Thunderheart Page #7

COOCH:

Keeping of the souls. Do they still

burn their dead or something?

RAY:

Beats the hell outta me.

Ray and Cooch look off across the Badlands, as far out of

their element as they can be.

CLOSE ON - THE WHITE EAGLE PLUME

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

Allowed."

(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.

COOCH:

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.)

Hey!

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

man

COOCH:

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.

COOCH:

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

RAY:

(quickly)

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

desperately.

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.

RAY:

I thought we were staying on the

reservation.

CLEAR MOON:

Yes. Rooms thirteen and fourteen are

on Indian land.

RAY:

I see.

CLEAR MOON:

Are you hungry? I have some nice raw

kidney in the truck.

RAY:

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

COOCH:

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.

EXT. RESERVATION LINE - NIGHT

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.

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