 From Hollywood, Radio's Outstanding Theatre of Thrills, and its producer, the master of mystery and adventure, William M. Robson. Good evening. Tonight, we have taken a page from Collier's Magazine, several pages in fact, a story called Where the Warriors Crossed by William Eastlake. We have added the chance of Navajo Indians and the histrionic talents of Reed Hadley, and then for reasons which are not entirely captures, we have changed the title. But the story is substantially the same, designed to be uneasily remembered long after the next 30 minutes have ended, a story of a tormented mind and a proud tradition. We begin now as Reed Hadley stars in Red Cloud Mesa, a tale well calculated to keep you in. They're between Cuyantran, shaman amongst thousands of Indians, Navajos is my people. They think of me as their friend. That's the way it's always been with us. The same gun you killed the guard with? How did you know? The radio's full of it. Are you shot your way out of the psychiatric ward of the veterans' hospital? Do you believe everything you hear on the radio and read in the newspapers? Most everything. You'd believe them before you'd believe a man who served under you, a man that was in your outfit in France? In this case, yes, for an Indian padded cell is no place to die. It's no place for anyone to die. Then you won't turn me in, Captain. You can't do anything else, unless you leave. I've got no place to leave to, Captain. That's why I come here. I counted on you to help me. You always have. Have I? Yes. In the bows that time, when my platoon was cut off for six days, you got through with help just in time. I couldn't have lasted a minute longer. I got through a day too late. You crazy? Look, Captain, I'm here. I'm alive. Excuse me. You got through just in time. One maybe two days too late. What's your sorry for? I'm alive. Yes. But to him, that day in the bowels, the only one left alive, he was giving orders to a platoon of dead men and carrying the orders out himself. It must have been like that for his forefathers who defended this final masquerure against the white man a hundred years ago. Like them, he didn't know how to say it's horrendous. He only knew that the maser, this position somewhere on the flank of Estonia, must be held. He didn't know that his mind must be held also, and after the sixth day of the enemy breakthrough, after six days of the water, he didn't notice that his mind had deserted the actual and left his body all alone defending the position. Give me that gun. You'll hide me? I don't know yet. Give me the gun and unlock the door. No, I won't let them take me. It's an order, Corporal. You're back in my outfit. Now I take all the responsibility, and I give all the orders. Give me your gun. Yes, sir. What news? That cycle from Wendorock broke out, killed the man and ditched his car in the chouilly. They figured he's headed this way. I heard. We'd better be ready. We are ready. Good stockings, I want you to meet one of us. One of us? One of us? I want you to meet rabbit stockings. Yachtay, one of us. Yachtay, rabbit stockings. If he is headed this way, Mr. Bowman, I could begin to put my knowledge into motion. Rabbit stockings is referring to the correspondence course he's taking to learn to be an FBI man. I am also taking a course in bodybuilding, pedicure, and diesel engines. Why? Because I don't want to be a dumb Indian all my life. I want to have a white man's diploma in something. I think you're crazy. Would you care to look at my latest men-wanted bulletins? No. A truck is coming. Not a diesel. Our gasoline's even stuck. I can tell by the sound. Looks like old man McGurry's pick-up. Captain, maybe you'd better let rabbit stockings show you his FBI lesson, one of us. Yes, sir. Come, man. Because you are Mr. Bowman's friend, I will show you the secret place where I hide my white man's knowledge from the dumb Indians. I still think you're crazy. Go out the back way. Yes, sir. That was old man McGurry's pick-up, all right, but it carried a passenger, a passenger I was expecting. State trooper, Arturo Fajil, who was responsible to the citizens of New Mexico for keeping the peace in a thousand square miles of Indian and white man's land. He was in old man McGurry's pick-up because the state took a dim view of buying a new front end for his black-and-white patrol car every time he had to chase an Indian through the backcountry. What is this, John? Oh, hi, Arturo. What's new? Well, we've got Indian trouble. Give me a pack of cigarettes and a candy bar. Yeah. Here you are. Thank you. I'm supposed to be watching my figure, but let's say this is quick energy. How's your wife? Well, she's watching her figure. And McGurry's boy, he's still watching her figure? Not anymore, he ain't. I had a talk with him the other night out of uniform. Uh-huh. Are you hiding the Indian? Oh, that's why I pay my taxes, to pay you to find out where they hide. New Mexico don't collect enough taxes for that. Don't ask me any questions, Arturo. Just don't ask me any questions. Don't make me look bad. Ever been on a padded cell, Arturo? Oh, me? You think I'm crazy or something? Of course not. But take a look at that front window. I've seen the view before. Looking out there, you'd think this Navajo land went on forever. On and on from one blue range of mountains to the next. Can you imagine an Indian born out here dying on a padded cell? Okay, George. Just don't make me look bad. That's all. Promise you won't make me look bad. Promise me you won't try to be a hero? Listen, you've got 60,000 Indians on this reservation. Think I want to be a hero with those kind of eyes? I'd like to come home nice in one piece. Ah, don't blame me. You have a very attractive wife. Here, take her some of these candy bars. My compliments. All this time I never suspected you. You should spend more time at home, Arturo. I know. That's where I'm going now. But first, I've got to take a look around. I've got to make a report. Don't forget, I've got a citizen outside. Old man McGarry. I've got to go through the motion. I'll send Yellow Solve for someone to show you around. What can Yellow Solve do? You don't understand these people, Arturo. Yellow Solve is an elder. So he's squatting on the trading post-portual day while his wife hurts the sheep. It is the privilege of an elder. Wish I knew their secret. They back to get an honest day's work out of my pocket. I'll be right back. Ahalane. Ahalane. The ending of the day finds you well, Yellow Solve? Well, enough. But I have been asking myself a question. What is the question, brother? Perhaps I can help find an answer. It is this, Sancilla. What is the cop doing here? He's perfectly safe. He's got to make a report. We don't want to make him look back. Sancilla, this presents another question. What is it he doesn't want to look bad about? That psycho boy for them. He escaped and killed a man. The cop has orders to look for him. They want to put him back in a padded cell. And really, Sancilla, what can I do not to help? Why, really not to help? Go find me a boy named one of us who is with rabbit stalking so he can show this officer around so that this officer can make out a report and not look so bad that they will send someone else into hiding in terms of heroic action. Or worse, someone who is sincere. As you say then, I will do my very best not to help since this officer is not sincere. You know where rabbit stalking hides his white man's lesson. Everybody knows. In that little cave where the petrified tree rolled off the edge of that canyon. Everybody knows? Even so, only rabbit stalking does not know that everybody knows. So he still has his secret. My thanks go with you, brother. It is an honor to be able not to help the police. I will be here to show you around in a few minutes, Arturo. Thanks, George. I just want to look, you know. I don't want to look bad, you know. Don't worry, you won't look bad. I always get the feeling that these Indians of yours don't trust me. That they don't trust sincere people. Are you sincere, Arturo? Huh? I don't get you. Well, the Navajos feel that their nation has been cheated out of almost everything they ever owned by sincere people. You know, I think they have a point there. It looks like you don't trust them. What do you mean? I come you've got this carbine leaning against the shirt. Hey, watch out, it's loaded. But why? Well, I don't know, really. I live with that gun from Red Beach to the Rhine. So to begin with, pardon me. I just feel better having it around. Better? Or more sincere, George? In just a moment, we return to tonight's tale of... I'd like to say a few words to you servicemen and women who are bed patients in Army, Navy, or Air Force hospitals. There's a good way and a profitable one. You can spend your time while you're recuperating. That's by enrolling for a USOPI course. Not only can you take one of more than 340 courses offered by USOPI, but the Institute has also prepared a list of some 40 educational manuals covering a variety of subjects. From the mechanics of English and a study of our American government to the management of a poultry farm in the running of a variety store. You'll find any one of the 40 microfilms interesting and of great value to your future. For a uniform education study with USOPI. And now, we continue with... I don't know how foolish I was, but at the time I was seduced by the delicious irony of the situation. What less sincere way to make state children feel not what's bad than to have the man he was hunting show him around. I thought I was thinking as another whole thing. I should have realized that this is as impossible as it would be for rabbit stockings to think as a white man thinks. It is very dark in here, rabbit stocking. It should be. One has not worn this earth for 60 million years. I have a candle somewhere. Here it is. What is this talk of 60 million years? Look about you. The roots of the ancient tree turn to stone. When the tree at last rolled into the canyon, it left this cave where its roots had been for 16 million years. When did you hear this child's story? Mr. Bowman told me. The son, Sia, said it is science. See this rock. He says it's called petrified wood. The son, Sia, is crazy. All white men are crazy. Crazy enough to own the world. Crazy enough to herd all the dumb Indians on to reservations. You want to be a dumb Indian all your life. Don't you want to have a white man's diploma in something? No. Because I'm not crazy. I just cannot believe it. One does not seek to butter oneself. Listen. You learn every word in those lessons. You think any white man will give you a job? They used to say the only good Indian is a dead Indian. Now they changed a little. They say the only good Indian is a dumb Indian, a blanket Indian. But you see, next time they go crazy, next time they start fighting, they'll change again. Then they'll say the only good Indian is the Indian who fights for his country. And they'll take you out and teach you to kill and kill and kill. They teach you so good, they get hurt feelings when you can't forget how to kill. We are peaceful people, one of us. Not everyone is like that crazy psycho Indian from window rock who shot his way out of us. I will kill you, rabbit stockings. Put down that rock. You said it was a petrified wood, you said it was. A piece of the Sanctius phony tree that is hard enough and sharp enough to smash your face. Hey, I don't understand. I meant nothing by what I said. You said too much, rabbit stockings. You think this cave has been here for 60 million years? Very well. You shall remain in it for another 60 million years. No, don't. I'll take that rock. I didn't hear you behind me. I didn't mean that you should. It is an interesting rock. See how it blinks in the candlelight? But Sanctius has 60 million years. It's difficult for even an Indian to believe. Sanctius is crazy. Of course. You saved my life, Yellowstone. He's crazy too, of course. But Sanctius wants you back at the post. He just sent me up here. Your name is one of us, is it not? No... Fortum. Fortum? I thought so. Come, the Sunseer is waiting. In the back room of the trading post, Binyasi the silversmith was stinging as he hammered away at a turquoise studded gatehole. Then a couple of women wandered into the store, carrying their babies wrapped on cradle boards. Silently, they unlivered the cradle boards as their babies upright against the wall. Silently, they squatted beside them, never taking their eyes from Arturo Trujillo, the uniformed symbol of white man's authority. A little later, old man Tornface slipped in without a word. His toothless mouth twisted into a permanent grin by a long ago kick of a forgotten pony. Then a couple of dirty-faced kids with scraggly, uncombed hair, and they sat there all of them. Then make me nervous, George. Tell them to get out. They belong here, Arturo. You don't. They're making me look bad in front of them, George. What do you care just so you don't look bad in front of the white men in Gallup? All right. All right. He turned his back on his silent audience, stamped out his cigarette, and began to build a pyramid with the candy bars I had given him for his wife. He worked at his pointless task with such intensity that sweats stood out in the afternoon stubble on his jaw. There was no sound now. A pilot inside the storeroom. Silent as death. Outside, silence cool. Safe for the Albuquerque plain, porno. And closer, a fly buzzing on the screen door. The pyramid was finished all but the capstone. Arturo carefully raised the final candy bar. Hey, what's the big idea? You made me wreck it. You're crazy. What did you say? I said, you're crazy. Want to make something of it? I was just having some fun. Arturo, this is one of us. He'll show you around. Don't bother. I guess I've been here long enough to make a report. Old man McGurr is getting impatient. Anything you say, Arturo? Don't forget what you promised, George. I won't, Arturo. What did you promise on seeing you? You double-crossed me? No, one of us. I promised him that you would not get caught by somebody else in his territory. That you would always be a good soldier and not cause any more trouble, so you would not die in a padded cell. Why did you send for me to show him around? If you showed him around, then he could not find you hiding, could he? No, Captain. You will go back now to Rabbit Stockings Cave. You will stay there until it is safe for you to take a whole gun. Yes, Captain. Hey, George, I forgot. Hey, you crazy Indian, put down the fourth hum! He's fire! For the candy! Fourth hum, serve attention, eyes straight ahead. State trooper, trooper, you'll lay in the doorway, one boot holding the screen, a jar. Play very still. A buzzing fly, eagerly circled a trickle of blood that oozed across the floor. One of the babies wailed in fright. The chant began. The chant of the enemy way. A chant that would protect the people from molestation by the ghost of this foreigner. I think you and I had better go up on the mesa, Corporal. Yes, Captain. But, yes? Big pardon, sir, that I thought I was to go back to the cave. A new situation has developed since then. It is necessary to change the orders. Yes, sir. Or, oh, that fist had snatched the streamer of cloud which floated wistfully toward where night crowds darkening blue in the east. We climbed silently, steadily, ten, fifteen minutes, upward across the sheer face of the cliff. Four thumbs holding the proper combat to troll distance, ten yards behind me, steadily, up, always up, toward the gathering clouds, now orange with the dying sun. The CO and my cow hijackered a Levi. Yes, he still had the gun. A sectionate psycho who was also a combat infantryman still had the gun and still held his prescribed position ten yards behind me. Oh, I should hope so, Corporal. A man who's a much good on a patrol without a gun would feed up the sheer cliff wall from the desert floor. And above the clouds were thicker on the mesa's fist. All orange and out deeper. But I began to sweat. Suddenly, explicit was not warm. Stories like that from time to time, back of the lines, up front? Well, I suppose it depends on what kind of a leader a man is. Four fathers had rolled down from the mesa top, thinking to keep the white man away forever. They almost did. But defending this final fort, the top of this dry mesa, two hundred feet above us in the clouds, they ran out of water. No one quit. We're in the cloud. Where the misty blood of the day's death surrounded us cold damp. The ghost stuff of the ancient warriors whose bones fill they above us. And their voices too had seemed pressing on us. In the clammy cloud. Take five, Corporal. Against the cliff wall. The trail was only a foot wide here. Out beyond the red mess, I waited. And only knew his coming by the sound of his footfalls until all at once he materialized beside me. He leaned back too. Careful to keep the carbine on his right side. The side away from me. I heard plentiful stories like that over seas, Captain. Oh, I dare say it's happened. More than once. Any leader takes a chance. That's one of the risks of leadership. In combat, when a man's head races with blood, when it's kill or be killed, sure, it does happen. But what, sir? Well, when a soldier comes back out of the lines, when a soldier is back in the rear area unsafe and begins to kill his own outfit, and there's nothing anyone can do to help him. Well, that's what I said. No longer any help for him. Then it's up to the soldier himself if he isn't crazy to figure out a way of saving the outfit. He's distraught. Completely up here, Corporal. You can do anything you want with the rest of the outfit. You've got the gun. I never saw your carbine leaning against the counter some see you. And you never will again, rabbit shockings. I'd expect that dumb Indian to bury a man's weapon with him, but not a white man, because of valuable guns. My people believe a man is more valuable. And we respect your ancient customs. Thank you. And thank your people. It must have been quite a climb carrying his body all the way to the top of the maser. That's where he belonged. Up there with the other warriors. And those old people cut off up there without water. They must have gone crazy before they died. Probably. But they suck it out when they could have quit. Yes, they did. And he was their son. Lesson to suspense when we return with Miss Ella Churchill in Charles Dickens' Tale of Terror, The Signalman. A story well calculated to keep you in. Suspense is produced and directed in Hollywood by William N. Robeson. Red Cloud Mesa was adapted by Mr. Robeson from the Collier's Magazine story where the warriors crossed by William Eastlake.