 They depart Cavalcade of America, starring Ray Merland. Good evening. This is Ray Merland. Tonight's Cavalcade, The Last Frontier, tells the exciting story of a great American artist, Frederick Remington. His celebrated paintings hang in museums and galleries throughout the land. They are cherished as authentic portrayals of a vanished era in our history, the Western Frontier. The Last Frontier, an original radio play starring Ray Merland as Frederick Remington on the DuPont Cavalcade of America. 1884, the place, the Arizona territory, Indian country, bright blue sky, immense blue hills, and overall a magnificent silence. In a small clearing beside a huge boulder, an old man with white mustaches and a beard bends over a cook's stove. As he reaches for the coffee pot, distant shops bring out. And a man on horseback approaches. Danger! What's trouble? Indians commandees. What's that? Indians are scouting party. They've been chasing me. Oh, Indians. Just climb down off that there enemy room and have yourself a cup of coffee. Indians won't listen to them. They won't, huh? What they're shooting at me for, just to attract my attention? Look, boy, them commandees are friends of mine. I guess you could use some coffee, huh? All right, here you are. Thanks. My name's Remington. Fred Remington. Mine's Robinson, I think. Ain't nobody called me by it in 20 years. They call me the old timer. Hey, don't drink it down so fast you burn your tongue. I did already. You sure got the wind up all right. Don't you like Indians? No. I don't like being chased by them. I don't like all this emptiness and quiet out here. In short, I don't like the West and I'm going home. Got my railroad ticket in my pocket and I won't start breeding normal again until I get on that train. Where are you from, son? Canton. That's in New York State. Canton? Don't tell me. I'm from Augmansburg. Wow. We're practically neighbors. Have another cup of coffee, neighbor. No, thanks. Do you think it's safe for me to leave now? Oh, no, we don't think so. Them commandeers are probably waiting for you behind that little rise over there at the West. You see it? Yep. Probably spitting on their tommy hocks right now. Well, why don't they come and get me? Because they know you're with me. I told you they're my friends. Friends? Yep. Oh. Well, maybe they're not there at all. Maybe they lost my trail. Indians lose your trail? Well, there's always one way of finding out. Let's try it. Wow. Here. There's no wagon spoke. Now, just put your hat up on it and stick it up over that boulder. I guess? That's right. Oh, higher, higher, where they can see it. But I got it up as high as it can get. Great. Jumping Jupiter. Now, pick your hat up. Let's have a look at it. Hey. There's a hole right through the middle. Yep. Right where your brain should be. If you had any, that is. These comances are your friends, huh? That's right. We're blood brothers. Initiated me in the tribe. Then tell me this. How did your dear blood brothers know it wasn't you sticking your hat over that rock? Because they know that I wouldn't be foolish enough to do a ridiculous thing like that. They wouldn't have made me a blood brother in the first place. Now, sit down and have another cup of coffee while I poke up this fire. I went to this year Yale College in Remington. What'd you learn there? Oh, how to play football. I also took a fine arts course. I'm an artist. See, what's that? Unearthly howl. Coyotes. Show you paint pictures, huh? Well, what I really am is an illustrator. You know, I illustrate stories for the magazines. Sounds like maybe interest in work. Oh, not particularly. You see, old timer, what I'd really like to do is paint. Oh, well, maybe I will one of these days. You married? Oh, yes. Got a great little wife. What about you? How's it happening at all by yourself out here so far from civilization? That's it. Civilization. Trying to get away from it. Oh? How'd he get along? What about money? Well, you don't need much just enough to amend my harness and buy a wagon grease. You know, son, I'm glad I'm an old man. Some tickle sillier ain't got much more to live. I hate to see what's going on out here. Change. Nothing but change. Yes, sir. The wild days, the days of the free and easy west in the buffalo and the engine with red war pain on his face. Well, they're practically gone. Yeah, that means progress. You're not against progress, are you? Yeah, it wouldn't do me no good if it was. All I know is I saw the living, breathing end of three American centuries of smoke and dust and sweat. The end of all that, gone and gone without a sign or trace it was ever here. Yeah? Except in the history books. Yeah, books. You read them and you forget them. Just words. It's pictures. The living things a man beholds with his own eyes that stays with him. Yes, sir. And pretty soon there won't be anything left out here for future generations to behold. I guess you got something there, old Tom. You sure have. Say, what kind of pictures would you like to paint, young fellow? That's just it. There's nothing I've seen back home that really interests me. Well, then stay out here, boy. I'll show you plenty. Then you can paint pictures of what you see. You'll be doing a darn sight more than all the history books it was ever printed. Yes, sir. You'll be preserving the memory of this country out here, this country of ours, the way she was in her original state, saving it for future generations of Americans to see. Well, young fellow, will you stay? Oh, no. No, I'm afraid not. Of course, I see your point. There are things to see out here you find no place else. But, well, I've got my railroad tickets. Don't turn it in. Get your money back. My wife's expecting me. Anyhow, I don't think I'd ever get to like it out here. And it's getting dark now. Guess I'll be on my way to the station. And thanks for everything. I hope I run into you again sometime. Mr. Raymond, didn't I get a funny feature? A funny feeling you will. Sure do. Fred. Hmm? Oh, yes, dear. What's the matter, Fred? Don't you feel well? You worried about something? No, I feel fine, dear. And I'm not worried about a thing. The magazine liked your illustrations for that story, didn't they? Oh, sure. They liked them. You're a wonderful wife, and I feel just fine. Uh-oh. Why do you say uh-oh? Did I, dear? I didn't mean to. If you've got someone to say to me, why don't you just say it? No, I have nothing to say, darling. When you're good and ready to talk, you'll talk. I've found that out even before I married you. You know what's bothering me, Eva? These drawings, these illustrations. I'm sick of them. I'm sick of drawing men with whiskers and frock coats kissing women with bustles. I'd like to paint. To paint anything that comes into my head. Anything at all. Why don't you, dear? Huh? What do you say? We can get along for a while on what we've saved. Or don't you forget about making a living and just paint. You could start tomorrow, Fred. You could go out in the woods and paint some mountain laurel or ferns. Eva, I am not interested in ferns. Well, darling, how about that big maple tree in the yard? Or a church steeple? I'm not interested in church steeples. Well, darling, there must be something. Eva, listen to me. I may be a little peculiar, but I simply cannot get excited about a maple tree. It, well, it just doesn't do things to me. I guess it's all this civilization we're living in. It's so tame. You know what's the matter with us, Eva? Hmm. We were born too late. We're just in time to see the living, breathing end of three American centuries of smoke and dust and sweat. In a little while, it'll be gone without a sign of trace it was ever here. Now, where did I hear that before? I know. Where? It was an old wagon freighter. A real old timer with white moustaches and a beard. The one you met on your trip west last night? Yeah, that's the man. He asked me to stay out there with him. He'd show me things to paint, he said. Paint what you see out here in the west. And you'll be doing a downside more than all the history books that was ever printed. That's what he said. You'll be preserving the memory of this country of ours, saving it for future generations of Americans to see. Hmm, he sounds like he knows what he's talking about, Fred. Why don't you go? What? And leave my wife alone? Oh, I should say not. Oh, I won't mind a deer just this once, as long as you don't make a habit of it. Do you really mean that? Of course, Fred. Oh, darling, look, I'll be back in three months. I swear I'll never leave you again. Come on upstairs and help me pack. Look your head up, son. Look at that sky. I'm looking old timer. You know, it's the first time I've ever seen it. Pure cobalt. Just plain blue to me. But real pretty. Now look at that coyose urine with its neck curved down. And that's the neck pinter of mine. Pretty, ain't it? It sure is. That's the way you're waiting for it. Get out your drawer and paper and pencil. Look, look at that. Yep. Oh, herd of wild horses. Man feeding over that cliff into kingdom come. But do they know what they're doing? Are they jumping to their death? Sure they know. But why? Why are they doing it? They're some engine scouts trying to round them up. You see them back there? Yeah, I see them. Yeah. And them animals would rather die than be captured. Now get out your drawer and paper and pencil. Get them out. Well, son, I've showed you all the risks to see here on these parts. As is your health. Yep. You've lived with cowhands, cavalry troops and half a dozen different engine tribes. Now you get on that coyose urine, get about 150 miles along that trail. When you get to the first town, ask for shorty. He's your friend of mine. He'll show you around down there. Oh, thanks, old Tommy. You've been a great big help. If it wasn't for you, never mind that. Get going. Get in. Give my best regards to shorty. Patches, whatever enters their thick skulls, there's only three of us in this water hole. Remington. Huh? What is it, shorty? Let's go with that rifle. Make noise, man. Remington, what the devil are you doing over there? Well, if you must know, I'm examining the moccasins of this Indian guide of ours. They're practically in my face. Very interesting. Oh, that's fine. Two dozen running data patches on the warpath all around us. No, you've got to do... Hey, shorty, you got a pencil. Mine's broken. Now, what would I be doing with it? Come over here. All right. Here I am. Hey, shorty. Huh? How long are we going to be stuck here in this God-forsaken water hole? I don't know. I'll have to engine it. Hey, one horse. One horse. Crawl over here. You want one horse, shorty? One horse. How long stay here? Tenty long. Wait for a cavalry. Well, suppose they... Suppose they don't come. They'll be died. Well, in that case, one horse, maybe you'll sell me those moccasins you have on. You see, I've never seen exactly that type of beadwork before. Really, didn't you? I think this should happen that I get out of here alive and go back east. Well, I'd like to have them. What for? You see that lone napatchee on his pony at the silhouette of the Sun? You see it? See him. I've made a sketch of him. And when I do a painting of it, I'd like the model to be wearing your moccasins. You take them. One dollar. Thanks very much, one horse. Excuse me, Mr. Remington, but is it all right now for us to proceed where we left all few napatchees? Sure thing, shorty. I'm ready. You sure we ain't inconveniencing? I don't know. Thank you. All right, everybody, with Mr. Remington's permission, ready? Aim. You're listening to The Last Frontier, starring Ray Milland as the American artist Frederick Remington on The Cavalcade of America, sponsored by The DeFront Company, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. Thanks to the arrival of a troop of cavalry, Fred Remington did get out of that waterhole alive as he'd gotten out of so many others. And the picture was duly painted at his studio in New York, and exhibited the following year. Of course, the art critics didn't all approve. One of them had this to say about it. I enjoyed Mr. Remington's little exhibition very much, all except the canvas of a lone Indian. I believe it wasn't a patchy, silhouetted against the sun. This Indian wears a pair of moccasins, the like of which was never worn outside a theater. It's a pity that the artist never took the trouble to ascertain what a real Indian moccasin looks like. It quite ruined the afternoon for me. Two years later, Remington has just returned from another western trip and is seated on a sofa in his New York studio, talking to his wife. Oh, gosh, it's good to be home, Eva. I'm never gonna leave you again. That's what you always say, darling, till you've been here a little while and used up all your sketchy. Oh, I got some great ones this time, Eva. There's a bunch of comanches and coyotes, and horses, all kinds of horses, pinto's, mustangs. Eva, did you know that there were no horses in this country before the Spaniards came? weren't there, dear? No. And yet you think of the Indian and the horses inseparable. As a matter of fact, it was the white man who taught the Indian to ride. Really? Really. Darling, I've been thinking about you and those Indians. Why are they always being hunted down? Are they all bad? Eva, the Indian is no different than the white man. They're good ones and bad ones. When Indians put on the wall paint and break law and order, they punish him the same as you would any other outlaws. Do you understand? Yeah. Did you see any of your old friends out there? The old timer? The old timer's dead, my dear. He died about a month ago. Oh, were you there? Yes. Yes, I was there. Did you know, Eva, if it's possible to welcome death, the old timer did. It was as though he had nothing more to live for. Did you show him those photographs of your painting? Uh-huh. His eyes kind of lit up. He reached out with his hand and patted me on the knee. Then he turned his face to the wall and went to sleep. I suppose you made quite a lot of sketches enough to last a long time. Oh, I did. Some good ones, too, but not the big one. The big one I missed out on. What was that, dear? Sitting bowl, the big chief of the Sioux. What I wouldn't give for a sketch of that old buzzard in full-wall regalia. Uh-oh. Why do you say uh-oh? No reason. So, uh, you think there'll be another Indian war? Oh, there could be. And if it is, it'll be the last one we ever have in this country, Eva. After that, the Indian as a fighting man will be as extinct as the Dodo. Oh, well. Anyway, I'm home now. I'm back to civilization. That's good enough for me. Yes, Doc. And I'm gonna stay home. Are you? Yes. Gonna get me a pair of slippers and a big Mars chair and just sit. You're sure about that? I'm positive. And nothing could drag you out west again? Absolutely nothing. I'm glad to hear that. And now I can let you see the afternoon paper. There's a story on the front page. Here you are. Great. Jumping Jupiter. What's the matter? So, sitting bull is on the wall path with 4,000 Indians. Hey, listen to this. Every Indian buck is equipped with a rifle and needs us to say he knows how to use it. General Meyers has issued orders to avoid battle at all costs. The primary objective of the United States Army is the arrest of sitting bulls. Well... Well, that's very interesting. Is it Fred? Why? It isn't just interesting. Oh, why, darling? Well, it just is. That's all. Fred. Yes, dear? I stopped in at the railroad depot on my way home. You did what for? Here's your ticket. Your train leaves at midnight. Eva, did you really? Mm-hmm. Oh, you're a wonderful woman. And I love you. The most beautiful, the most understanding. Oh, yes, you are. And you can order those carpet slippers in a nice, soft, Mars chair right now. This is my last trip so help me. Don't say it, Fred. Don't say it. Who do you suppose that is? One horse. Eh? Well, I'm one horse, shorty. Eh, who's there coming this way? Hello? Well, very fitting. Hello, Mr. Remington. How's things back east? Fine, surely. How are things in the bad land? Oh, not bad. Hey, look, one horse. Look who's come back. Oh, yeah, one horse. Oh, still got some moccasins. Yeah, I got them. How long you been out here, Fred? I just arrived this morning. Say, wait a minute. That's a fancy saddle you got there. Hold still a minute while I sketch it. Eh, I have an idea. We'd be seeing you up in a sitting bowl busting things wide open this way. Him bad engine killed everybody. No good, shorty. I'm going to make some sketches of that old devil of his, the last thing I did. Ah, I'm afraid you won't, Fred. Sitting bowl's dead. What? Yep. Indian detail got him in some of his renegades last week. And I came all the way out here to... Oh, what about the rest of his gang? There were 4,000 it said in the papers. Some of them had holed up in the camp and wounded me quick. Seventh cavalry's going up to bring him in. Will they give up peacefully? What do you think, one horse? Will they surrender? No, sir. And, uh, so fight till last man die. Ah, in that case, there's going to be one wave of a battle, and that's where I'm heading. Be good, too. Well, Fred, you coming with us? Am I? Just wait to get me a clean sketch pad. Two sketch pads. What's the matter, really, didn't you hear? Cold? You know what that lieutenant just told me, Shorty? Huh? It's 20 below zero. My fingers are so numb I can't hold a pencil. That's a good one. Come all the way out here to draw pictures and you can't hold a pencil. There they are. That's the hill in that big encampment. Governor, oh! Shorty, do you think them crazy Indians can hear us from here? Eh, it depends, Lieutenant. You want them to. Of course I want them to. Yeah, you can hear me if I'm having good. What you want me to tell them? Get up on that rock and talk engine to them. Tell them we've got them surrounded. All right. What else, Lieutenant? Come out and surrender. Oh, we're coming in after you. Shorty! He's been hit. Oh, I should have had more sense. Take it easy, Shorty. Take it easy. Don't talk. Yeah, I will. So talk. Should have had more sense than to stand up on a rock like that for Indians to shoot at. It serves me right. Where'd they hit you, Shorty? Right here. Oh, I should have... All right, men. We're going to charge that hill. We're going to wipe out every last one of these running days. No, Lieutenant. I'll stay behind with Shorty. All right, then. You're good. Turn the charge. That battle in which the power of the Renegade Sioux was forever broken went down in history as the Wounded Knee Massacre. It was, as Remington had predicted, the last great Indian war to be fought in this country. It's a few years later, 1898, to be exact. The Remington's are together again in the studio of their home in New York City. Well, Fred, just think. Your paintings and bronzes are in museums all over the country. You've recorded the last frontier just in the old time. I suggest it. Oh, darling, I'm so proud of you. All right, dear. Well, I'm home for good now, and you're not going to be lonesome anymore. Well, that's a relief, but are you sure, darling? Yes, I am, because there's no place left to go anymore. The West has changed, Eva. All the old romance and adventure have been beaten down in the rush of civilization. The cowboy's been turned into a tame, hired man who's heard cattle. There are mighty few Indians left. Eva, you can stop worrying right now. I'll answer it. Hello? Hello? Who? Oh, hello, Mr. What? What? The battleship main has been blown up in Havana Harbor. And you want me to... Eva, what do you think? You want me to leave immediately for Havana as war correspondent and illustrator? Eva, did you hear? Pack your bags. Dear listeners, join the audience in the theater tonight applauding the performance of Braema Land and the others in tonight's cast on the Cavalcade of America. Next week, the DuPont Cavalcade presents another distinguished Hollywood star, William Powell, in an original radio play, Chautauqua Fable. It's a heartwarming story of the old-time Chautauqua, when families gathered under its tent for entertainment and culture. Stay with us next week, then, for William Powell in Chautauqua Fable. Tonight's DuPont Cavalcade, the last frontier, was written by Arthur Arendt and was based on the new book, Frederick Remington, artist of the Old West by Harold McCracken. The subject was originally suggested to Cavalcade by Joseph McCurl of San Francisco, a well-known collector of the works of Remington. The music was composed by Arden Cornwell and conducted by Donald Brian. Ray Merland will soon be seen as part of the Paramount Picture, so evil my love. The DuPont Company is proud to have shared with Dr. C. R. Daly of Paramount Studios a joint Academy Award for Research and Development of the LaTensification Process, a method of increasing the speed of photographic film. In tonight's Cavalcade with Ray Merland, you heard Shirley Mitchell as Iba, Cameron Prudhomme as the old-timer, Bob Dryden as Shorty, one over Nandace as one horse, and Ralph Nelson as the art critic. This is Ted Pearson again inviting you to listen next week to Chautauqua Fable starring William Powell. Cavalcade of America is presented each week from the stage of the Longacre Theatre on Broadway in New York and is brought to you by the DuPont Company of Wilmington, Delaware. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.