looking at the big Indian.

                         Take care of yourself, Walter.

                                     CROW HORSE

               Ray checks the time on his watch then guns away. Crow Horse 
               stands there, watching him go. Eventually he shuffles back 
               toward the trailer.


               Room 14 has been transformed into a major COINTELPRO base; 
               four computer terminals are set up, card tables spread with 
               photos, boxes of files stacked on the bed, and SIX AGENTS, 
               manning the computers, thumbing through files.


               A meeting takes place around a table of paperwork and coffee 
               cups, and a .45 laid atop a file. Cooch, SA Miles, SA Sherman, 
               TWO OTHER REGIONAL AGENTS and Ray.

                                     SA SHERMAN
                         We've gotten word that Jimmy has 
                         been trying to hook up with Maggie 
                         Eagle Bear... but some of the Warriors 
                         have been sending word to Jimmy that 
                         she may be an FBI operative. So he 
                         doesn't know where to go.

               Cooch taps some ashes into an empty coffee cup. They sizzle 
               in cold residue.

                         Bingo. It's working.

                         He's out of room. All the reservation 
                         exits have been watchdogged. We got 
                         him. I give it twelve hours.

                         Well we better use those twelve hours 
                         to apprehend the right man.

               The agents all look at Ray. A pin can be heard falling to 
               the cheap carpet.

                         The right man? Talk to me, Ray.

                         Whoever dusted Leo, dusted him from 
                         the driver's seat of a moving car 
                         then drove those eight miles to the 
                         Badlands. Jimmy Looks Twice has never 
                         been behind the wheel of a car. It's 
                         a known fact out here that he's 
                         petrified of driving. His parents 
                         were killed in a car wreck.

               Cooch nods, lights another smoke, intrigued.

                         That's not very solid.

                         There was also a print found in the 
                         Badlands that indicated diagetic 
                         locomotion. Heels first. Jimmy's 
                         walking pattern doesn't match. He 
                         has a distinct Indian walk.

                                     SA MILES
                         Indian walk? You been smoking hooch 
                         in the peace pipe, Ray?

               LAUGHTER. Except for Cooch who just stares at Ray, digesting 
               what he has said.

                         They don't smoke hooch in The Pipe, 
                         Miles. They smoke something called 
                         kinickinick, it's like a tobacco.

               Sherman looks at Cooch.

                                     SA SHERMAN
                         Well, you're right about X21 being a 
                         Washington Redskin, that's for sure. 
                         What else, Ray?

                         You boys want a soda?

                                     SA MILES
                         Oh, yeah, a Coke. You buying?

                         No, Ray's buying. Sherman? Coke?

                         Oh... no. No, Cooch, I'm working on 
                         a coffee here. Indian walk?

               Cooch nods to Ray and Ray follows, gathering up some paperwork 
               He looks determined as a terrier.


               Ray and Cooch throw long, slim shadows on their way to an 
               archaic Coke machine.

                         Genetic ditto on evidence found at 
                         the site with evidence you found in 
                         his belongings. An incontrovertible 
                         motive. And definite footprints on 
                         Jimmy Looks Twice at Maisy Blue Legs 

                         When did we get that?

                         Today. And now you -- there's a dog 
                         in the van --

                         -- I know. I fed it, and I can't get 
                         rid of --

                         You weren't sent here to go off on 
                         your own detail, Ray. You were sent 
                         here to assist in a Selective 
                         Operations Unit. These regional agents 
                         are inept -- that's why they were 
                         sent out here to The Graveyard, to 
                         Indian Country. I need you behind 
                         me, Ray. Not pulling against me.

                         I'm not trying to pull against you, 
                         Cooch. I've just been having 
                         nightmares about the way Leo was 

                         Your first homicide, that's gonna 
                         happen, Ray...

                         I just wanna make sure no one else 
                         gets done in that way because we 
                         were in bed with the wrong doer.

                         Ray. I never get into bed with 
                         somebody unless I know for sure. 
                         Just the way I was raised.

               Ray studies him with a smile building. Cooch shrugs, sips 
               some soda.

                         Alright. Alright...

                         Yeah, alright, alright -- fuck you -- 
                         give a yuppie a badge and he wants 
                         to take over the world. Go get a 
                         tail on Eagle Bear, and stay with 
                         her. Cuz Jimmy's gonna show. And I 
                         want you to make the collar.

               Ray nods, starting for the van.


               He turns. Cooch looks at him for a time. It is a warm look.

                         I'll sleep around a little.

                         Thanks, Cooch.

                         And get rid of the dog.

               Ray gets in and pulls the dog out. The dog sits at roadside, 
               tilting its head at him, confused. And he pulls out. It runs 
               after him.


               The van sits parked down the road from Maggie's dimly-lit 
               home. Ray sits behind the wheel, watching the house. LOCUSTS 
               make a steady and unnerving sound. It is black. Black under 
               big sky. Ray lets his head sag out the open window and he 
               takes in the vastness.

               POV: stars. Millions of stars. And an incredible full moon. 
               It hangs huge over distant fields, a perfect sphere. The top 
               half of the moon is yellow, the bottom half a lava red.

               REVERSE - RAY

               stares at it, lost in thought. From Maggie's house, he hears 
               someone SINGING. Singing a traditional SUNDANCE SONG while 
               they haul water from the creek. A WOMAN'S VOICE, trilling 
               out the beautiful but haunting "hey-o-hey-o-hey-o-hey-ohhhhh."

               Ray just sits, listening. And then something draws his 
               attention to his rearview mirror.

               The res dog, lying in the back seat is GROWLING. Lip curled 
               back, growling low.

               Ray looks at him, looks out the window. Blackness. Nothing 
               but the sound of locusts. And a slight crosswind in the wheat 
               fields. The dog stops growling. And Ray fixes his gaze on 
               the house again, lifting a pair of binoculars and --

               BOOOOOOM! The rear windshield is SHATTERED by an explosion. 
               Ray throws himself low across the passenger seat -- BOOOOOM! 
               The driver's side window and part of the door explodes.


               The federal van is HAMMERED BY GUNFIRE. All the windows, 
               shattered, the metal doors splayed. Someone is going for the 

               THE PASSENGER DOOR

               is thrown open just as its window implodes, and Ray slides 
               out belly first, gripping his M-16 and crawling like a dog 
               soldier into tall wheat at roadside as the car, the road, 
               the wheat, the dirt, the night are slammed by gunfire.

               The res dog overtakes Ray and vanishes in the wheat. Ray 
               vanishes, too. It is quiet for a moment, then Ray, pops up 
               ten feet away, and UNLOADS THE M-16, in a left to right, 
               clean sweep before dropping again. He lies there, listening. 
               The LOCUST HAVE GONE QUIET. His breath is heavy. His heart's 
               got to be pounding through the dirt he lays in.


               LONG SHOT - THE ROAD

               the decimated van, aerial still high. The distant lights of 
               Maggie's house. And the giant Moon, hovering over it all.

               HEARTBEAT DRUM into --

               SAME ROAD – RES - DAWN

               TWENTY FEDS comb the dirt road, the wheat fields, picking up 
               shells with gloved hands, scanning the vast distance.

               IN THE FRONT YARD of Maggie's, FOUR INDIAN CHILDREN stand 
               with the Old Woman, watching.


               Cooch, flushed in the face, mans the wheel. He wears only a 
               T-shirt which indicates, a desperate rush to the scene. His 
               eyes scan the surrounding homes and fields.

               In the passenger seat, Ray sits, drinking a coffee. He looks 


                         All I could think of was... not here. 
                         I don't wanna eat it on an Indian 
                         Reservation, three thousand miles 
                         from home.

                         He's out there. He's out there playing 
                         Sitting Bull with us. I want the 
                         motherfucker so bad I'm getting a 
                         bleeding ulcer.

               Ray turns around in his seat, looking off across dry land.

                         It may have been Maggie's way of 
                         saying "get off my ass."

                         She's that subtle?

                         Eagle's claws and a bear's balls 
                         that's what her profile says.

                         Well, she's running now, too. These 
                         fucking people like to run, don't --

                         -- Cooch. Woh. Stop.

               He does. Ray is turned around in his seat, staring off into 
               the distance.

               EXT. DIRT ROAD

               The Le Baron whines backward, and off the road, into some 
               grass Ray steps out, keeping his gaze fixed. Cooch bails 
               from the driver's side, joins him.

               HEARTBEAT DRUM.

               RAY'S POV: Four-hundred feet across a flat area of sandstone 
               and grass clusters, something shimmers in the undulations of 
               the harsh morning sun. Something of pea green and rusty 
               metal... glass catches sunlight and makes prisms. A car. An 
               old res car, sitting in a long, chasm in barely a foot of 
               green water.


               Ray and Cooch go through the car, around the car, with gloved 
               hands and grease pencils and plastic bags, sweating in the 
               hot sun.

                         Tread matches. It's the car.


               Excited, Ray walks off, scanning the area.

                         But this doesn't make any sense, 
                         Ray. If it's just been sitting in 
                         this dry wash for seven days... why 
                         the hell didn't we find it?

               Ray picks up a handful of stones, sifts them in his hands.

                         Because this isn't a dry wash.

               Cooch watches him slosh shoes first through a rut where the 
               water shimmers a foot deep or less.

                         It's the Little Walking River.

               Ray turns, shucking up mud.

                         And it was full of water when I drove 
                         by here three days ago. Full. I 
                         mean... a river.

                         The Little Walking River. You're 
                         right. This is part of it. So whoever 
                         sunk this car didn't compensate for 
                         drought. Goddamn.

               Ray doesn't hear Cooch. He stares past the SAC at the long 
               wide chasm, wet in some places, arid in others, and what he 
               hears must be an echo in his head.

                         Listen to the water...

               Cooch is listening to a TRANSMISSION across his radio and he 
               walks off a few feet, exchanging information with the 

               Ray stands, ankle deep in stagnant water, his face sweat-
               soaked, his eyes transfixed on heat undulations.

               EXT. BUFFALO BUTTE MOTEL - ROOM 13 - DAY

               A flat-bed tow truck drives past the motel with the killer's 
               car on it. Behind the truck is a fed car which stops at the 
               motel, and the Le Baron which also pulls in. Miles and Sherman 
               get out from the first car, Ray and Cooch bail from the Le 

               With RADIOS TRANSMITTING, the agents walk, dusty and tired, 
               into room 14. Ray hesitates, snagged by the sight of --

               A motorcycle parked in front of the Buffalo Butte Bar. Parked 
               with pick-up trucks and station wagons. It's the mud-caked 
               old Barley. Parked right under the NO INDIANS sign.

               He puzzles over this.

               INT. BUFFALO BUTTE BAR - DAY

               Dark. Even during the day. Cigarette smoke. Sawdust. On the 
               archaic juke box, RANDY TRAVIS sings "Old 8x10" while behind 
               the bar, the BAR OWNER, an old man with long white hair and 
               beard, busies himself with leather work. SEVERAL WHITE LOCALS 
               sit on the old water drum bar stools.

               Heads lift, turn when Ray enters in his "fraternizing" clothes -- 
               jeans and boots, leather jacket. He scuffs up thick sawdust 
               as he heads to the furthest booth back where --

               Crow Horse sits, alone over a bourbon and a beer. Ray 
               approaches carefully, upset by the sight. He slides into the 
               booth and point blanks the Indian.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Agent Little Weasel, Federal Bura of 
                         your Imagination.

                         Jesus Christ. You're hammered. What 
                         are you doing?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You're right about the old man. His 
                         power's long dried up. He's supposed 
                         to be a medicine man but he won't go 
                         see the people. He says we changed, 
                         and we don't listen. Well, he don't 
                         go out and talk no more. I haven't 
                         had a drink in three years but I 
                         just turned my sobriety chip into 
                         that man behind the bar, and this 
                         Hoss is gettin' watered.

                         Cut the shit. You shouldn't be in 
                         here, Man.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Cuz I'm a skin?

                         Cuz you're a cop.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Not no more.

                         What are you talking about?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You tell me. You tell me who went to 
                         the B.I.A. -- Bureau of Indian 
                         Annihilation and said I was messin' 
                         with your case, man. I don't give a 
                         goddamn about your case.

                         And I don't give a goddamn about 
                         whether you wear a badge or not, 
                         Crow Horse, but I didn't cut you.

               Crow Horse shimmers his black eyes onto Ray.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Still after Jimmy?

                         They found prints at Blue Legs' place.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Yeah. Jimmy's prints are there. But 
                         they cross over Benjamin Black Star's 
                         prints. And he wasn't there until 
                         six o'clock the mornin' after to get 
                         eggs from the chickens. So Jimmy 
                         wasn't there til the next day. Follow?

               Ray just looks vacantly at Crow Horse. Crow Horse resents 
               the vacancy.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Look, man... you better bust Jimmy 
                         and get out before somebody shoots 
                         up more than your car next time.

               Ray glares at him.

                         Next time I'll be ready. You get the 
                         word to who ever it is.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I can't, Hoss. I don't talk to FBI's.

               Ray doesn't blink.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You think you was sent here cuz you're 
                         a good cop?

                         No. I was sent here cuz I'm Indian. 
                         And a good cop.

               Crow Horse leans toward Ray and speaks more quietly.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You ever think that maybe you was 
                         sent here cuz the FBI's need one 
                         good reason to take out the entire 
                         Warrior Movement. And what better 
                         reason than one of their men, gettin' 
                         blown away on the res. A low-rent, 
                         expendable public servant sent in to 
                         take a bullet for his country.

               Ray is fuming. He can't believe what he's hearing, what's 
               being insinuated, but he's giving it thought and it's getting 
               him angry. He smashes a hand down on the table.

                         I'm sick of your shit --

                                     RANCHER (O.S.)
                         I'm sick of the two of ya timber 
                         niggers spewin' off.

               Standing over the booth is a long, tall RANCHER'S SON. Rangey 
               with red curly hair tucked under a BLACK HILLS CLASSIC cap, 
               and arms built by tractor work. And behind him, TWO OLDER 
               RANCHERS fall in. And ANOTHER YOUNG MAN, grinning with 

               Ray and Crow Horse look up.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Sorry, we don't speak United States.

                                     RANCHER'S SON
                         Yeah, well I do. Get the Jesus up, 
                         and get the Jesus out or I'm gonna 
                         go out to my truck and come back 
                         with my hardware.

                         Woh, hold on there, Jack, you're --

                                     RANCHER'S SON
                         -- don't "jack" me, Squanto. I'll 
                         bury your lazy ass right here.

               Ray realizes now that they think he's Indian, too. Crow Horse 
               sees this revelation and complicates it by suddenly speaking 
               LAKOTA to Ray.

               The rancher grabs Ray by the cheeks.

                                     RANCHER'S SON
                         I'm talkin' to --

               Ray decks him. Backhands him in the solar plexus then, lays 
               a burner of a Quantico roundhouse to his ear, knocking him 
               across the bar, over a mop and bucket and into sawdust.

               The others start to fall at him but someone has jumped in, 
               holding them back, and sticking himself in the way. It is 
               Brooks. The old timer Ray met his first night here.

                         No! No, you butt holes! He ain't 
                         skin! He AIN'T SKIN!

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Yeah he's In'dn. Miniconjou Sioux.

               The rancher's son who is coming back with a broken beer 
               bottle, slows his step and shifts his eyes from Brooks to 
               the young fed There is a lot of heavy breathing. But no 
               talking just yet. The young rancher eyes Ray.

                                     RANCHER'S SON
                         You ain't Indian?

               Ray just stands tense, staring at him. And it's strange. 
               Because he hasn't really looked like he has any Indian blood 
               up to this moment. But dressed the way he is, and his eyes 
               glaring, face drawing tense, he might pass for a breed 
               although that's probably the Italian. But Ray doesn't answer 
               the question. Crow Horse starts laughing. Drunkenly.

                                     OLDER RANCHER
                         What's so damn funny?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Well, it's just that the cavalry 
                         used to always threaten the Lakota. 
                         The cavalry ain't around anymore. 
                         The Lakota still are.

                                     RANCHER'S SON
                         I got no trouble tellin' where you 
                         come from, Fat Red.

               Crow Horse rises and walks unsteadily across the floor, 
               leaving the bar. Brooks is whispering to the others, 
               apparently about who Ray is. The bar man comes up to Ray, 
               holding a tray, on which sits a shot and a beer. Ray looks 
               at it for a moment.

                                     BAR MAN
                         Sorry. On the house.

               Ray knocks the tray out of his hand, spilling beer and whiskey 
               all over the bar man and the locals around him.

               And he walks out, leaving the locals confused.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING - RES - DAY

               Ray looks strung-out as he drives. If it's not the conflict 
               at the Butte, it's the dangerous seed Crow Horse planted, 
               and it is playing with his mind. He is on his RADIO.

                         No plates. No registration. Serial 
                         numbers removed. And all prints washed 
                         off by the river. That's great. This 
                         is turning out to be a walk in the 
                         park, do you know that?

                              (woman agent)
                         Come back?

                         Never mind.

               But before he hangs the radio. IT CUTS BACK IN.

                         Ray. X22.

                         I read, Cooch.

                         Remember that upside down flag back 
                         at Jimmy's house? Somebody took it 


                         They took it down, set fire to it, 
                         and threw it on the doorstep of room 
                         13 at the Buffalo Butte Motel. Your 

               Ray seethes quietly as he drives.

                         We traced the number of the truck 
                         that dumped it, and it belongs to 
                         one Maggie Sanders, also known as 
                         Maggie Eagle Bear. She's been all 
                         over the res, riling up the 
                         traditionals, telling them not to 
                         break, and to keep Jimmy in hiding. 
                         She's a problem now. And she's yours. 
                         Get her off the reservation.

               Ray keeps driving.


               Maggie's old pick-up is parked near an arch gate of the tiny 
               cemetery where a tall monument is fenced off from other graves 
               There are tobacco offerings and other medicines hanging on 
               the fence and on the monument.

               It is a quiet place. Still.

               Maggie stands before the unkempt monument in her denim jacket, 
               her hair blowing across her face in the wind. She PRAYS IN 

               Behind her TEN CHILDREN from the Bear Creek School stand, 
               heads bowed respectfully. Two of them sit on the lap of 
               Richard Yellow Bird who looks on from his wheelchair, praying 
               quietly with Maggie. When Maggie completes her prayer, she 
               ties some tobacco to the monument then turns and faces the 
               children. One of them, a LITTLE GIRL -- heavy-set -- raises 
               a hand that we might note is deformed. As many of the children 
               we have seen on the res, are.

                                     LITTLE GIRL
                         Are they all right under here?

                         Two-hundred and sixty-seven men, 
                         women, old people. And little ones 
                         like you. Many killed running along 
                         that road you see there.

                                     LITTLE BOY
                         Where were they runnin' to?

                         A place called The Stronghold.
                              (a beat)
                         They died for a dream. But you live. 
                         You are their great-great 
                         grandchildren and you live. We have 
                         to honor their dream. Of protecting 
                         the Mother Earth. And being proud of 
                         being Indian.

                                     LITTLE BOY
                         My mother told me that they call us 
                         Indians cuz Columbus was lookin' for 
                         India when he discovered our country.

               Maggie smiles at the boy.

                         Yeah, well, let me tell you something, 
                         Henry: just be glad he wasn't looking 
                         for Turkey.

               The CHILDREN LAUGH. All but one boy, who isn't paying 
               attention. He is staring up at a hill, off in the distance.

               MAGGIE'S POV: on the hill, a figure stands, hands in his 
               pockets, hair blowing in the wind. Ray.

               REVERSE - MAGGIE

               keeping her eyes on the Wasi'cu, but addressing Yellow Bird.

                         Richard. Sing the Honoring Song with 
                         them. I'll be right back.

               ON THE HILL

               Ray stands, watching Maggie walking into the wind, toward 
               him. Behind her an HONORING SONG, sung by ten children haunts 
               the still air.

               He doesn't budge as she mounts the gentle bluff and joins 
               him there.

                         We're praying at the grave. Do you 
                         wanna join us?

               A long silence. The voices carry in the wind.

                         No, Maggie. But you're gonna have to 
                         join me for a ride. I'm taking you 
                         to Rapid City.

               Maggie looks at him. They lock eyes.

                         So much power. I see it in your eyes. 
                         This... hunger for power. Or for 
                         what you think is power.

               As if exhausted by the thought, Maggie sits down on the bluff, 
               looking out at the children who are still singing the song. 
               As she speaks, she begins digging her fingers in the earth. 
               Ray stands over her.

                         You burned an American flag today. 
                         And left it for me...

                         -- You desecrated it, it had to be 

                         I desecrated it?

                         You forced an innocent man to run 
                         like an animal. You've tried to poison 
                         my people's hearts against me with 
                         your manipulation, with letters I 
                         never wrote... you've been watching 
                         me eat, work, raise my family... 
                         wash myself in the river. And now 
                         you're here, arresting me at a sacred 
                              (a beat)
                         In your eyes, that's power.

               Maggie lifts herself onto her knees and looks down into the 
               small hole she's dug. She picks up a little pine cone.

                         So I plant this tree for you. And I 
                         take all this stuff that you've laid 
                         on me and my people, and I put it in 
                         this hole with this pine cone.
                              (she covers it)
                         And I bury it. Cuz ya know what it 
                         is, Ray? Bullshit. And shit is 
                              (she stands)
                         And The Mother will turn your lies 
                         into something that lives.

               Maggie rises, dusting off her hands. She looks him in the 

                         That's what power is, in the Indian 
                              (holds her hands out 
                              to be cuffed)
                         Take me to Rapid, Ray. I'm the enemy.

               Ray just stares at her, struggling with what he's feeling, 
               what he's hearing. What he's supposed to be feeling. Silence 
               hangs between the two of them.

                         If I told you... that I think Jimmy's 
                         innocent... but I'm in over my head... 
                         would you believe me?

               Maggie looks at him, considering. Then toward the long dark 
               silhouette of a mountain range across the plains.

                         See those Black Hills out there, 
                         Ray? When the people lost the land 
                         in 1868, the government took 
                         everything but those hills. They 
                         allowed us to keep those Black Hills, 
                         to live there. Signed a treaty. Until 
                         they found gold. Then they told us 
                         we had to leave because of National 
                         interest. They broke that treaty. 
                         Anyone who fought or spoke out against 
                         it, wound up dead or in jail. And 
                         the people wound up here. On a 

               While she looks off at Paha Sapa, Ray stares at her profile.

                         While up there, in the Black Hills... 
                         they carved the faces of four 

               She looks at Ray with an ironic smile, and she catches him 

                         Your relatives must've taught you 

                              (after thought)
                         My father never told anybody he had 
                         Indian blood. But he still used a 
                         few Indian words around the house. 
                         He called me Washee. Said it meant... 
                         good boy.

               Maggie starts giggling.


                         Wa-shee is like... a dumpling. Like 
                         tallow we put in stew. I think he 
                         was calling you chubby boy.


               Maggie is laughing as she looks back at the children who are 
               no longer singing. Ray reaches inside his jacket and takes 
               out five polaroids. He shuffles them as he ponders. He hands 
               one to Maggie who has caught herself opening up too much to 
               the Wasi'cu.

                         You ever see that car before?

               Maggie looks at the first photo and says nothing. She hands 
               it back quickly. Ray won't take it.

                         Who's it belong to?

               Maggie ignores him. Ray studies her reaction.

                         Help me, Maggie...

               Maggie is looking away. She picks a long blade of grass and 
               smoothes it in her hands.

               Ray looks at her a moment longer then rises, dusting off his 
               jeans, and standing there. He thinks for a long moment, 
               pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks out at the Black 
               Hills, pensive.

                         I didn't see you today, Maggie.
                              (a beat)

               Maggie watches him go. Looks away. Then watches him again.

                         Goodbye... Wa-shee.

               Ray stops. She stands on the bluff, her hair riding the wind 
               and her eyes searing. And then her lips do something that 
               might qualify as half a smile. A sense of humor rising up 
               through anger. Survival humor.

               Ray looks at her for a long moment. And then he walks on, 
               leaving her there.


               Ray sits behind the wheel, going through files on his lap, 
               photographs of Indians. And thinking hard.

                         Anyone who fought or spoke out against 
                         it... wound up dead or in jail.

               Ray looks out the window toward the monument.

                              (to himself, flustered)
                         That was 1868, Maggie...

               Exhausted, Ray lays his head back on the seat, and lets a 
               long, constricted breath free. THUNDER ROLLS like the slow, 
               deep roar of some giant bear up in the hills. He opens his 
               eyes, looks out the window.

               POV: rain is coming down, and Maggie is getting the children 
               into the back of her truck. She helps them get a tarp over 
               their heads. Then as Yellow Bird pulls himself into the cab 
               of the truck, she hefts the wheelchair and two boys load it 

               She gets in, starts up, and rolls off down the sloping road.


               Ray steps out of the car into the rain and closes the door. 
               He stares at the burial grounds. Then slowly, he starts toward 
               them as if magnetically drawn. HEARTBEAT DRUM.

               A shroud of mist lays over the cemetery, growing thicker as 
               the rain falls harder. DRUM BEATS DEEPER. Ray is walking 
               toward the memorial, getting drenched. Then he hears something 
               strange. HOOFBEATS.

               RAY'S POV:

               coming down the dirt road, toward him, a HORSEMAN drives his 
               mount at a fast trot. The rider is only a vague image in the 
               mist, his face hidden. As he rides closer, we can make out a 
               shotgun in his hand. And he throws it up, takes aim.

               REVERSE - RAY

               paralyzed for a moment. And then going for his gun. But it's 
               not there. He's left it in the car. He breaks into a run. 
               But there's a shorter distance now between the horseman and 
               the car and Ray has no choice but to turn and flee.

               His boots slap wet pavement, and his breath draws heavy and 
               desperate as he bounds off the road and races down a grassy 
               slope, looking over his shoulder, panicking.

               His legs and arms churning, his face contorted. And then 
               someone passes him out, running just as hard. AN INDIAN WOMAN 
               in 1890 Winter rags, clutching a BABY to her breast and 
               CRYING. SCREAMING. Ray looks at her, incredulous as he runs. 
               But he keeps running.

               The rider is right behind him. He FIRES. The GUNSHOT CRACKS 
               the sky like thunder. BOOOOM!

               INT. LE BARON – TWILIGHT

               Ray jumps awake. Cooch is POUNDING on the window. And the 
               three-legged dog inside is BARKING. Ray quickly rolls the 
               window down, letting in THUNDER.

               Cooch starts to say something then takes note of Ray's peaked 
               face. Sweat runs down his temples, beads at his nose.

                         Jesus, you alright?

                         Yeah. I... I fell asleep. I can't 
                         believe it. I --

                         Never turn your radio off! I thought 
                         I was gonna find you scalped! Damn 

                         Sorry, Cooch. I lost Eagle Bear --

                         -- never mind Eagle Bear. We've got 
                         Jimmy nailed. Let's go!

               And Cooch runs to his car. Ray fires the car's big engine 
               and takes off behind Cooch who is driving a fed Chevy. CRAZY 
               HEARTBEAT DRUM INTO --


               The rain pelts Grandpa's little Airstream trailer, wind snaps 
               at sheet plastic in the windows. An ancient sewing wheel 
               CREAKS RUSTY in the wind.

               Three clean, late-model fed cars pull down the muddy drive 
               as two SWAT vehicles pull in from another road. The Le Baron 
               pulls in, and Ray bails out with the others. When he sees 
               where he is, he looks distraught.

               Agents are running behind junked cars, positioning themselves 
               around the trailer.


               The holy man is sitting in his chair, smacking Flies with a 
               swatter. Tonight he wears a black reservation hat and stares 
               vacantly at the TV where RONALD MACDONALD swings a giant 
               baseball bat, and falls on his face, bouncing back up. And 
               then BOOM!

               The door is open and Cooch leads Miles, Sherman and Ray 
               inside. Cooch has a gun on the old man.

                         HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!

               The old man slowly removes his hat and hangs it on a knee. 
               Carefully he places his wrinkled hands on his thinning white 
               hair. His eyes seek out Ray who stands in the doorway, M-16 
               in hand, looking concerned. He stares at Ray.

               Cooch storms into a back bedroom, Miles moves to a window. 
               Sherman stands over the old man.

                         Where is he, Sam? Where's Jimmy?

               Grandpa looks at Sherman, ignores him, looks back at Ray.

                         He's a medicine man, Ray. The 
                         "spiritual leader" of the Warriors. 
                         That right, Sam?

               With RADIO TRANSMISSIONS crackling through the house, Cooch 
               comes back down the hall, and heads to the door.

                         Trailer's clean, let's go.

               Ray starts to follow but he sees Sherman pick something up 
               from near Grandpa. The 500 year-old turtleshell rattle. 
               Grandpa's eyes widen slightly.

                         You been the one making it rain like 
                         that, out there, Sam?

                         Hey, put that down.

                         Can you make Jimmy outrun an M-16, 


               Sherman drops the turtleshell rattle on the linoleum floor. 
               Then drives his heel into it, CRUSHING the fragile 

               Ray grabs him and slams him into the tin wall. Miles gets 
               between them, grabbing Sherman.

                         EASY, MEN! HEY! --

                         HE'S ON THE ROOF! HE'S ON THE FUCKING 
                         ROOF! COME ON GUYS, COME ON, GUYS!

               They're out the door, leaving the old man to sit looking 
               down at the shattered rattle. He closes his eyes.


               In a blizzard of rain, Jimmy Looks Twice in a cowboy shirt, 
               jeans and boots, leaps off the top of the Airstream, clutching 
               his medicine bundle. FLOODLIGHTS HIT him from all directions. 
               BULLHORNS screaming at him.

               He tries to turn a corner and runs right into a fed. Ray, 
               having run out the back door has slammed right into him. He 
               has his rifle on him, and they stare each other down for a 
               split second before he is converged on. Guns at his back, at 
               his head.

               He is swept off his feet, face down, and frisked. He looks 
               up at Ray, desperately.

                                     LOOKS TWICE
                         Brother, the old man told me about 
                         you. Listen to me: what was Leo trying 
                         to tell me? He wanted to meet me at 
                         Maisy --

               Another fed, pushes his face into the mud, cuffs him behind 
               his back.

                         Save your speeches for prison, Jimmy.

               With two FIVE MAN SWAT TEAMS swarming the area, and six agents 
               pushing Jimmy toward a car, Cooch stands there in the pouring 
               rain, looking relieved. Ray stands near him, looking abhorred.

                         Damn. That's one hard running Indian.

               Ray watches Jimmy as he is shoved into the back of Miles and 
               Sherman's car and driven away. He is twisting around in his 
               seat to look at Ray. Desperately. The SWAT teams disband, 
               return to their vehicles.

                         It's over, Ray. I aged five years. 
                         But it's over. At least I'm gonna 
                         look like I'm ready for the advisory 
                         desk. Let's go get a beer.

               Cooch heads to his car and Ray starts shuffling toward his 
               as if he is dared by it all. He is looking at the trailer 
               and there on the rickety porch is Grandpa. He comes down the 
               steps slowly, holding his hat on against the wind. He watches 
               the cars pulling out.

               Ray walks over to him, looking sick.

                         Look... I'm not who you think I am.
                              (a long beat)
                         I'm sorry.

               And after a moment of locking gazes, he starts for his car,

                         Out back that way... is a placed 
                         called Wounded Knee.

               Ray turns.

                         I was one years old there when our 
                         people were shot down. My mother hid 
                         me in the snow in a blanket. One of 
                         those killed was a Holy Man called 
                         Wakiyan Cante -- Thunder Heart. They 
                         killed him while he was running for 
                         The Stronghold. It is his blood -- 
                         the same blood that spilled on the 
                         grass and snow at Wounded Knee -- 
                         that runs through your heart like a 

               Ray frowns, disturbed by this story.

               The old man is speaking with conviction. With power.

                         Thunder Heart has come. Sent here to 
                         a troubled place to help his people. 
                         That's what I am told. Maybe you're 
                         right and I am mistaken. Your mind 
                         is young, mine is old. If so, so be 
                         it. Ho Hecetu Yelo. I'll speak no 

               Ray stands, almost paralyzed, digesting this. He turns and 
               looks into the old man's sharp eyes. Grandpa has closed his 
               eyes, and as he is pulverized by the rain, he turns his face 
               toward it and from way down in his belly, he begins to SING 
               IN LAKOTA. And it is too much. Too weird. He wheels and 
               hurries to the car. Gets in, and beats a fast path out of 
               the old man's lonesome patch of land.

               BLUE HEAT LIGHTNING knifes the sky. THUNDER ROLLS, and rumbles 
               into POOL BALLS --


               The agents have taken over both sides of the streets, gathered 
               in front of the bar and the motel, putting firearms into 
               cases, removing flak jackets.

               POOL BALLS knock from inside the bar while outside, A DAKOTAN 
               takes a piss near a truck while his GIRLFRIEND stands at his 
               back, yelling at him. CHARLIE DANIELS sings country on the 
               juke Ray heads to room 13, starts unlocking the door. Cooch 
               comes up behind him.

                         Buffalo burgers and cold beer, 
                         Raymond. Don't worry about the sign 
                         out front... you don't have to be 
                         Indian anymore.

               Cooch throws a mock punch at Ray and he mock blocks, tired. 
               He musters a smile. But he isn't all there.

                         You have a fever. You okay?

               Ray nods. Cooch lets a few agents walk past, LAUGHING. He 
               speaks quietly.

                         Listen: when we get back tomorrow, 
                         you're gonna find Tully laying a 
                         promotion on you. S.A.C. He wants to 
                         prove that his yuppie agents are 
                         making good. He's offering you New 
                         York. Tell him you want Atlanta.


                         Cuz I want New York.

               Ray tries to break a smile again. Cooch cups his arm.

                         Cooch. They sent us out here because 
                         the place was being neglected. Now, 
                         all of a sudden, there's two five 
                         man SWAT teams out there tonight. 
                         Bell Huey choppers flying all over 
                         the place. Federal occupation to 
                         catch one guy. Why, Cooch? What's 
                         going on?

               Cooch stares at Ray. The younger agent looks like he indeed 
               has a fever.

                         National security, Ray. Get some 
                         sleep. Tomorrow, we fly.

               Cooch hurries across the rain-swept street. Ray steps inside 
               and closes the door.

               INT. ROOM 13 - BUFFALO BUTTE MOTEL

               Ray closes the door, and stands there. He seems to be having 
               trouble breathing. He looks down at his boots. There is 
               something on the floor. Something that has been slipped under 
               the door earlier. He just stares down at it. Then slowly 

               CLOSE ON: the polaroid of the res car he gave to Maggie 
               earlier. She

               has returned it. He turns it over. Written across the white 
               backing of the photo, in dark black marker is the name -- 
               YELLOW BIRD.

               Ray stares at this for a moment then hurries over to boxes 
               of files on the bed. He rummages like a nervous thief and 
               comes up with a folder. He flips through it, casting off 
               files and 302's and profiles and finally stopping on --

               The 8x10 BLACK AND WHITE of Richard Yellow Bird seen earlier. 
               Sitting in his wheelchair, Red Power cap on, tattoos marring 
               big arms. And under it a DOUBLE MUG SHOT stamped LEAVENWORTH 
               PRISON. Under that ANOTHER PRISON MUG SHOT stamped SIOUX 
               FALLS PRISON. And under that a --

               THIRD MUG SHOT stamped "PAROLED."

               Ray, his eyes fixed on this one, takes a few steps and sits 
               on the end of the bed. He then stuffs the file back in a 
               box, and takes off toward the door.


               The Le Baron throws up loose rock and red dust, driving toward 
               a place where the sun begins a slow drop behind the Black 
               Hills. HORSES run out of the road. HEARTBEAT DRUM.


               A tarpaper shack. Outhouse. Clothesline on which jerked meat 
               hangs. No cars. A lonely, unnerving place. Le Baron pulls 
               in. Ray gets out, adjusting the gun at the back of his 
               waistband. He starts for the shack. Ray raps a fist on the 
               splintered plywood door. Knocks again. He checks out a boarded-
               up window. The door finally opens. Just a crack. Tiny black 
               eyes peer out into the fading light.

                         I'm looking for Richard Yellow Bird.

               Ray sticks his open badge, gold eagle wings, near the crack. 
               The door closes. Then unlatches and opens. Yellow Bird sits 
               there in his wheelchair, tiny tobacco bundles in his lap. 
               He's been tying them.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         The Washington Redskin. Thought you'd 
                         be gone by now.

               He pivots his chair to allow Ray room to enter.

               INT. YELLOW BIRD SHACK

               Yellow Bird, in a T-shirt that reveals twenty different ink 
               tattoos, rolls himself across the warped floorboards to a 
               cheese crate where his eye glasses sit. He puts the thick 
               bifocals on and focuses resentfully on Ray in the ochre 
               flicker of the dirty room.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         What ya want?

                         Must be a bitch getting around in 
                         that wheelchair. How long you been 
                         in it?

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Since I got a iron pipe put across 
                         my knees, man. Fight with three 
                         wasi'cus, ya know.

                         At Sioux Falls Pen?

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         No, that was Leavenworth. This --
                              (shows a scar)
                         was Sioux Falls. What ya want?

                         Leavenworth a tough joint?

               Ray walks across the room, his eyes on a covert mission.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         You ever try solitary confinement?

                         No. Can't say that I have, Richard. 
                         Richard do you know why I'm here?

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Washington sent ya. I know that.

                         Yes, Washington sent me, Richard. 
                         They sent me here because this whole 
                         thing has been fucked. Do you know 
                         what I mean when I say this whole 
                         thing has been fucked, Richard?

               Yellow Bird stares at Ray.

                         An arrangement was made between you... 
                         and us. Do you remember that 

               Yellow Bird looks at Ray, strangely, shaking his head. Ray 
               starts to look like maybe the game's not working. Like maybe 
               this doesn't add up. But --

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         I'm here, ain't I?

               Ray lets a tense breath out.

                         Not for long, Richard. You got early 
                         parole under the stipulation that 
                         you would help us in a situation, 
                         and you didn't deliver.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         What the fuck you talkin' about?

               Ray sits in a busted chair, reaches down to his ankle holster 
               and pulls out a .38. He holds it, resting it on the arm of 
               the chair. He strains to look out through the boarded window. 
               Yellow Bird fidgets in his chair.

                         Get up out of the chair, Richard.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         What's with you people? Why do ya 
                         have to fuck with my head all the 
                         time? I came through, man.

                         Get up out of the chair, and walk 
                         toward the backdoor, Richard.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                              (not moving)
                         I get thrown in solitary until I 
                         don't know my own fuckin' name, and 
                         then you people tell me I can beat 
                         nine years if I help you. I helped 

                         Get up!

               Yellow Bird stands. He takes a step forward. Limping. He's 
               got leg problems but he can walk. Heels first. And bowed. 
               But he can walk. He is shaking.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         They said I'd never see FBI again, 
                         and I'm livin' with you fuckers. I 
                         don't feed ya information on the 
                         Warriors, it's back to the pen. I 
                         don't do this, back to the pen. Your 
                         word against my word. Against a con 
                         Indian's word. I really got a chance, 
                         man, right?

                         They sent me here, Richard because 
                         they said you didn't hold up your 
                         end of the arrangement, and I have 
                         to transport you back to Leavenworth.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         What the fuck, man? What do you people 
                         want? I did what you wasi'cu's told 
                         me to do.

                         Leo Fast Elk... is alive.

               Yellow Bird wheels.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         No way. No fuckin' way.

                         How the hell do you know?

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         I blew his back out with a buffalo 
                         gun, that's how I know! Now you're 
                         gonna say I didn't, so you can throw 
                         me back in solitary?

               Ray is trying hard not to reveal his horror at this 
               confession, at this understanding of the machinery. He sits 
               there with his gun, blinking away sweat that beads at his 
               brow. Yellow Bird is weeping in a highpitched voice that 
               doesn't match his great bulk.

                         The men who came to see you at 
                         Leavenworth. The one's who made the 
                         arrangement... who were they? Maybe 
                         I can talk to them.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Miles. Three other suits. That's all 
                         I know 'em as -- suits. Were you 

                         You turned Leo over on his face. But 
                         the coyotes must've turned him back 
                         over, man, cuz his spirit is out. 
                         It's out, and it knows.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         What do you know about spirits? You 
                         ain't no In'dn.

                         Leo knew something heavy and was 
                         trying to tell Jimmy. But you must 
                         not know how serious it was or you 
                         would have delivered. Do you realize 
                         what Leo could have told Jimmy?! Do 

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         I took him out before he got the 
                         chance. He didn't say nothin' about 
                         Tashka Sha. And now his spirit is in 
                         the dirt. Forever.

                         What's Tashka Sha, speak English, 
                         speak English!

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Red Deer Table! What's with you, 

               Ray grabs onto these words, rolls them silently on his lips 
               And now Yellow Bird is getting suspicious of the fed.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Wait a minute. Wait -- what are you 
                         doin'? You ain't a FBI. You ain't 
                         the law. Let me see your --

               Ray snaps out his gun, straight-armed.

                         I'm the fucking law!

               Yellow Bird jumps back, raising his hands.

                         Keep talking, Yellow Bird...

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         All I know... is I did what I did... 
                         and I ain't in solitary, gettin' 
                         pumped up with downer, gettin' beat 
                         to shit. But I tell you what, Suit. 
                         Take me back. Cuz I can't take this 
                         shit no more.

               And then HEADLIGHTS pierce the gaps in the boarded windows. 
               Yellow Bird collapses against the wall, bangs his head off 
               it. He lets a long, pained, cry escape from under his breath 
               and he begins a slow slide down the wall, to the floor.

               Ray peers out the cracks in the boards.

                                     YELLOW BIRD
                         Man, I don't know who the fuck I am 
                         no more.

               Ray gets up, putting his gun away and heading to the door. 
               He stops and looks back at the Indian, sitting on the floor, 
               clutching his knees, staring into the kerosene flicker.

                         You and me both.

               Yellow Bird looks at him, his glasses foggy, his face 
               contorted And Ray leaves.


               Ray steps out into the falling night. There is a car parked 
               there. With a high aerial. Ray raises a hand in a slight 
               wave, walks on. At the fed car, A REGIONAL AGENT behind the 
               wheel, waves a hand. Watches Ray get into the Le Baron.

               Ray gets in the car and takes off.

               LE BARON - TRAVELING

               Ray drives like a crazy man through the dark reservation. 
               Through miles of open land and strange rock formations. And 
               he looks trapped. HEADLIGHTS flicker in his rearview. He 
               sees this. Slams the gas pedal.

               EXT. RES ROADS - NIGHT

               The Le Baron races at 85 down the dirt stretch. A moment 
               later a car rattles by at 90.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING

               Ray reaches over to the passenger seat and pulls up the M-
               16. He lays it across his lap. Looks in the rearview again. 
               Then makes a sudden sharp turn.

               He pulls off the road quickly, throwing up dust into the 
               already foggy night, the car goes out of control.


               The car that was following drives right past the narrow layby, 
               hidden by grassy slopes and keeps flying down the long 

               INT. LE BARON

               Ray skids through the dirt, trying to stop -- he can't -- 
               and the Le Baron fishtails, smashing into a chain-link fence. 
               And coming to a stop.

               Breathing as if he's been running not driving, Ray looks 
               behind him to make sure he lost the car. He did. When he 
               turns back to his wheel, he sees --


               lit by his headlights: THE WOUNDED KNEE gravesite. He is 
               right up on the arch, and the tall stone marker beyond it.


               The Le Baron just sits parked, headlights making the night 
               fog crawl up from the base of the old tomb, along the fence.

               The driver's door opens slowly. And Ray steps out. He walks 
               through the arch. Into the small fenced area. Up to the stone 
               which is overgrown with stubborn weeds, half-hidden in mist. 
               Ray studies the tomb.


               CHIEF STANDING BEAR

               MR. HIGH HAWK

               AFRAID OF BEAR

               Weeds are grown up over the rest of the names. Ray's hands 
               clear them, grab at them and rip them away from more names:

               PRETTY HAWK

               BLUE AMERICAN

               SHERMAN HORN CLOUD

               With frantic abandon, Ray is ripping weeds away. He drops to 
               his knees, clearing weeds.

               STRONG FOX

               THUNDER HEART

               MOVING DOWN and then suddenly back up to the name:

               THUNDER HEART

               REVERSE ON - RAY

               kneeling in the weeds, the wind getting restless around him, 
               screaming the way plains winds do but only these winds are 
               filled with a whistling. What sounds like EAGLE BONE WHISTLES, 
               piping shrill.

               Ray kneels before the marker, staring at the name on the 
               stone, his hair thrown around by the wind that drives across 
               the grass, whistling eagles, building to an unbearable, pitch.

               Ray stares at the name as if he is looking through a small 
               hole into another world. A world that frightens him. He gets 
               up and backs away from the stone, through the gate. And gets 
               back in his car, quickly. He takes off.


               The little home on the river. Dark. Empty. Ray runs up the 
               steps, pounds at the door. No answer. Pounds again.


               He keeps knocking. Nothing. He hurries back down the steps, 
               starts around the back of the house and something attacks 
               him, leaps at him from the dark, knocking him off his feet, 
               into the grass. Hits him again.

               But as quickly as he falls, he rolls, throwing up his hands 
               and blocking a savage kick aimed for his face. He traps the 
               boot, twists it and drops the attacker onto his back. In a 
               matter of seconds, he is on top of the man, sticking his gun 
               in his throat. He grabs a flashlight from his jacket and 
               shines it in the man's face.

               Crow Horse. Breathing like a wild animal.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Five-hundred year old turtleshell 

                         Crow Horse, listen --

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Where's Maggie? Where'd ya take her.

                         Nowhere. I'm trying to find her.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You got Jimmy. Let her go.

                         Crow Horse, listen. You have to come 
                         with me.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Why? So you can get rid of me, too?

                         No. So we can do what the old man 
                         said. Red Deer Table, Walter. We 
                         have to go.

               Crow Horse lies there, breathing heavy. Ray on top of him, 
               still clutching his gun.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING - NIGHT

               Ray and Crow Horse are quiet as they eat up the dirt roads.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Maybe the old man's visions are still 

               Ray nods, concentrating. After a time:

                         Do they come in dreams, these visions?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Oh yeah. Dreams. Sometimes durin' 
                         sickness. Vision quest. Sweat Lodge. 
                         Ya never know when.

                         Just before we caught Jimmy... I had 
                         a dream that I was being chased. And 
                         I was running with other people. Old-
                         fashion Indian people. I got shot in 
                         the back. Like Leo.

               When Crow Horse doesn't respond, Ray looks over and finds 
               him staring. He looks back to the road. And when he looks 
               back at Crow Horse, he is still staring at him.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Where was this?

                         At Wounded Knee. I mean, that's where 
                         I was, and that's where the dream 
                         was. Why?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You were running with the old ones. 
                         At The Knee. Heavy duty.

                         Well, it was just a dream, I --

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Sonuvabuck! What's with you, Man? 
                         Who are you?

                         What do you mean?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Nothin'. Forget it.

               Crow Horse looks out the window as if to avoid Ray who is 
               confused by the Indian's smoldering. After a moment, Crow 
               Horse looks at him.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You had a vision. You had yourself a 
                         vision. A man waits a long time for 
                         a vision. Might go his whole lifetime 
                         and never get one. And along comes 
                         some instant Indian with a Mastercard 
                         and brand-new shoes, has himself a 


                                     CROW HORSE
                         I'm a full-blood Oglala.

                         We've driven a long way. Where is 
                         this place?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Maybe it was just a dream. Ya know, 
                         just one of them, what do ya call 
                         'em, fitful dreams?

                         Yeah. Fitful dreams.

               Crow Horse feels better. He looks out the window, nodding. 
               But it doesn't last long.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Bullshit. You had a vision. You got 
                         sign from the old ones.

                         What the hell do you want me to do?!

                                     CROW HORSE

               Ray brakes. Crow Horse is looking past him. Ray turns. The 
               spectacular mesa that we have admired with every sunrise, 
               looms massive now that we are under it. Moonlight falls on 
               it. And the HEARTBEAT DRUM pulses from it.


               The land behind Red Deer Table is Badlands. Badlands pierced 
               by a few rutted old wagon roads. At a place between two 
               grotesque buttes, Crow Horse stops, looking uneasy.

               He digs into his pocket, pulls out some loose tobacco and 
               spills it on the ground. Then he walks on.

               Ray observes this, starting forward, then stopping long enough 
               to fish a cigarette out from his pocket and drop it next to 
               Crow Horse's offering.


               Ray and Crow Horse walk, carefully under a full moon, scanning 
               the area. Crow Horse stops, checks out some tracks. Ray walks 
               on, looking up at the table. He shines his flashlight up and 
               it illuminates --

               A RED RIBBON, tied on stakes on a ridge. Ten stakes. Twenty 
               stakes. Ribbons blowing in the wind.

                         What's that?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Ain't prayer flags, that's for sure.

               Ray sweeps the light along, walking faster, and then something 
               frightening occurs. Something... some unseen thing snags him 
               by the leg, sucking him into the Earth with a horrible GUSHING 

               Ray is drawn into a hole up to his hips, a bluish-black slime, 
               oozing out around him. Crow Horse grabs him, struggling to 
               pull him up. He does, stumbling back and stepping into a 
               hole himself.

               The two men are wheeling, throwing flashlight beams around, 
               slapping through a wet jelly, and finally getting their 

               Ray touches the ground where a blue-black chemical solution 
               oozes out with water from the aquifer below. His flashlight 
               scans --

               TWENTY DRILLED HOLES IN THE EARTH. A uranium strip-mining 
               grid laid out in a 50 x 60 pattern. The far side is fenced 
               by flagged stakes.

                         Jesus. Oil?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Uranium. Test holes. Somebody came 
                         in from the Nebraska side, and did 
                         some shotgun testin'. They're gettin' 
                         ready to suck this baby dry.


                                     CROW HORSE

                         That's what we're doing here. National 
                         interest. National security. Only 
                         this time it's not gold. It's uranium.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         We're standin' on broken treaty 
                         ground, Ray. This ain't supposed to 
                         be here. It'll poison the water.

                         Leo knew about it. Tried to tell 
                         Jimmy, get the Warriors involved.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         So they took care of Leo.

                         Listen to the water... the river 
                         keeps goin' down then rising again.

               Ray goes to another hole and sticks his arm in up to the 
               elbow, sniffs the solution.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         They're drainin' our water table. 
                         That's our life, man...

               Ray is looking past Crow Horse at --

               Something strange in the moonlight. COYOTES. Some forty yards 
               away, on a flat stretch of stoney ground. Six Coyotes, dancing 
               in the shadows of rock formations. MOVING IN ON THEM as Ray 
               walks forward, they circle... scatter... run back... circle 
               again. Look straight at Ray, eyes glowing.

               And run.

               REVERSE - RAY

               and Crow Horse walk toward them. To the place they just left. 
               A place in the dirt, they were digging up. When they reach 
               it, they stare down into the dirt.

               A BODY

               lies there, face down. Denim jacket and a shock of black 
               hair, thrown into tangles and dirt. It was buried. Until the 
               coyote caught wind. Crow Horse bends down, touches the 
               jacket... turns the body over And almost vomits when he sees 
               Maggie Eagle Bear.


               looks down in disbelief.

                         No. No...

               Ray steps back, his boots squishing in solution and sealant 
               and soiled water. He covers his mouth, stopping himself from 
               getting sick. And then he explodes, YELLING.

               LONG SHOT - RED DEER TABLE

               in the moonlight. And RAY'S YELLING ECHOING up out of the 


               The sordid little village the feds first drove through sits 
               sleepy on the rim of sunrise.

               A DOG BARKS hollow as the Crow Horse motorcycle chutters 
               down and coasts up in front of one of the little homes -- 
               rundown but it has a satellite dish and a decent car like so 
               many. The Le Baron pulls up behind it.

               INT. LE BARON - NIGHT

               Crow Horse walks over to Ray's window, his jeans and boots 
               muddy. No one speaks for a long moment, the night filled by 
               crickets. And that one dog.

                         This Clear Moon's house?

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Yeah. It's time to beat the drum. 
                         You better wait here. He don't trust 
                         the white man.

               Crow Horse crosses the street. Ray sits there, and he looks 
               almost hurt by this statement. But he is the white man. But 
               he is Indian. He lets a long breath escape, rubs at a temple. 
               He takes out a smoke. Tries to light it. His hands are shaking 
               too badly. But he gets it lit, and sits tense, looking in 
               his rearview.

               INT. CLEAR MOON HOUSE - NIGHT

               Oliver Clear Moon sits in a chair, his strong Indian mouth, 
               beginning to tighten at the jowls.

               Across from him, Crow Horse sits on the edge of a couch. 
               MRS. CLEAR MOON, a rotund, gentle woman brings him a coffee. 
               A TEENAGE GIRL in a men's extra-large T-shirt stands in the 
               hall, looking at him.

               Clear Moon in pajamas, rises, and with a coffee in hand, 
               starts walking in slow steps toward the kitchen. He loses 
               control before he gets there and hurls the cup across the 
               room into the sink, smashing it. He wheels and faces Crow 
               Horse. He SPEAKS LAKOTA. Asking questions. Crow Horse SPEAKS 
               LAKOTA. Answering him.

               Mrs. Clear Moon, understanding, shakes her head in disbelief 
               and her eyes begin to well. Oliver, walking back to his chair, 
               sits, and thinks for a moment. MORE LAKOTA. He gets up, goes 
               to a drawer and rummages. He sits again, and tosses something 
               onto the coffee table. It is a badge. A tribal police badge.


               Ray nervously awaits Crow Horse's words as he appears at the 
               window again. The Indian shows hope in his tired eyes.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Alright. Shit's comin' down. He's 
                         callin' council fire. All the old 
                         chiefs and the warriors, too. I gotta 
                         be at Grandpa's place in two hours. 
                         We need to get the tribe together. 
                         We need to block this thing.

                         What we need... is Richard Yellow 

               Crow Horse looks at Ray who stares dead ahead.

               EXT. YELLOW BIRD'S SHACK - RES - DAWN

               The shack is just as Ray left it earlier, kerosene flickers 
               dancing yellow through the gapped boards. Ray and Crow Horse 
               with guns drawn, approach the front door.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         I thought it was a rare case of a 
                         brother getting a break in the courts. 
                         We did an honorin' song for him and 

                         He's looking at a few hundred years 
                         in Leavenworth. He's not gonna come 
                         out without a fight.

               Crow Horse snakes around toward the rear of the shack.

               Ray knocks at the front door. It is unlatched and it creaks 
               open a little. Ray pushes it open and sees --

               INT. YELLOW BIRD SHACK

               An empty wheelchair.

               EXT. YELLOW BIRD SHACK

               Ray steps away from the door, looking around the vast plains 
               as the sun comes up out of the Black Hills. He is roadblocked, 
               and it shows in his eyes. It's all getting too big.

               Crow Horse leans against the shack, watching Ray. And then 
               RADIO STATIC from inside the Le Baron. Ray pivots and stares 
               at it as if someone is inside the car. His call signal is 
               being paged. But he just stands there, looking at it.

                         X21. Read. X21...

               Ray reaches inside the car and lifts the handset. He takes a 
               breath before pressing it to his lips.

                         X21. Come back.

                         Ray. What's your 20?

               Ray looks at Crow Horse who looks equally spooked. The agent 
               clears his throat.


               A long, unnerving pause. No response from the other side.

                         What are you doing on the reservation?

                         I'm on my way back in. Over.

               Ray holds the handset down at his side, looking over the top 
               of the car toward the Black Hills.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Ray. Ray, don't let go now, Man. 

                         You go to the council fire. I'm going 
                         back in.

                                     CROW HORSE

               Ray swings in behind the wheel, starts the car, and barrels 
               off recklessly down the rutted road, leaving Crow Horse 

                                     CROW HORSE

               The Le Baron is already out to where sight reaches farther 
               than sound and silent white dust mushrooms skyward.


               A RAVEN is sentinel on a telephone wire that crosses the 
               road from the bar to motel. A few trucks remain parked in 
               front of the joint.

               Ray approaches room 13, looking shell-shocked. His boots 
               leave blue mud prints all the way to the door. He unlocks 


               Ray has cast off his field clothes and is halfway into one 
               of his cleaner suits. He looks haggard but still buoyant, 
               his eyes piercing. The connecting door creaks open and Cooch 
               walks in. The SAC is freshly showered and he is fidgeting 
               with a Windsor knot. He studies his number two man, says 
               nothing for a moment but is obviously holding something down. 
               His face is a red hue.

                              (extra casual)
                         Couldn't sleep, Ray?

               Ray looks at Cooch. When he speaks, his voice is dry.


               Cooch crosses the room, and picks up Ray's jeans which look 
               like they went through a sandlot tackle match in a mud hole. 
               Ray tucks his clean shirt in; watching Cooch.

                         I had to finish something with Crow 

               Cooch walks up to Ray slowly and takes his face in his hand, 
               turning it toward lamp light to study the bruise along his 
               left eye, a residual from a Crow Horse hook.

                         That's where you were. You had to go 
                         back and have it out with the Indian 

               Ray nods, and Cooch slowly breaks a smile. An insecure smile 
               but a smile just the same. He starts to laugh.

                         You fucking hot head, we can get in 
                         trouble for that.

               Cooch laughs in amusement and Ray's face crinkles into a 
               grin as he lowers his eyes, wiping a paper towel over his 
               face. And then, suddenly, Ray lunges at Cooch.

               He slams the Agent in Charge against the hollow wall, and 
               holds him there. His eyes wild.

                         Why didn't you tell me what we were 
                         doing here?

               Cooch is stunned.

                         We're running a cover-up and you 
                         didn't --

               Cooch suddenly explodes, throwing Ray off of him and sending 
               him reeling back against the sink. He points a finger at his 

                         You ever put your hands on me again 
                         and you'll be doing the books for a 
                         baitshop in the fucking Everglades, 

                         You didn't tell me about Red Deer 
                         Table --

                         -- what the hell is Red Deer Table?

                         What is it? It's genocide, that's 
                         what it is. It's a Pay Zone for some 
                         U.S. corporation and a Dead Zone for 
                         the people here. Uranium, Cooch.

               Cooch's eyes go frighteningly cold. He can't believe what 
               he's hearing.

                         Jesus Christ. What are you doing? 
                         What the hell were you doing out 

               Ray says nothing. He just stands there, against the sink, 
               breathing like a fighter against the turnbuckle.

                         This was a Selective Operations Unit, 
                         Agent Levoi. There is classified 
                         information pertaining to our national 
                         security. You don't question that, 
                         you don't go digging into that shit -- 
                         that's insubordination. Jesus Christ --

                         -- if they mine uranium there, these 
                         people will have no place left to 

                         We were sworn in on the Constitution 
                         to protect federal matters, Ray. I 
                         don't know about uranium, I don't 
                         know about Red Dog Table -- all I 
                         know is we did our job. It's over.

                         We neutralized anybody with a voice. 
                         Leo, Jimmy... Eagle Bear. Anyone who 
                         was standing in the way of the land. 
                         Is that it?

                         No. We neutralized enemies of the 
                         United States. Anti-American radicals 
                         who have killed federal officers out 

               Ray turns to the sink, turns the faucet on to get some water 
               on his face. The water only trickles into the basin.

                         Jesus, Ray. You think I don't like 
                         the Indians? Not true. These were 
                         noble people but their day is gone. 
                         They're a conquered nation. They 
                         want all of America back but they 
                         can't even keep the garbage out of 
                         their own front yards. It's sad, 
                         Ray. But it's just the way it is. We 
                         have to function as a colonial police 
                         force out here.

               Ray leans on the sink, watching the water start to spurt 
               free. He shuts it off. Turns to look at Cooch. And it is 
               then the door opens -- some knocking after the door is already 
               opened -- and SA Miles enters.

                         You gentlemen ready -- hi, Ray.

                         Yeah, we're ready.

               Ray doesn't turn from the sink.


               Crow Horse chugs along on his motorbike toward the council, 
               his long hair and eagle feather trailing in the wind.


               Two federal vehicles are waiting in front of Cooch's Chevy 
               and Ray's Le Baron. One is an FBI van where Sherman helps 
               THREE AGENTS load file boxes and computers.

               Cooch walks with Ray toward the Le Baron, looking at him as 
               the go. Ray looks better as he breathes the morning air. As 
               they pass the second fed car, the back window power glides 
               down, and someone looks out with a friendly smile.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         Ah, there you are. The Sioux.

               Ray stops dead. Beholds the Tribal President who wears a 
               western cut jacket and a strained expression behind his smile. 
               He hole a hand out to Ray.

                                     CLEAR MOON
                         You got the troublemakers off our 
                         land. Good, Was-te.

               Ray stares at him, speechless. Horrified. What is he doing 
               here? What about the council fire? Ray somehow nods. Then 
               walks on to the Le Baron. Cooch gets behind the wheel of the 
               car that Clear Moon sits in. Clear Moon's eyes follow Ray to 
               the car.


               Crow Horse guns past a little shack. As he does, he looks in 
               his side mirror then out across the grasslands. Then quickly

               IN HIS MIRROR: a car has pulled out from behind the shack. 
               CROW HORSE observes this. Then twists the fuel throttle hard.

               INT. LE BARON

               Ray gets behind the wheel, looks at his watch. He is 
               panicking. He starts the car, reverses, slams into drive.

               RAY’S POV: swerving and reckless as he races forward. Sherman, 
               walking around to one of the cars has to run out of the way. 
               The other agents clear out, looking in confusion as Ray cuts 
               a hard U -- sweeps PAST THE BAR, SMASHES INTO AND THROUGH 
               the old hitching post -- and HEADS TOWARD the reservation 
               which lies vast before him.


               With agents scrambling about, looking after the car, Cooch 
               gets out, looking into the dust Ray left behind. HEARTBEAT 


               Sherman appears beside Cooch aiming a questioning look. When 
               Cooch quickly gets back behind the wheel, Sherman pulls his 
               radio up and starts yelling into it.

               Cooch reaches out the window and grabs his radio arm.

                         No, damn it. You call teams in and 
                         this is gonna be a fucking media 
                         event. Get me three cars, six agents, 
                         block all reservation exits. It's 
                         under control.

               And Cooch squeals out with a petrified Clear Moon in the 
               backseat, inquiring nervously.


               Crow Horse passes by an abandoned horse trailer. When he 
               does, another car pulls out. And follows. The first car passes 

               Crow Horse sees he's being followed. He cranks his throttle 
               and the engine grinds then dies. He heels his kickstart on 
               the fly, and keeps it alive. But his old horse is no match 
               for the big engines coming up fast behind him.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING

               Ray is leaving little transitional developments and trailers 
               behind. His eyes bore into the road before him, looking for 
               a sign of Crow Horse, and in the rearview for a sign of his 
               FBI mentor.


               Crow Horse has the throttle open. But the two cars are coming 
               up on both sides, trying to sandwich him. To his right the 
               Badlands loom deep, a drop into a caliche netherworld of 
               jagged rock.

               He throws the bike right, trying to ride the thin ribbon of 

               THE FIRST CAR

               floors it, and swipes him, and the bike goes over the edge, 
               launched into --

               THE BADLANDS

               where it does a violent triple flip, throwing Crow Horse 
               then smashing into a tent shaped dune.

               A RIFLE

               sticks out from a window and punches the Badlands with THREE 


               The Le Baron rifles past the abandoned horse trailer. Black 
               smoke drifts in a wind ahead.

               Ray veers onto the shoulder, barely gets the car in park 
               before bailing and running wildly down into the Badlands.

               EXT. BADLANDS

               Ray runs, stumbles through the rock and gypsum, searching 
               the area. He runs around the burning motorcycle, looking 
               left and right.

                         Crow Horse!

               CROW HORSE

               lies on his back in the Badlands, eyes open, fixed unmoving 
               on the sky. Ray comes out of the flame-waves, running with 
               his .45 held high. He throws himself to his knees beside the 
               injured Indian.

                         Crow Horse!

               Crow Horse rolls his eyes toward the FBI agent. He has a 
               gash behind his ear, and pink sand clings to the blood. He 
               lifts his head, tries to form words.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Ain't no Council Fire, Brother. Clear 

                         I know. Come on. We gotta get off 
                         the reservation or we're dead.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Hoka Hey. It's a good day to die.

                         Bullshit, let's get outta here,

               Ray gets an arm under the big Indian, helps him up out of a 
               jagged crevice.

                                     CROW HORSE

               EXT. RESERVATION ROAD

               Cooch's car speeds down the stretch. Followed by Sherman's. 
               The FBI van. All at one-hundred and five. Gravel and dirt 

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING

               With Crow Horse half-passed out in the passenger seat, Ray 
               keeps the wheel steady. And then his RADIO STATICS.

                         X21, please read. Ray. Ray. X21, 
                         please read. This is Cooch. Please 
                         come in, Ray. Where are you?

               Ray just stares down at the radio, keeps the pedal floored. 
               The throws the wheel left.


               The Le Baron fish-tails in a cloud of dust and Ray leaps out 
               of the car, runs toward the little trailer, gun in hand. The 
               windows are all busted, and the door is wide open. Ray runs 
               in. Then straight back out, shaking his head to Crow Horse.

               Crow Horse hangs his head out the passenger window.

                         He's gone.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         He hasn't left this place in twenty 
                         years. They got him.

               Ray starts to get back in then hesitates. He looks out across 
               the plains to see --

               THREE FED CARS in the distance, fast approaching, dust rising.

               Ray gets in quickly.

               EXT. RESERVATION EXIT

               Cooch's car is parked in a roadblock. Clear Moon stands near 
               him, and addresses UNIFORMED TRIBAL POLICE as they spill out 
               from a van, carrying rifles and shotguns.

                              (into radio)
                         X21. Ray. Ray, please come in.

               Cooch has torn his tie away, his shirt is open, and he is 
               sweat soaked. Miles gets out of a car that pulls up.

                         We have a renegade agent, Cooch? He 
                         gets off the reservation...

                         -- he's not getting off the 

               And Cooch gets back in the car, drives off.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING

               With Ray driving like a maniac, Crow Horse is turned around 
               in his seat, watching the federal cars spreading out, the 
               chopper moving in.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         They got us sealed. What are we gonna 

                         We're going for The Stronghold.

               Crow Horse looks at him.

                         Ray. Can you hear me? You are fucked. 
                         There's no way out of this. If you 
                         won't listen to your own laws, then 
                         listen to this:
                              (static: a new voice)
                         This is President Clear Moon. This 
                         nation does not want your sympathy. 
                         You cannot use this reservation as a 
                         sanctuary. Stop where you are now.

               Ray and Crow Horse exchange a look.

                         Whatever you are trying to do is 
                         futile, Raymond. You have nothing. 

               Ray picks up the mic as he cranes to keep an eye on the 

                         Yellow bird... is gonna sing.

                         Yellow Bird committed suicide at 
                         three o'clock this morning. Some 
                         gung-ho agent from D.C. pushed him 
                         into a corner. You're playing a losing 
                         game. Pull over.

               Ray takes the mic and for some reason, he's putting it inside 
               his jacket near his shoulder where he keeps his leather. 
               Crow Horse looks at him, puzzled. And then the sound comes 
               forth, the static crackling of a micro-cassette recorder.

                         How the hell do you know?
                              (Yellow Bird)
                         I blew his back out with a buffalo 
                         gun, that's how I know. And now you're 
                         gonna say I didn't and put me back 
                         in solitary?!

               Ray keeps the tape running into the radio as he drives through 
               rugged Badlands. Crow Horse, stunned by the voice, eyes Ray 
               as the tape rolls.

               INT. CHEVY - TRAVELING

               Cooch and Clear Moon stare in horror at the radio.

                              (Yellow Bird)
                         You people tol' me I could beat nine 
                         years if I helped you. I helped you!
                         I could beat nine years if I helped 
                         you. I helped you!

               Cooch is shaking his head in vitrified disbelief. He slams 
               the pedal almost through the floor.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING

               The tape ends and Ray now lifts the mic to his mouth.

                              (into mic)
                         Fuck you.

               And he too, buries the accelerator.


               The Le Baron burns forward and we SWEEP UP TO A MIND-BLOWING 
               AERIAL VIEW of the Badlands as four fed cars spread out in 
               formation, following.

               INT. LE BARON - TRAVELING

               Crow Horse is turned around, looking at the pursuit.


               Crow Horse turns, sees what Ray is looking at.

               POV: The Stronghold -- a narrow opening in hulking rock 
               formations. Large enough for a car to get in, and keep 
               followers out.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         That's it. The Stronghold. Get us in 
                         there, we got a chance.

                         We're in there. We're in there --

               just ahead, the earth is gone. A wavering heat pond turns 
               out to be a crevice and they nose down into it, burying the 
               front end in sand and rock. WINDSHIELD SHATTERS.

               EXT. THE STRONGHOLD

               The Le Baron is stuck, wheels spinning out. Ray and Cooch 
               bail. Guns drawn, they start running for the Stronghold.

               AT THE EDGE OF THE ARROYO

               the caravan slides in recklessly, two of the fed cars coming 
               dangerously close to going over the edge. The regional 
               officers and six Clear Moon goons empty out, running down 
               the dip, rifles and shotguns ready.

               Three more field agents come down from another direction, 
               followed by Cooch. Sherman hands a bullhorn to him.

                              (via bullhorn)
                         FREEZE! NOW!

               The sound of FIFTEEN PRIMING FIREARMS stops Ray and Crow 
               Horse in their tracks. Just twenty feet from The Stronghold. 
               Crow Horse, windless, stumbles to a knee. Ray turns slowly, 
               facing the small army.

                         DROP IT.

               Crow Horse, rises, sucking wind, and ditches his gun in the 
               Badlands. Ray holds onto his .45 a moment longer. Then drops 
               it. He stares at --

               THE WALL OF MEN

               Cooch, SA Miles, SA Sherman, Six regional officers, six Clear 
               Moon goons. And now, coming out of the backseat of Cooch's 
               Chevy, Oliver Clear Moon, walking tentatively, cautiously.

               Cooch lowers the bullhorn. He takes the opportunity to stare 
               at Ray. To let Ray stare at him. The older agent looks broken.

                         Crow Horse, get your face in the 
                         dirt. Ray... come forward. Let it 
                         go. Let's just let it go...


               Crow Horse lowers himself to a knee then lies face down. Ray 
               just stands there, the wind against him.

                                     COOCH (O.S.)
                         Come on, Ray. Come forward.

                         No way, Cooch.

               Ray refuses to move.


               sweating, tries to keep control. All around him, hands are 
               on guns. Cooch is walking toward Ray.

                         Ray. I'm coming to talk to you. I'm 
                         gonna walk you out of here. And we're 
                         gonna get the hell outta this place.

               Cooch walks toward him, a gun hanging at one side, bullhorn 
               at the other. The agents behind him, around him, all raise 
               rifles, all take aim.

               Sherman, looking sick, gets to a knee and sets aim. The sound 
               of clacking steel, all around. But Cooch seems disturbed by 
               the sound. Because its coming from above. He raises an eye 
               from the rifle sight to see --


               FIFTEEN INDIANS, training rifles and shotguns down below.


               looks up from his rifle, bewildered. Then alarmed.


               We PAN across fifteen Indians -- old people, women, kids. 
               Their weapons are weak but many.

               And at the end of the row, Maisy Blue Legs rises, clutching 
               a rifle. And PAST HER, ANOTHER. TRADITIONAL PEOPLE, many 
               from the trading post porch, rise to the edge, armed. Silent.

               Twenty, twenty-five, thirty traditionals, forming a line 
               along the ridge, a line that runs in a circle, broken by the 
               Stronghold entrance, then starting again on the next butte. 
               Thirty-five, forty of them. And more, standing along the 
               opposite craggy rock, some wearing tractor caps, some cowboy 
               hats, some just long hair blowing in the wind. Fifty, sixty, 
               SEVENTY-FIVE RESERVATION PEOPLE forming a circle on the rocks; 
               it's Little Big Horn revisited. A fourteen year-old boy 
               struggles to keep a huge shotgun at his shoulder.

               DOWN BELOW

               Clear Moon's mouth is as dry as Badlands soil. Cooch is 
               panicking, his eyes running along the high edge.


               stands equally astonished, assessing the back-up.

               CROW HORSE

               lifts himself, stands, taking in the sight.

               AT THE EDGE OF THE BUTTE

               stepping stiffly but steadily through the line of armed 
               locals, pushing his way to the very edge so as to look down, 
               Grandpa Sam Reaches. The wind makes feathery tails out of 
               his long thinning strips of white hair.

               DOWN BELOW

               Ray looks up at the old man, then turns to face Cooch.

                         You're right, Cooch. It's over.

               Cooch slowly, lets the bullhorn fall. Then the rifle. He 
               looks back at Sherman who does the same, and all the way 
               down the line, everyone dropping their arms under the threat 
               of a lot more guns from above. And now Ray walks forward, 
               collecting his gun. Anderson Chasing Hawk, one of the 
               Warriors, runs down to Ray, breathless.

                                     CHASING HAWK
                         All the exits are blocked. There's 
                         two more fed cars tryin' to get in. 
                         And some press.

               Ray notices that Cooch is staring at him, hard. He shakes 
               his head slowly. Strongly.


                         Let the press through.

               Chasing Hawk takes off, running, and Cooch watches in 
               consternation. Ray just stands eye to eye with him, holding 
               his ground.


               And along the ridge, Grandpa and the locals don't budge, 
               watching every move.

               CLIMBING HIGHER, we rise above the circle of proud Sioux to 
               see, on the inside of the Stronghold, thirty old trucks and 
               res cars.

               CLIMBING HIGHER into and through the fast-moving clouds that 
               the Lakota call The Grandfathers as the HEARTBEAT DRUM and 
               LAKOTA SINGERS takes over all sound.

                                                          SLOW DISSOLVE TO:


               The HIGH WINDS of THREE MEDIA HELICOPTERS are delighting a 
               storm of Indian children and BARKING DOGS, running through 
               the streets past junked cars on blocks.

               Over on a little plot of grass and dirt, a pair of hands are 
               digging a small hole. Ray lays a pine cone in the hole and 
               looks down at it for a moment... before hand-plowing the 
               dirt back over it and patting it flat. He rises, knocking 
               dirt off his knees and hands.

               Crow Horse walks over, bandaged and favoring wounds, and Ray 
               falls in with him, walking down the middle of the village 
               road. His eyes are tired. But hopeful.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         The people are already talkin' about 
                         their vote for a new tribal prez. 
                         They wanna vote for Jimmy.

               Ray nods, encouraged as they walk along. His eyes follow the 

                         What about the water...

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You bought her some time, Kola. Ain't 
                         never gonna be over... but you bought 
                         her some time.

                         Some Indian time?

               They reach the dusty, dented Le Baron and stand there, looking 
               at each other.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Indian time.

               Crow Horse offers a hand to Ray. He takes it in a white man's 
               shake then follows Walter's cue into the Indian "allies" 
               grip and slap. They hold it there, looking into each other's 

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Where ya gonna go, Ray?

               Ray ponders for a moment.

                         I'll have to see what the visions 
                         say about that one.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         You didn't have another vision...

               Ray shrugs. Crow Horse discreetly gestures below his belt.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Yeah, right here.

               Ray cracks a smile, a long time coming.

                         You take care.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         If you ever need a place to come 
                         back to and listen to the trees a 
                         little... we'll be here.

               Ray stands looking at him, searching for words.

                                     CROW HORSE
                         Ain't no word in Sioux for goodbye.

               Ray goes to get in his car. But he sees someone sitting across 
               the street on the trading post porch. The old man.

               Ray considers him for a moment then walks over. They lock 
               eyes. Grandpa stares at Ray as if he's never seen him before, 
               and then arcs a brow. He touches his sleeve at the wrist. 
               Ray rolls his sleeve back to reveal his Rolex. Grandpa smiles 
               and Ray strips it off. He hands it to the old man and his 
               face crinkles into caliche earth.

               Grandpa holds the watch up in the light, admires it then 
               puts it in his shirt pocket. He moves a flat hand through 
               the air in the "done deal" sign language. Ray, a little 
               surprised that he gets nothing in the trade, returns the 
               smile and walks away.

               He gets to his car and wipes away two inches of dust from 
               the broken windshield.

               INT. LE BARON

               After THREE TRIES, he gets the engine started. He pulls his 
               gun off his waistband, goes to lay it on the passenger seat 
               and finds something there.

               Grandpa's sacred caanunpa. The Pipe. Symbol of truth. Ray 
               looks out the window at the old man who is watching him with 
               those sharp black eyes. Ray lifts his hand, holds it flat, 
               and does the Sioux done deal sign.


               The Le Baron eats up the dirt road at a moderate, gravel 
               crunching pace. It slows as it passes Maggie Eagle Bear's 
               quiet home on the river. Children walk with the old woman, 
               carrying buckets from the river.

               The Le Baron slows to a crawl, then drives on.

                                                                    CUT TO:


               where the elders sit, watching the dust blow.

                                     CROW HORSE (V.O.)
                              (voice lingering)
                         We will be here.

                                                                    CUT TO:

               CROW HORSE walking off down the road. He stops, and looks 
               over his shoulder, trying to glimpse the distance.

                                                                    CUT TO:

               THE LE BARON driving off the res, under big sky as it ascends 
               a rough hill, waddles through potholes, negotiates with some 
               horses in the road and rolls on toward the reservation line 
               where the sun throws shadows that look like an old man 

               AT THE PLACE IN THE ROAD

               where West goes to Rapid City, and East back to Bear Creek, 
               Ray stops like the bullet-punched sign orders. He doesn't go 
               West. Doesn't go East. He sits there. Fishes a smoke out 
               from a pocket, clicks a lighter, and fires up. He sits there, 


               SUDDEN CUT TO BLACK.

               And after a long silent beat, A DRUM. Like a heart.

               END CREDITS.

                                         THE END


Writers :   John Fusco
Genres :   Crime  Mystery  Thriller

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