The Sense from Hollywood, radio's outstanding theater of thrills, and its producer, the
master of mystery and adventure, William N. Robeson.
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 chants 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
suspense.
Red Cloud Mesa, a great red stone pit, thrusting into the thin air above the flat plateau.
There's none higher between Kayenta and Shiprock.
So high the clouds catch on it sometimes.
Red clouds if the sun is rising or setting.
Red Cloud Mesa.
Below the mesa where the wheel tracks make across the reservation from Gallup is the
Red Cloud Trading Post.
I'm the trader.
One white man amongst thousands of Indians.
Lonely?
Yes, sometimes.
But I like it.
I think of the Navajos as my people.
They think of me as their friend.
That's the way it's always been with us.
I was born here.
I grew up here.
Today I nearly died here.
I've been expecting you, Four Thumbs.
You're my prisoner, Captain.
That 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 the man who served under you, a man that was in
your outfit in France?
In this case, yes.
For an Indian, a quiet padded cell is no place to die.
It's no place for anyone to die.
Then you won't turn me in, Captain?
I 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.
See me.
You got through just in time.
One maybe two days too late.
I'm sorry.
What's your sorry for?
I'm alive.
Yes, alive.
He was alive when I got to him.
That day in the bows.
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 mesa here against
the white man a hundred years ago.
Like them, he didn't know how to say surrender.
He only knew that the mesa, 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.
That'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.
Thank you.
Now please open the door.
Yes, Captain.
You heard me.
You heard the news, Mr. Bowman.
What news?
That psycho from Window Rock broke out, killed a man and ditched his car in the Chewile.
They figure he's headed this way.
I heard.
We better be ready.
We are ready.
Rabbit Stockings, I want you to meet one of us.
One of us?
One of us, I want you to meet Rabbit Stockings.
Yate one of us.
Yate, 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 and something.
I think you're crazy.
Would you care to look at my latest men wanted bulletins?
No.
This, this, a truck is coming.
Not a diesel.
Our gasoline's in the truck.
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 then.
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 Fajillo, 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 him a new
front end for his black and white patrol car every time he had to chase an Indian through
the back country.
What is this, John?
A black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It's a black and white patrol car.
It does feel better having it around.
Better or more sincere, George?
In just a moment, we return to tonight's tale of The Fence, Red Cloud Mesa, starring Reed Hadley.
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 USAPI course.
Not only can you take one of more than 340 courses offered by USAPI,
but the Institute has also prepared a list of some 40 educational manuals covering a variety of subjects,
from the mechanics of English and the study of our American government,
to the management of a poultry farm and 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 USAPI.
And now, we continue with Red Cloud Mesa, starring Reed Hadley.
A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
You may have noticed now 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 super-trujillo not look bad than to have the man he was hunting show him around.
I thought I was thinking as an apahoe thinks.
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. The sun has not warmed 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 turned to stone.
When the tree at last rolled into the canyon, it left this cave where its roots had been for 16 million years.
I hear this child's story.
Mr. Bowman told me. The sunsia says it is science.
See this rock? He says it's called petrified wood.
The sunsia is crazy. All white men are crazy.
Crazy enough to own the world, crazy enough to herd all the dumb Indians onto 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 that 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 change it 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 a peaceful people, one of us.
Not everyone is like that crazy psycho Indian from Window Rock who shot his way out of a...
I think I will kill you, Rabbit Stockings.
Put down that rock.
Petrified wood, you said it was.
A piece of the Sanctius phony tree.
But it's hard enough and sharp enough to smash your crazy head.
I do not 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.
No, no, don't.
Look, 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 blints in the candlelight?
But Sanctius 60 million years, it's difficult for even an Indian to believe.
Sanctius crazy.
Of course. You saved my life, Yellowstone.
He's crazy too.
Of course.
The Sanctius wants you back at the post.
But he just sent me up here.
Your name is one of us, is it not?
No.
Fawtum.
Fawtum?
I thought so.
Come, the Sancia is waiting.
In the back room of the trading post, Ben Yazzie, the silversmith, was singing as he hammered away at a turquoise studded gato.
Then a couple of women wandered into the store, carrying their babies wrapped on cradle boards.
Silently they unlivered the cradle boards and stacked their babies upright against the wall.
Silently they squatted beside them, never taking their eyes from Arturo Trejillo, the uniform symbol of white man's authority.
A little later, Old Man Drawnface 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, wordless.
They make me nervous, George. Tell them to get out.
They belong here, Arturo, you don't.
You'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, George. 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 sweat stood out in the afternoon stubble on his jaw.
There was no sound now.
It was silent inside the storeroom, silent as death.
Outside, silence cooled, save for the Albuquerque plane par off.
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 McGurry's getting impatient.
Anything you say, Arturo?
Don't forget what you promised George.
I won't, Arturo.
What did you promise, Anseer?
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.
Say, George, I forgot.
Hey, you crazy Indian, put down the gun.
What?
Please, fire!
George!
I only come back with a candy.
Forethumbs for the tension eyes straight ahead.
State Trooper Trujillo lay on the doorway, one boot holding the screen ajar.
Lay 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.
The chant that would protect the people from all estation by the ghost of this foreigner.
I think you and I had better go up on the makes, O'Corval.
Yes, Captain.
But, yes?
Beg 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.
On, ho!
A low stud stretched away to the limitless yellow horizon as we started up the narrow trail along the face of the nation.
Already that giant red fist had snatched the streamer of cloud which floated wistfully toward where night crowds darkening blue in the east.
We climbed silently and steadily.
Ten, fifteen minutes upward across the sheer face of the cliff.
Forethumbs holding the proper combat patrol distance ten yards behind me.
Steady.
Up.
Always up.
Toward the gathering clouds now orange with the dying sun.
Captain.
Yes, Corporal.
I've still got the carbine.
I had forgotten.
Forgotten completely.
I turned slowly.
Erect.
Trying to look like a C.O. in my cow hijackered Levi's.
Yes, he still had the gun.
A Section 8 psycho who was also a combat infantryman still had the gun and still held his prescribed position ten yards behind me.
Well, I should hope so, Corporal.
A man isn't much good on a patrol without a gun.
Yes, sir.
The trail was narrower now as it approached the switchback.
Six hundred feet up the sheer cliff wall from the desert floor.
And above the clouds were thicker and a mace's fist.
All orange now, deep orange.
Captain.
Yes, Corporal.
Ever hear of an officer being shot in the back by one of his old men?
We were close to the clouds now.
It was chill on the mesa, but I began to sweat, suddenly, explicitly. The sweat was not warm.
Oh, you hear stories like that from time to time back at the lines.
Up front?
Well, I suppose it depends on what kind of a leader a man is.
Yes, Captain.
We were clambering over boulders now.
The great rocks, their forethumbs forefathers had rolled down for 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. They were still up there.
And then we were at the switchback.
And a moment later we were in the cloud, a red cloud now, where the misty blood of the day's death surrounded us cold damp.
The ghost stuff of the ancient warriors whose bones still lay above us.
And their voices too would seem pressing on us in the clammy cloud.
All right, take five, Corporal.
Yes, sir.
We stopped and leaned back against the cliff wall.
The trail was only a foot wide here, out beyond the red mist.
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 him.
I heard plenteous stories like that overseas, 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 can happen, but what, sir?
Well, when a soldier comes back out of the lines, when a soldier is back in the rear area and safe and begins to kill his own outfit,
and there's nothing anyone can do to help him, 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 destroying.
Yes, sir.
We're cut off completely up here, Corporal.
You can do anything you want with the rest of the outfit.
You've got the gun.
Yes, Captain.
Ah!
That's the first time I never saw your carbine leaning against the counter some see here.
And you never will again, Rabbit Stockings.
I'd expect that dumb Indian to bury a man's weapon with him, but not a white man, because of a valuable gun.
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 mace, sir.
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 stuck it out when they could have quit.
Yes, they did. And he was their son.
Suspense.
In which Reed Hadley starred in Red Cloud Mesa.
Listen.
Listen to Suspense when we return with Miss Sarah Churchill in Charles Dickens' tale of terror, The Signalman.
A story well calculated to keep you in.
Suspense.
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.