Thunderheart Page #5

MILES:

Indian kids. Hunting fossils.

Cooch studies the body from where he stands. Sherman hands a

file over to Ray.

COOCH:

Okay. I think Agent Levoi and I can

proceed from here. What are your

call signals?

SHERMAN:

PX-10 and 11. Anything we can do to

help you out, just radio.

COOCH:

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.

RAY:

Leo Fast Elk... Thirty seven...

single... Member of the Tribal

Council.

Cooch makes a note then slowly circles the body. He holds a

hand out to Ray and the younger agent turns the file over.

COOCH:

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.

RAY:

Six rounds. 357.

COOCH:

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.

RAY:

Somebody was serious about doing

this guy, that's for sure.

COOCH:

Ray.

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.

POV:

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

figure.

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.

COOCH:

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.

COOCH:

Taking ol' Leo somewhere?

CROW HORSE:

Leo's been out here too long, man.

I'm taking him to ceremonial burial.

RAY:

This is a restricted area.

COOCH:

Check him out, Ray.

Ray frisks the Indian, finds an old leather wallet, and then

a gun. A .38.

COOCH:

Nice piece. You come back here to

cover your tracks, Geronimo? What's

your name?

CROW HORSE:

It ain't Geronimo.

COOCH:

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

him.

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