a new low in topical enlightenment

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Issue #155 (April 17, 2018)

Bald Mountain
Photograph by Joe Carducci

SSTs – Electronics & Records
Joe Carducci

SST Electronics was Greg Ginn’s original business, though it may have grown out of his publishing a ham radio fanzine, The Novice, that he must’ve been doing in junior high! Greg built and sold antenna tuners based on his own patents to ham radio operators world-wide. Sales increased through advertising and a distributor in Ohio (if I recall). Greg’s electronics mentor retired and turned over his mailing address, P.O. Box 1, Lawndale to him. And Greg began to rent a number of early offices around Hermosa Beach. The beginnings of Black Flag included a songwriting period which included Greg’s brother Raymond on bass and probably took place at their parents’ house on the 1200 block of 21st St. SST Electronics required assemblers of the merchandise – soldering tuners’ circuitry and putting them into stock housings. In the period after I arrived (Sept. 1981) Greg told me he’d learned that if his crew had pot to smoke they seemed to focus better on getting the units soldered and ordered filled. But I was glad the band was then in something of a pot-smoking hiatus. Mugger told me Greg figured I smoked and had prepared them for my expected arrival trailing clouds of contact high.

Over all these early addresses the Ginn family’s house was central to the enterprises. I’m told the Mrs., Oie Ginn, died last October; her husband Regis died in 2005. They met in London during the war; he was U.S. 8th Army Air Corps and she a refugee from Soviet-occupied Estonia. They both hated Russians! You can read more about them in Henry Rollins’ Get In the Van, my Enter Naomi, and other literature on their sons Gregory and Raymond; the Ginns weren’t people you forget. It was no bed of roses for them but I think they liked most of us even as we traipsed through their living room or crashed there more often than ideal. They served in My War too.

Gigs and tours and recording aside, here’s where it mostly happened:

1215 Manhattan Ave., Hermosa Beach

SST Records addresses, plus satellite offices – years approximate:

1603 Aviation Blvd, Hermosa Beach – 1977-78
One space in this building was the practice pad for the band, then called Panic, in 1977. They played their first sets here for friends. It was not far from Keith Morris’ dad’s fishing supplies store, Jerry’s Tackle Box, south on the other side of Aviation. Panic recorded the “Nervous Breakdown” ep in Dec. 1977-Jan. 1978 at Media Art in Hermosa Beach.

1215 Manhattan Ave, Hermosa Beach – 1978-79
This was the Creative Craft Center, aka The Church. Now the Abigaile Restaurant stands on the lot. Black Flag with Raymond, Spot, and Medea were filmed here for “The Decline of Western Civilization” (1981). More Black Flag’s practice and crash-pad, then SST Records office, still some SST Electronics soldering may have gone on here. Mostly practicing, songwriting, gigging and finding/founding a scene that now included The Last, Red Cross and The Descendents. The Last had released their first 45 and sent Black Flag to Virco in Alhambra to press “Nervous Breakdown”. Having a record meant they had an easier time playing around LA and beyond; they played San Francisco, Phoenix, San Diego and then touring their way up to Vancouver and back at the end of 1979.

157 Pier Ave, Hermosa Beach – 1978-79
In what is now Java Man coffeehouse, Greg & Medea lived and SST tuners were assembled by Mugger and others around the band. It is south of where The Church stood, across a parking lot.
I had given up on Hollywood in 1977 and moved to Portland where I was soon helping turn an import record shop into an independent record distributor. In 1979 I saw SST’s ad in Slash magazine for the Black Flag record and I wrote for a sample. We moved Systematic Record Distribution down to Berkeley, California at the end of 1979 and by the time the “Nervous Breakdown” copy was forwarded to us and I wrote to order copies they had sold out the first pressing, as well as a follow-up run. Today one sees municipal touting of Hermosa Beach’s punk heritage but back as the scene coalesced around The Church, Hermosa’s city fathers set its finest against its worst and the punks were kicked out of The Church and warned to stay out of town. The first Black Flag touring van wound up with one of the Ginn girls and whenever her husband used it to haul anything he told me he’d be pulled over by any Hermosa policeman who caught sight of it.
1409 Sartori Ave, Torrance – 1980-81
This business address in downtown Torrance was the SST office (and Black Flag practice pad) that was more Record company than Electronics office. Soldering tuners was still going on but now the band was played by Rodney Bingenheimer on KROQ, they recorded and released “Jealous Again”, and Minutemen’s debut ep “Paranoid Time”. They were getting known and cutting figures in Torrance, where I’m guessing the muff began to flow more seriously. In Hermosa it was the looks of the scene so close to the beach and tourism that alarmed. Here in Torrance it was the stream of high school girls hanging out at SST that inspired the cops to pose as winos in the alley behind SST looking for a pretext. The distributor Jem up in Reseda told Greg that the Torrance PD had come in right after he’d delivered records and went through the boxes expecting to find drugs. The last real manufacturing of SST Electronics occurred here with Minutemen joining that work crew. I was ordering records regularly from SST by late 1980 and I happened to call down one day in spring 1981 while the Torrance Police Dept. was raiding this office. The band had just left for their second tour east. Spot answered the phone laughing strangely, but wouldn’t say anything to me except, “I don’t know…”, finally he handed the phone to Mike Watt who told me the cops were ransacking the place looking for drugs.
Kicked out of Torrance while on the east coast, there was suddenly no SST office all through Summer 1981. I was in Chicago and saw Black Flag play Tut’s on July 15. It was one of the last gigs with Dez on vocals; Henry was travelling back to LA with them to become the new singer. I offered to come down to LA and run their office at this gig; Greg laughed and said they didn’t really have an office to run but he was interested in the idea. The band stayed at what was called the Oxford house in Koreatown and Chuck did phone business outside at a bank of three payphones. In these years Spot was often moving a growing vault-full of multi-track and two-track master tapes from one place to another; I think he finally stowed them at his parents' house in Crenshaw until he moved to Austin.
8611 Santa Monica Blvd -rear, West Hollywood – Aug. 1981-Mar. 1982
Spot’s job in addition to recording bands at Media Art and doing live sound at gigs and on tour, was to figure out mastering and pressing issues. When Media Art closed in May 1981 (The Stains was the last thing done there) Spot canvassed other studios in LA and found Unicorn. It was a studio and a label with some empty offices to rent as well. The convenience overruled a certain weirdness factor. I came down to SST here in September 1981; we all slept on the floors and could walk up to the Sunset Strip clubs and Tower Records. “Damaged”, “Meat Puppets”, “TV Party” 45, the instrument tracks for Overkill’s “Triumph of the Will”, and the Frazier Smith-Black Flag interview promotional album were recorded at Unicorn in late 1981 thru March 1982. Unicorn moved to Santa Monica in March and although Black Flag and Saccharine Trust practiced in that building briefly and a party or two occurred there, SST never did business out of there.

1900 Phelan Ave, Redondo Beach – Mar. 1982-84
This space was one room with a bathroom/shower. It had been rented by Greg or his brother-in-law or parents to store Greg’s electronics supplies. SST Electronics was still nominally in business but there was no energy put into it. Mugger had moved me down to LA from Berkeley and we loaded my few possessions, mostly a record collection, into this space. So when we left Unicorn due to the gathering weirdness we organized this small room into the new SST. I was glad to get out of West Hollywood and down to the south bay and see Black Flag’s old stomping grounds. For awhile it was crowded but the band toured all year and into 1983 on “Damaged”. Spot left the tour and moved in. That was good since he found that one of the Media Art guys had opened Total Access Studio in Redondo Beach. Naomi Petersen became our label photographer here and Mugger left the tour crew, started taking night courses in business and changed the checking account from SST Electronics to SST Records. Once with just Davo and myself at the place Greg’s old girlfriend Medea crashlanded with her boyfriend for about a week; that sure broke up the monotony of putting out great records. Greg and his parents figured out a way to move them to Cleveland which almost worked – they got back up to Hollywood anyway, and before the Redondo PD identified her on the street and traced her to us. Greg decided to sell the SST Electronics materials and rights to his distributor but he couldn’t spend the time to organize it so the manufacturing could be transferred and the sale fell through. The only soldering I ever saw was Greg soldering his live guitar’s electronics after a stage-diver tripped and pulled the chord-jack out mid-set; the band improvised while Greg’s soldering made noise as he repaired it.
2612 Artesia Blvd -rear, Redondo Beach – 1983-1986 Global 1, I’d forgotten that Raymond had found a small office in this building first for use as a studio and as it was just a block away from SST-Phelan a nice two-story rear space became a satellite office up top for Chuck’s booking as well as a practice space below. Black Flag’s road crew, Davo Claassen and Tom Troccoli were based here, and Jordan Schwartz did booking with Chuck. Black Flag played a lot, but Gone, Dog, Slovenly, and others practiced here too. Dave Rat built a PA system for touring and so he was around here too methinks. SST Publications and the Global scene crowded Raymond out of his own studio. I think the booking and tour pr and maybe Nixon Management was moved into this “annex” and Naomi Petersen became a full-time employee here in early 1986.
2414 Ralston Ln -rear, Redondo Beach – 1984
This was a small garage apartment behind Greg’s sister Linda Flynn's house. We stored records in the garage itself; the SST catalog was expanding and forcing us to move often. Mugger was in charge of finding what we needed and SST’s cash-flow independent of Black Flag’s gig revenue was just beginning to amount to something. SST was here for just a few months during which I stayed at the Ginns’ house on 21st St., but then I moved into this garage apartment when SST was off to Lawndale. (There's nothing to see here so please don't bother whoever is now living in this house!)

14147 Hawthorne Blvd, Lawndale – 1984
This office in a small plaza was where we added merchandise and employees – Jeannine Garfias took over the expanded mail order and Mike Watt worked retail promo on the phone as “Spaceman.” When he had big promotional mailings to go out you could find D. Boon, Tom Troccoli and Dave Claassen come by for a day. The video for Minutemen’s cover of The Urinals’ “Ack Ack Ack” was shot here by John Talley-Jones when we vacated to move on to the next place.

13209 S. Inglewood Ave, Hawthorne – 1985-86
When Mugger found this place I didn’t think SST would ever have to move again. It had a loading dock or maybe it was a drive in warehouse plus a big open office space and even a foyer. Staff adds were Ray Farrell, Linda Trudnich, and the new Spaceman, Mike Whittaker (Minutemen could now tour so Mike and D. weren’t around the office as much). Mugger picked up day-laborers as needed and I think he settled on a couple dependable guys who were our warehousemen – they didn’t speak a word of English. The label was running smoothly although our distributors all started labels that were looking for imitation SST bands when they weren’t snooping around the real things. I left SST here in March 1986. Rich Ford took over the manufacturing end of things when I was last assigning catalog numbers in the SST 080s I think, and Kara Nicks took over the mail order on Jeannine’s recommendation after the accident that killed D. Boon. Kara describes Raymond coming over one day and removing artwork intended for use on Black Flag’s “Who’s Got the 10½?” and the “Annihilate the Week” ep covers. I’m glad I missed that.
2401 Torrance Blvd, Torrance – 1986-87 The Global crew moved to this office probably in late 86. We’d been doing printing, typesetting, photo lab work in the south bay again for a few years so the various police departments mellowed out a bit on Black Flag activities, plus the band was done as of August 1986.
21176 Alameda St, Carson – 1987-1992
Mugger found this even bigger complex and moved both SST and Global offices together. We probably shouldn’t have separated them but it was hard to give up the Phelan office with its shower and $150/month rent. There were some additional staff added but everyone was here but me now. I visited once when I came back to produce the final SST release by Saint Vitus, “Mournful Cries”. Later on people began to leave or be weeded out in the parlance.

10500 Humbolt St, Los Alamitos – 1993-96
Never saw this place but on Google-satellite it looks huge; SST was probably releasing catalog numbers in the SST 300s. I think Mugger was gone so was no longer piloting the logistics of SST’s needs.

441 E. 4th St, Long Beach – 1996-2007
Greg bought this enormous building w/ parking lot across street at the real estate bottom. When he sold it ten years later he probably made more than SST cumulative had in total through its history. For a short period he and Chuck ran the Idea Room club in addition to the label and the Casa Destroy recording studio. I know very little about this place but I did go by there twice, once with filmmaker Jim Sikora who had made music videos for Greg Ginn solo tunes which don’t appear to be up on youtube. Chuck let us in and we were talking but when Greg came by he didn’t acknowledge my presence except to shake his head as he walked past. The other time with Mugger out of curiosity but it was all locked up. I think that Greg recorded some with Jack Brewer and Keith Morris here. The label was in the building but understaffed and just tending to catalog unless Greg had something to release.

406 Talbot St, Taylor TX – 2008-present
Another huge building, part warehouse, part studio, part practice-pad, part crash-pad. I gather Greg had custody of his daughters for awhile here. Records have been released from here, CDs anyway, and the mail order and distribution functions somehow.

Ancillary addresses of note, years approximate:

1201 The Strand, Hermosa Beach – 1976-78 The Würm-hole. At the Hermosa Pier, west of the Strand were some derelict buildings since replaced by the county’s Southern Section Lifeguard station which gives 1201 The Strand as an address. Chuck’s pre-Black Flag band, Würm, lived and practiced in the old Bathhouse section rent-free; now there’s the definition of a Golden Age, sleazing by at the beach.

8847 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood – 1992-1994 The SST Superstore. This was on the Sunset Strip. The Germs’ Pat Smear and The Leaving Trains’ Falling James were clerks here. I went in there once but neither one was there to talk to. For the hell of it I bought the earliest SST 7” records on 3” CD format.

2485 Long Beach Blvd, Long Beach – 1988-89 Cruz Records had this separate office run by Greg with Craig Ibarra and Ron Coleman. This side-label (All, Skinyard, Big Drill Car, Chemical People…) then joined SST at the Carson address.

There’s some Hermosa Beach color in Keith Morris’ book, My Damage, and its the focus of this Keith feature, Wild In the Streets, put together in 2010 by Don Waller for the Easy Reader.

(Thanks for help in assembling this go to Chuck Dukowski, Spot, Jordan Schwartz, Keith Morris, Craig Ibarra and Mike Watt, and to Knocko Nolan for asking – he’s LAPD and swears Black Flag had fans in the department.)

American Myths Violated & Realities Revealed: Photographs by SPOT

“Cornelius Projects is pleased to present American Myths Violated & Realities Revealed: Photographs by SPOT. The exhibition is from April 21–May 26, 2018 with an opening reception on Saturday, April 21 from 6–8:45 PM.

“Continue to celebrate the exhibition at Harold’s Place, 1908 S Pacific Ave, San Pedro, CA from 9 PM–12 AM, $5 at the door with live music by 2-Bit Whore (Steve Reed); The Farmers (featuring George Hurley); Los Olvidados Nig? Heist? (SPOT and Mugger); The Real Oh My (Mike Watt/Nick Reinhart/Bob Lee).
“The son of a Tuskegee Airman from Monrovia, California and a Creole and Choctaw mother from New Orleans, SPOT (born Glen Lockett in 1951) came of age in Los Angeles during the late 1960s and 1970s when America was experiencing a cultural awakening and breakdown of societal, cultural and political legacies from Civil Rights to Watergate. Crossing cultural divides and armed with a camera, SPOT navigated disparate Southern California communities including West Adams, Hollywood and the South Bay. He focused his lens primarily on non-conformists from longhaired hippies, rock musicians, and roller skaters to the early 1980s punk music scene. SPOT’s images capture and expose in black and white the energy and social climates of Southern California’s offbeat subcultures with clarity and sense of belonging.
“An accomplished musician and multi-instrumentalist, SPOT is best known for being the house producer and engineer for the punk record label SST Records. He recorded and produced most of SST’s pivotal acts between 1979 and 1985. He is credited on albums by such notable bands as Black Flag, Minutemen, Meat Puppets, Hüsker Dü, St. Vitus, Descendents, Misfits, Big Boys and Dicks. In 2014 his book Sounds of Two Eyes Opening: Southern Cali Punk/Surf/Skate Culture 69-82, Photographs by Spot was published by Sinecure Books.
“A conversation with SPOT and fellow Punk Rock instigators including Joe Carducci, Mugger and Steve Reed is planned for Saturday, April 28 from 7–9 PM.

“Following the opening reception on Saturday, April 21 from 6–8:45 PM, Cornelius Projects will be open Friday through Sunday from noon to 5 PM. A red flag flies outside our door when we are open. Appointments can also be made to view the exhibition by calling (310) 266-9216.”

Laurie Steelink Cornelius Projects 1417 South Pacific Avenue San Pedro, California 90731 (310) 266-9216

Photograph by Joe Carducci

I’ve written six screenplays since finishing my film book, Stone Male; three are Westerns. This second one I tried to simplify after the first became a historical epic. This one got mid-sized so I scaled down the third Western script to early Burt Kennedy/late Budd Boetticher territory. We’ll try to make that one but the other two remain available in this surely soon-to-be Western-crazy environment we live in. I’ve re-formatted this here so as to conserve cyberspace which I hear is rapidly filling up just as the frontier did.

Joe Carducci

Close up: The eastern horizon brightens and the sun appears. Dissolve to:

Wide shot: The desert floor.

Title: Mojave Desert, 1866

An old miner, RUFE, walks with his canteen in one hand and a smoke-stained coffee pot in the other. He sets the coffee pot down next to the fire. Then he sets the canteen by his pack and leads his donkey around the rock formation to the water hole. The donkey drinks and Rufe scans the horizon until he notices something around the rocks.

Rufe looks over some bones that have been scattered around. He picks up one end of some denim pants and brushes off some dirt before hearing the clink of coins in a pocket. He shakes some silver coins out of the pocket and then drops the denim to study them before slipping the coins into his pocket. Rufe looks around in the dirt for other bones until he finds a discolored skull. He picks it up.

RUFE: There you are.
Rufe blows some dirt off of it and inspects a cracked indent on the back and sets it on a nearby rock facing him.
RUFE: You’ll get more sun here, friend.
Rufe walks back to his campsite. He sips coffee from a tin cup as he kicks dirt on the fire and stamps it out. His donkey eats at scrub grass. He pours more coffee into his cup and then makes his way up the nearby rock formation. Rufe sets his cup down and scans around the horizon as he catches his breath. He starts at seeing something in the distance.
RUFE: More company, damn it.
Rufe squints into the distance.

Close up, Telephoto: The approaching dust from several horsemen. Rufe grabs his cup and carefully picks his way back down to his camp. Rufe has packed up his donkey and waits as the riders, including the SHERIFF, JACK the livery man, and three more TOWNSMEN lead their horses to the water hole. The SHERIFF nods and steps over to Rufe, glancing around as he speaks.
SHERIFF: I’m Sheriff Cobb Dunsing from Belleville...
Rufe nods expectantly.
SHERIFF: You seen anybody out here? 
RUFE: No, I seen one Mojave boy out on his spirit hunt. He was sucking on locoweed so he didn’t bother me. 
SHERIFF: They’re not staying on the reservation, are they? But we’re looking for white men.
Jack and some other Riders step over to listen.
SHERIFF: The Tuesday stage was robbed. 
RUFE: I didn’t know I was close to Belleville. 
SHERIFF: Well, you aren’t. We’re two days out and were heading back when we saw your smoke.
RUFE: How many white men you looking for? 

Rufe nods at the other men.
JACK: Who are them bones over there, old-timer?
The Sheriff looks surprised.
RUFE: Looks like a white man hit on the head, years ago, wouldn’t ya say? 
SHERIFF: That sound right, Jack? 
JACK: Yeah... 
RUFE: I may not be that old. I just now set his skull out on that rock so... well it seemed right to do.
SHERIFF: Can I ask you your name? 

RUFE: I’m Rufe Maddon, Sheriff. 
SHERIFF: Well, good luck to ya, Rufe.
The Sheriff nods to Rufe, then turns back to his horse and the Riders all mount and leave. Rufe watches and then leads his donkey in the other direction. Dissolve to:

Pan: The wide desert valley.

Three white men, COLE the leader and two brothers DOUG and BOBBY, are on foot leading their horses down the far side of a mountain ridge. Loose stones clatter down ahead of them. They pull up and stop at a level patch to catch their breath.

COLE: Hold up...
They stop and steady their horses on the flat.
COLE: Damn, I want to live to spend it! 
DOUG: We made it. 
BOBBY: We’re safe, right Cole? 
COLE: I don’t think they’ll follow us over that, Bobby.
Cole takes an arrow in the chest and his eyes open wide before he falls over. The other two freeze momentarily and then bolt downhill leaving their horses. They knock loose more stones and rocks as they run and slide downhill toward the valley floor.

Cut to:

Doug and Bobby are exhausted and fall to all fours. As the last stones roll down around them, five MOJAVE Indians step up around them. The Mojave wear long loinclothes over earth-colored clothes. The brothers look up but are too tired to run or resist. Anya’eely Hulla, BLACK MOON, leads this small band; he wears only the loincloth and his tattooed lines over his body show. He is only a few years older than the others but his authority requires them to regularly glance at him to confirm what they are doing. Black Moon leads the three horses down to the others. The dead body of Cole is laid across the saddle of the lead horse.

BLACK MOON: (Mojave: Take their clothes and send them away.) 
MOJAVE 1: (Alive?) 
BLACK MOON: (They will draw the white man.)
The Mojave pull off the clothes of Doug and Bobby, punching them as they do. Black Moon pulls Cole’s body from the horse and lets it fall before his Men; they undress the corpse too. Black Moon inspects the pistols, ammunition belts, saddles and rolls while the others shout at now naked Doug and Bobby. Their faces and arms are tanned against the whiteness of the rest of their bodies. Doug and Bobby are reluctant at first but then run off around the edge of the rocks. The Mojave look through the saddle bags of the horses. Mojave 2 finds a small bible, some jewelry, a watch fob, and coins and shows these to Black Moon who nods to save them. The others inspect the pistols excitedly. Mojave 3 pulls out loose bundles of large new greenbacks, frowns at them and dumps them on the ground. Another Mojave fires off a gun into the air and then laughs to the others. Cut to:

Medium shot: Not far away Doug and Bobby react to the gunshot by dodging and running faster.

Close up: Rufe has heard the distant gunshot and he cranes his neck as he steps out for a look, and listens for more. Cut to:

The Mojave now wear the Thieves’ hats, gun-belts and other bits of clothing. The rest of their clothes are bundled over one horse and the horses are led away. Black Moon stays behind a moment and looks at the pile of newly printed currency on the ground and decides to pick up a handful of the bills. He stuffs those into a saddlebag and leaves the rest of the currency behind with Cole’s body. Dissolve to:

Wide pan: The desert at sunset.

The small frontier town is quiet and mostly dark but for one bar still lit by lanterns inside and out. The Sheriff’s Posse ride slowly into town exhausted. The Posse dismount, leaving their horses loose to find the water trough on their own. The men drag themselves into the saloon.

Cut to:

The BARTEND washing glasses and the BOY mopping the floor stop and come to the bar to hear what the Men have to say after days on the hunt.

BARTEND: Sheriff! 
SHERIFF: Beer and more beer, Arch.
The Men line up and lean heavily against the bar. The Boy helps the Bartender pour multiple beers for each of the men. The men at the bar are silent and down their first beers directly. As they catch their breath...
SHERIFF: They hit the rocks and we lost the trail one day out.
They start on the second round and Bartend and Boy refill the first mugs. Then the Bartend waits for the Sheriff to lower his mug.
BARTEND: You gonna ask the Fort for help? 
SHERIFF: No, they scrounged that company up from the gold-mine bust up north. Captain wouldn’t be able to keep his soldiers from stealing what they found. 
BARTEND: (dryly) What about that oath they swear to?
The Sheriff smiles.
SHERIFF: Put these beers on paper for the city, Arch.
The Bartend nods and pulls up a pad of paper to tote it up. Sheriff hoists another beer. Fade to black.

Wide shot: At dawn reveille sounds in the distance, the Colorado River in the foreground, the fort to the east against brightening sky.

The fort, set on a short wide mesa east of the river, includes barracks, officers’ quarters, livery barn, batterie and sutler’s store; it is open to the desert and looks over the nearby Colorado River. The makeshift PLATOON of about forty are in rough formation and dressed in a catchall of uniforms and work clothes at dawn for the raising of the flag; reveille ends. The Sutler, PERRIN, and the Indian Agent, Superintendant OLSON, stand on the store’s porch watching and sipping coffee. Perrin wears neat simple work clothes while Olson wears a suit. The Troop salutes almost as one and are dismissed by the SERGEANT. CAPTAIN Cooledge and LIEUTENANT Hayes walk to the office. The Indian scout, TUHUDDA, lingers behind the officers. Tuhudda is in his forties with deeply lined face and is dressed even less formally with his long black hair and bandana.
Cut to:

The Captain motions the Lieutenant to the easy chairs near the fireplace as a middle-aged Indian woman, AMALIA Gomez, brings a tray with a coffee pot and two cups to the table between them. Amalia pours each cup and then silently leaves the room for the back.

LIEUTENANT: Thank you, Captain.
They sip their coffee a moment.
CAPTAIN: So Lieutenant, how is the Sergeant doing pulling a construction detail together?
LIEUTENANT: He expects he will have ten men with the skills to speed construction on the reservation.

CAPTAIN: Ten! We can hope. 
LIEUTENANT: It’s a good bet those men who skipped out on the contractor robbed that stage. Do we assist and advise the Sheriff on that, Captain? 
CAPTAIN: No just send a notice to the Sheriff about the missing men; he’ll understand. I don’t want to get involved at the reservation either, but we can’t move the Mojave onto it til its built.
Captain pauses to sip coffee.
CAPTAIN: (motions) And we have that Indian agent hanging around here! 
LIEUTENANT: His sutler’s more comfortable than his office, I guess. I’ll take him back with me today and we’ll see what the contractor will need. 
CAPTAIN: Good. And uh... pack up tents and a cook’s wagon so the men know they won’t be coming back til the job’s done. I want them desperate to get back here. 
LIEUTENANT: Yes sir. I’ll start on that requisition and have them ready to go tomorrow.
The Lieutenant stands and Captain follows.
CAPTAIN: And Lieutenant Hayes, they are watching us back in Washington. 
LIEUTENANT: Yes sir, I understand.
They salute and the Lieutenant leaves. The Captain with his cup steps over to the large map of the U.S. and its Territories near his desk.
Dissolve to:

On a mountain ridge top an old hunting camp of about ten brush-walled wikiups around a fire-pit has been revived by the WOMEN of Black Moon’s band plus an older SHAMAN. The Women are wearing canvas dresses from the reservation store but these are decorated with shells, quills and feathers. Some have face tattoos. The Women are busy with cooking, working a loom, a couple babies, some children and feeding horses in a corral when Black Moon’s Men ride up slowly on their ponies with the Thieves’ horses on a string behind them. The Women stop their work and greet their Men. Only Black Moon has no woman here. At the sounds of their greetings the Shaman ducks out of his wikiup and stands up; he is a dark Shaman who wears animal skins over his full body and face tattoos, and an elaborate headdress of skins, claws and shells; the SHAMAN’S WIFE looks out of the doorway after him but stays inside. The other Women fear him.

Two of the Mojave men take the saddles off the thieves’ horses and leave them outside the Shaman’s wikiup so he can inspect everything for use in magic. Black Moon picks his horse from the rest being taken to the corral.

BLACK MOON: (Mojave: I will go and return with Neolge.)
The Shaman turns to place his hand on Black Moon’s shoulder and nods.
SHAMAN: (I will follow and you will return safely, Black Moon.)
Mojave 1 hands Black Moon a bowl of water and he drinks it. Then Black Moon mounts his horse and rides off.
Dissolve to:

Montage: Black Moon rides slowly down from elevation and then begins to cross the desert valley.

The reservation is north of the mesa that the fort sits on. The Agent’s office is the only finished modern building. There are piles of milled wood and foundation stone, and many hogans and wikiups surround the center fire-pit. There is also a corral for plow horses out by the planted fields near the river. The Lieutenant and Indian Agent Olson ride onto the reservation. Olson waves the CONTRACTOR over to his office from his work overseeing a small number of white and Mojave WORKERS. The Lieutenant talks with Olson and the Contractor, pointing out an empty area for the troopers work camp.
Dissolve to:

Close up: The sun sets against the providence mountains.

Black Moon rides past the fields, then past a load of lumber and the half-built structure the Contractor’s crew had been working on.
Cut to:

Close up: The Shaman’s face inside his smoky, fire-lit wikiup. He is in a moon flower trance and out following Black Moon.
Cut to:

Shaman POV, aerial: Black Moon moving slowly on horseback is seen from above by the light of the reservation’s fires.
Cut to:

Black Moon comes to some permanent Mojave hogan structures made of mud-packed logs and branches. Light comes from a fire-pit nearby and some torches that illuminate the Indian Agent’s office. Black Moon ties his horse beside one of the hogans and then walks up to two MOJAVE men sitting at the fire. They talk quietly for a moment and then Black Moon returns to the hogan. Black Moon quietly announces himself before entering.
Cut to:

Black Moon and his wife, Neolge THONATHON (Sun’s heat), embrace and then she lights a lantern with a match. Black Moon picks up the box of matches and studies it, then sets it down.

BLACK MOON: (The white man changes everything, even fire.) 
THONATHON: (The white man looks for you every day; we must go, husband.) 
BLACK MOON: (You are ready?)
She nods.
BLACK MOON: (You have told my Whalia and your Neolge people?)
She nods.
THONATHON: (They will bring the children.)
He nods.
Cut to:

Shaman POV, aerial: Black Moon walks his horse and a pack-horse silently back through the reservation, followed by Thonathon leading her horse.
Dissolve to:

Close up: The waning moon.

Black Moon pauses in the moonlight and he and Thonathon dismount. He holds the reins of all three horses while she combs the nearby gully. Thonathon picks several of the night blooming Moon flowers. She sets the flowers into the saddle pocket. They remount and move along.
Dissolve to:

Wide: The eastern horizon brightens.

Rufe’s camp is further up the ridge now. He is looking around in the early morning light, sipping coffee from his tin cup as his donkey lies nearby. Rufe spots Doug and Bobby making their way up to him.

RUFE: Comp’ny again... And Hay-zoos, Rocky, they naked as robins!
Rufe shakes his head at the sight of them approaching. He returns to his campfire and throws more wood on the fire and sets his tin cup next to the coffee pot. Then he leads his donkey away.
RUFE: Come along now, you don’t want to see this.
Rufe leads the donkey above rocks further up, overlooking the campsite. He waits with his small single-shot rifle. Doug and Bobby step out into his clearing, looking at the fire and then looking around. They are exhausted from the climb and sunburnt from yesterday; they sit down by the fire to warm themselves from the cold night and drink the coffee, sharing the one cup. They groan in relief.
RUFE: (O.C.) Like my coffee, boys?
They look around and at each other before answering.
DOUG: Oh, you don’t know Mister! Thank you! 
BOBBY: Injuns attacked us; took our clothes and everything. 
RUFE: (O.C.) You boys those stage-robbers they looking for, ain’t you?
They look at each other.
DOUG: No, we were heading for the Providents... heard there was gold up there. 
RUFE: (O.C.) Where’s the third one of ya? 
BOBBY: Injuns killed him.
Doug waves him to keep quiet.Rufe steps around holding some clothes and also his rifle by the barrel. They look around at him but stay warming themselves by the fire. Doug raises his cup to him smiling.
RUFE: Well I got one extra pair a pants and some long johns...
Rufe moves over to a rock and sets the clothing there at a safe distance. Doug and Bobby leave the campfire and struggle over the pants. Rufe moves to the fire and picks up his coffee-pot and cup. Bobby puts on the long johns and Doug puts on the pants.
RUFE: You best head for Belleville. That’s the closest town. They’ll sell you some clothes, long as you ain’t those thieves. 
DOUG: We’re miners like you. 
RUFE: You won’t find no gold in the Providence. Silver maybe. 
DOUG: Maybe we can throw in with you.
Rufe shakes his head no and half-raises his rifle.
BOBBY: We’re handy with a pick and shovel. 
RUFE: No, no... I been on my own since ‘49, well ‘50 anyways. You might find more clothes over down that south edge. Animals scattered a dead man’s bones but I seen his pants. Sheriff and his posse did too. Look around over there; maybe you’ll find a shirt... Well boys, good luck to ya.
Rufe steps back up and away. Doug and Bobby look at each other.
BOBBY: (whispers) Sheriff’s posse! Doug motions him to be quiet.
Cut to:

Doug and Bobby stand on a rock promontory and look down at Rufe and his donkey disappear across the valley. Doug wears the too-short pants and Bobby the faded full-body long johns.

BOBBY: We shoulda took him! 
DOUG: He would’ve shot one of us, little brother, and I didn’t hear you volunteer... Let’s go look for that shirt.
They start down carefully on bare feet.
Dissolve to:

Wide: Mojave desert in heat of the day.


Wide: The construction squad of ten soldiers arrives on horseback with cook’s wagon and supply wagon in tow. Mojave KIDS run up from different points to watch or jump onto the sides and backs of the wagons.

Montage: The soldiers occupy the marked area for their camp and begin to pitch tents, dig latrine, and prep a lunch.

The COOK drives the kids from his wagon by raising a butcher knife at them, mugging and waving them nearer. They run screaming.

The camp is quiet during the heat of the day as Black Moon and Thonathon ride up slowly to their wikiup. They dismount and she unloads the pack horse, then he leads the horses to the corral.
Cut to:

The brush walls are shaved flat for the inside and let in a dim light on the north side; the south wall is lined by blankets. Thonathon is unpacking the bundle.Black Moon enters and hands her the Moon flowers and she sets them aside carefully. She hands him a bowl of water and he drinks and gives it back to her. He lies down to sleep. She leaves the wikiup. Fade to black.

The stagecoach enters town and pulls to a stop at the hotel where a BELLHOP helps the PASSENGERS out. The stage driver, RED, locks the break and then climbs down.

RED: Twenty minutes folks.
Jack the livery man nods to Red as he goes to tend to the horse team. The Passengers step into the hotel and Red walks down the street.
Cut to:

The Sheriff is watching Red as he pages through the wanted posters. Red stands to stretch before he has to sit on the stage box again.

SHERIFF: Thanks for coming in Red. 
RED: Sure. Bank in Tucson wants to know what happened so I wanted to check in. No luck?
SHERIFF: I have to go back out. Hate to with no deputy. They don’t ever stay for a second payday.
RED: Yeah, I hate to roll without a second riding shotgun but they didn’t find me another yet.
Red flips through the last of the posters and hands them to the Sheriff.
RED: There sure ain’t no shortage of thievin’ bastards... 
SHERIFF: Not one of ‘em looks right? 
RED: Might be any mother’s son of ‘em done it, except the fat one. 
SHERIFF: You buried Jeff right? I’ve been gone. 
RED: Yeah, stones and all. Just needs a marker. You got your report for the mail? 
SHERIFF: I’ll have it to you a minute. 
RED: I have passengers waiting so make it quick. (sighs) Your deputies and my shotguns...
Red leaves and the Sheriff sets the posters back in their file before sitting down to write up a report.
Dissolve to:

Near familiar large rocks at the foot of a ridge we hear the clinking of a hammer on rock. The shadows are late day. The donkey is wandering towards some of the scattered greenbacks and begins eating them. The hammer stops clinking. Rufe has set down the hammer and is pulling open a cracked stone and studying it in the sunlight. He tosses it aside. Rufe wipes his brow and checks the low sun as he walks back to his campsite. He notices a dust cloud rising and climbs a rock to get a better look.
Cut to:

Close up, telephoto: The stagecoach runs quickly across the desert.
Cut to:

Rufe looks around the small clearing in the rocks where his cold fire-pit and supplies are spread out for the night. He’s looking for the donkey.
RUFE: Rocky.
He walks around and through some of the rocks along the foot of the ridge until he sees the donkey.
RUFE: What do you got there, Rocky?
Rufe steps up and pats the donkey and then sees the scattered greenbacks and the pile of them up ahead. He picks one up and reads haltingly.
RUFE: Payable at the U.S. Treasury at New York... (laughs and tosses it) You’ll eat anything, Rocky. Last time it was Richmond paper.
Rufe walks over to the pile of greenbacks and moves them around with his foot to see if anything is underneath them.
RUFE: Not a plugged nickel...
Rufe picks up a few of the bills and stuffs them into the bag on his donkey. He leads the donkey back to his campsite.
RUFE: Time for my dinner, Rocky.
Rufe turns and then notices something and abruptly runs out around some rocks causing a half dozen large birds to take flight.
Cut to:

Rufe stands over Cole’s body which is gouged up a little by the birds.

RUFE: There’s the other one....
Rufe rolls the body over onto its back and sees the arrow wound in the chest.
RUFE: Injuns... (sighs) Be right back with my shovel, son.
He grimly glances around before returning to his campsite.
Dissolve to:

Doug and Bobby in their ill-fitting clothes see the town up ahead. Doug now also wears a ripped up flannel shirt and Bobby wears the torn jeans over the long john bottoms. They have torn off their shirt sleeves and wrapped the cloth around their feet.

BOBBY: We gonna just walk into town, Dougie? 
DOUG: No! We gotta find a house we can get into, find some real clothes and shoes. 
BOBBY: And horses? 
DOUG: Yeah. 
BOBBY: It’s a small town though. Not even like Bakers Field. 
DOUG: We gotta hit it late tonight and then head back to get our money. Those Injuns don’t know about paper money. It’s still sitting out there. 
BOBBY: I hope we can get some food. 
DOUG: Lets sleep here, until night. Take turns and then pick a house.
They find some cover overlooking one end of the town and set themselves down to rest.
Dissolve to:

Wide: The sun sinks below the horizon.

The Sheriff walks into the Livery barn.
Cut to:

The stable boy, FRANKIE, looks up from his shoveling out a stable.

SHERIFF: Frankie, where’s your boss? 
FRANKIE: Hi Sheriff; he’s having dinner. 
SHERIFF: I’ll be in early, about four. Have my horse ready? 
FRANKIE: Sure will, sir. You going after those robbers? 
The Sheriff tosses him a coin. He catches it and inspects it before shoving it into his pocket.
FRANKIE: Thanks Sheriff. You want Mr. Roberts to go with you again? 
SHERIFF: No, not this time. Sheriff leaves.
Cut to:

Wide: Belleville at night with lights in most windows.
Cut to:

Close up: Doug and Bobby look over the lights of the town.
Dissolve to:

The small band huddles around the fire. They include Thonathon and Black Moon, his men and their women and the Shaman who has added some greenbacks to his headdress.

SHAMAN: (Black Moon, what did Neolge see from the white agent?)
Black Moon nods to Thonathon.
THONATHON: (I was told to see the white man chief. I went inside his place. He was with another white man who never speak, who only draw little pictures. The white man chief ask my Neolge names, my husband’s Whalia names... They do not understand these and are angry.)
Thonathon looks around at them worried, unused to speaking to the group. They look at her in the firelight. Black Moon nods at her again and she continues.
THONATHON: (...The Shivawach man who became white...) 
BLACK MOON: (Tuhudda.)
They nod.
THONATHON: (He tell the white man chief’s words to me, and take my words to the angry white man chief. And the other white man draws little pictures.)
The Shaman stands and walks to his wikiup.
MOJAVE 1: (Does this white man draw any large picture?) 
THONATHON: (No, only small pictures.)
They are quiet and puzzle over this information. The Shaman returns as the band is breaking up for the night. He carries the greenback bills over to Black Moon and Thonathon at their wikiup.
SHAMAN: (What does Tuhudda wear?) 
THONATHON: (He wears the white man’s warrior coat.)
The Shaman frowns and then hands the greenbacks to Black Moon.
SHAMAN: (These have power over the white man. They can be worn against the soldier coat.)
Black Moon takes the greenbacks from the Shaman.
BLACK MOON: (There were many.) 
SHAMAN: (It would be good to have more of them.)
Black Moon hands the bills to Thonathon. The Shaman nods and leaves and Black Moon follows Thonathon into their wikiup.
Cut to:

Black Moon is sleeping. Thonathon works by the light of a small fire; she is folding and sewing greenbacks with a large thorn-needle and reed stalks.
Fade to black.

Close up: The waning crescent moon rising into the frame.
Dissolve to:

The town is closed up for the night except for a clean-up lamp at the saloon and at the stable.
Cut to:

Jack is saddling up the Sheriff’s horse by lantern light. Up in the loft Frankie wakes and looks down and watches. Doug and Bobby step into the barn wielding kitchen knives. They are dressed in stolen clothing now, Bobby is wearing a black suit without a tie, and Doug is wearing denim overalls and red flannel shirt. Their shoes don’t quite fit right either.

FRANKIE: Mr. Roberts!
They look up to the loft before Jack sees them and then they turn their attention back to Jack. Doug points at the Sheriff’s horse.
DOUG: We’ll take that one and another one, Mr. Roberts! 
BOBBY: You get down here kid! 
DOUG: Forget about him; pick out a horse.
Frankie tosses a half-barrel down and it knocks out Doug which confuses Bobby. Jack steps back toward the wall-ladder up to the loft. Bobby sets his knife down and tries to lift Doug to his feet. The Sheriff walks in carrying two canteens.
JACK: Sheriff, careful, these men were gonna steal your horse!
Frankie starts clambering down after he sees the Sheriff.
FRANKIE: And another one too! 
BOBBY: We was gonna pay just as soon as we go get our money!
The Sheriff picks up the two knives.
SHERIFF: What happened to him? 
BOBBY: That little bastard dropped a barrel on him!
Frankie jumps off the ladder and steps up.
FRANKIE: I’m not a bastard!
Jack pulls Frankie back.
JACK: Frankie saw ‘em first. They had knives and this one demanded your horse and told him to get one for himself.
Bobby sets unconscious Doug back down and tries to wake him up with light slapping to his face.
BOBBY: Dougie! 
SHERIFF: (to Bobby) There were three of you... 
BOBBY: Injuns killed Cole.
The Sheriff now draws his gun.
SHERIFF: Pick up Dougie and come with me.
Bobby picks up Doug and struggles to carry him out ahead of the Sheriff. He keep whispering his brother’s name urgently.
Cut to:

Doug and Bobby are locked into the cell and the Sheriff steps back into the front office where Frankie and Jack wait; he closes the door to the jail behind him.

JACK: You think the third man’s dead? Cole, did he say? 
SHERIFF: Yeah. These two are probably brothers. The money could be anywhere. 
JACK: There alot missing?
Sheriff raises his eyebrows and nods.
FRANKIE: The one I conked looks like wearing Mr. Charlie’s church clothes. 
JACK: That’s right... 
SHERIFF: I’ll go check on Charlie and stop by, let you know.
They leave the office.
Cut to:

The Sheriff rides his horse up to the small, darkened house quietly and dismounts. He pulls his pistol and walks around the house where he finds a window open.

SHERIFF: Charlie?
There’s some knocking noise. He moves quickly back to the door and enters.

Cut to:

The dark room is lit as the Sheriff strikes a match. CHARLIE is an older man and he’s tied up and lying on the floor. The Sheriff lights a nearby lantern and then kneels to untie him.

SHERIFF: Don’t worry, Charlie, we got ‘em.
He pulls the bandana from his mouth.
CHARLIE: Thank you Sheriff. I thought I might have to wait til noon when my daughter comes by! Sheriff helps him to his feet and he wobbles a bit.
SHERIFF: You alright? 
CHARLIE: They’re wearing my clothes! 
SHERIFF: Yeah, Frankie recognized your Sunday suit. 
CHARLIE: Oh there’s a sharp kid. 
SHERIFF: We’ll get the clothes back for you but might take til the merc’s open to get them some clothes of their own. Why don’t you come down to the jail at about ten. You can identify them then and we’ll have your suit. They had two knives. 
CHARLIE: Yeah they took those too. Wanted cash but I didn’t let on about that. 
SHERIFF: Alright then, ten a.m. 
CHARLIE: Thanks again, Cobb.
Sheriff leaves the house. Charlie looks around, see the clock reads 4:15 and sighs.
CHARLIE: (mutters) Charlie, go to sleep.
Cut to:

Jack looks up at Frankie in the loft.

JACK: Get some sleep now; you done good.
Jack kicks the barrel pieces to one side and the Sheriff leads his horse inside. Jack looks at him expectantly.
SHERIFF: Charlie’s okay. They had him tied up is all. I told him Frankie recognized his suit.

Close up: Frankie is admiring his coins. He smiles at hearing his name.

JACK: You still going out early? 
SHERIFF: No, I’ll give those boys a few hours in jail and see what they’ll tell me. 
JACK: Alright then, Cobb; let me know if you need me. 
SHERIFF: Thanks Jack, ’night Frankie. 
FRANKIE: Goodnight Sheriff. Sheriff leaves the barn on foot.
Cut to:

The Sheriff walks down the street to his still dimly lit office. He enters and in a moment the light goes out.
Fade to black.

Wide: East horizon is brightening pre-dawn.

Rufe has just got up and is rubbing his sore back, waiting for the sun. He turns around and is surprised to see Black Moon watching him. Rufe smiles and bows slightly, raising his hand.

RUFE: Kwitch-kama-dum...
Black Moon seems to be testing the effect of his dollarcoat on Rufe. Black Moon doesn’t respond to his greeting, but neither does Rufe respond at first to the dollarcoat itself. Then Rufe catches on and contrives to look awestruck and points at the coat and seems to half-avert his eyes.
RUFE: Wh-where’d you get that coat, Injun? 
BLACK MOON: You... white man, go!
Rufe bows and motions for his patience and turns around and slips down the side of the ridge to his camp. Black Moon watches him go, satisfied the coat has power over white men.
Cut to:

Rufe keeps glancing around in case Black Moon returns. Rufe sets up his firewood in the early light. He’s using crumpled up greenbacks for kindling. Rufe half-fills his coffee-pot from the canteen and sets it by the fire. He looks from the fire to his donkey.

RUFE: Well, Rocky, I just saved your life; Mojave just love donkey meat...
Rufe uses his hat to pick up the hot coffeepot and pour a cup. There’s some half burned bills near the fire.
RUFE: I don’t cotton to this here paper, Rocky. You gonna find us some gold now? We’re feeling lucky today, ain’t we?
Rufe steps over to look out at the valley with his tin cup of coffee.
Dissolve to:

As the morning reveille ends and the Troop, now smaller, breaks up, the Indian Agent Olson enters the Sutler’s store.
Cut to:

Inside the store are general merchandise, clothing, and on one side is a makeshift bar. Perrin walks behind the bar and grabs a bottle and two glasses as if he does it every time Olson comes in. Olson walks up opposite him at the bar.

OLSON: You got coffee on? 
PERRIN: I think she does.
Olson throws back a shot glass while Perrin goes back to his quarters and returns with a coffee pot.
OLSON: Well Perrin, I guess construction really will get along now. Captain’s making them stay til the work’s done. 
PERRIN: Are they going to build up for when they all come in off the desert? 
OLSON: No, we’ll build as needed.
Perrin has poured a cup of coffee and Olson sips it.
PERRIN: Drawing off a full-paid contract...
Perrin is nodding admiringly.
OLSON: Who knows how many Mojave are out there in their camps... They don’t need water like us.
SUTLER: Well for this business here, we want them all on the reservation, so more settlers move in.
OLSON: Settlers will want land by the river. So we’ll move the Mojave in and then soon enough have to move them back out. They’ll get it done.

Perrin shakes his head smiling in disbelief.
OLSON: I’m going over to town, check out our competition. See you later.
Olson finishes the coffee and leaves.
Dissolve to:

Olson rides into town; his coat is off and across his saddlehorn. The Bartender opening his saloon nods unwelcomingly to him as he sweeps the front.
Cut to:

Olson ties his horse to the most distant end of the rail before shaking out his suitcoat and putting it on. He walks over quietly to the door and enters.
Cut to:

Olson leans in and looks around at the empty-seeming office. Instead of calling out for the Sheriff he enters and doesn’t quite shut the door behind him. He makes a move towards the jail door when the Sheriff in a reflex grabs his pistol from a nightstand by his cot in the corner behind the wood-stove before recognizing the intruder and pausing. Olson opens the doorway to the jail and sticks his head inside. We hear the prisoners sit up.

DOUG: (O.C.) (whispers) Olly, get us out of here. 
OLSON: (whispers) Where’s Cole?! 
SHERIFF: That’s a good way to get shot, Mister.
Olson starts and quickly shuts the door, then smiles. The Sheriff is squinting against the morning light; it’s not clear if he heard the whispering.
OLSON: Oh, pardon me, Sheriff.
The Sheriff sits up still dressed but in his stocking feet.
SHERIFF: It’s you... What are you doing here, Superintendant? 
OLSON: I thought you might be in back. 
SHERIFF: How are my guests? 
OLSON: They’re awake. 
SHERIFF: Go fill that bowl for me, would ya? From the pump, not the trough. 
OLSON: Certainly, Sheriff. I’ll be right back with it. Sorry I disturbed your sleep. 
SHERIFF: I had to get up anyway...
Sheriff looks up at the clock. Olson picks up the bowl and leaves the door open as he goes for water. The Sheriff gets up and empties the old coffee grounds. Olson returns and the Sheriff takes the bowl and pours half the water into the coffeepot and sets the bowl by his mirror and the coffeepot on the stove.
SHERIFF: Start a fire, will ya? Then I can offer you coffee? 
OLSON: Certainly, Sheriff.
Olson starts a fire in the stove while the Sheriff washes his face at the mirror on the wall. The Sheriff crosses to the jail door and opens it and calls in to Doug and Bobby.
SHERIFF: Alright boys. I got no deputy so I’ll go get us some breakfast at the hotel. Coffee’s on.
They don’t say anything which surprises him. The Sheriff shrugs and closes the door, then he sits to pull his boots on.
SHERIFF: They claim they’re innocent, all the while wearing another man’s pants... Come along?
OLSON: Sure, Sheriff.
They leave the office.
Cut to:

Doug and Bobby leaning forward and listening for sound in the front office.

BOBBY: (whispers) You see Olson? 
DOUG: Yeah, this was all his fault. Cole and him. 
BOBBY: Right before the Injuns killed him, Cole called me Bobby, first time. 
DOUG: Shut up. If we don’t get out of here, Sheriff’ll hang us and bury us naked. 
BOBBY: Would he?! 
DOUG: Olson’s got to help us; he don’t want us to talk. 
BOBBY: Let’s eat first, I mean, before we escape.
Doug rattles the bars testing them.
Cut to:

While the COOK fries up breakfasts the Sheriff sips coffee and talks to Olson.

SHERIFF: I got the two of ‘em that came into town. 
OLSON: They came back? 
SHERIFF: I don’t know that they been here before... 
OLSON: I just mean you’d think they’d be on their way to Mexico. 
SHERIFF: They had none of the money so it’s likely the third man double-crossed ‘em. 
OLSON: If they had none of the money, how do you know? 
SHERIFF: Just talking it out of ’em...
The Sheriff is quiet and staring at Olson who gets nervous. The Sheriff smiles at Olson.
OLSON: Well, I better get to the mercantile. I want to get back before the heat. Any message you need run back with me? 
SHERIFF: To the reservation? No. 
OLSON: I meant the fort; I’m there often. 
SHERIFF: No, thanks, Mr. Olson.
The Sheriff watches him go. Then he picks up a pen and signs off on the hotel’s credit.
SHERIFF: Stack three plates and pile it all on the top one, okay Manny? I signed for it.
The Cook nods to the Sheriff.
Dissolve to:

Medium: Black Moon wearing the dollarcoat steps slowly along some rocks where hawks, vultures and ravens perch waiting.

Two coyotes reluctantly leave Rufe’s burial mound for Cole as Black Moon approaches. Black Moon raises his arms and barks a threat and the birds launch themselves into the air and the coyotes run to a safe distance. Black Moon stands over the grave from which the coyotes have managed to pull an arm. Black Moon pushes away some of the larger stones and then grabs the chewed up arm and pulls hard to drag Cole’s gray body up out of the earth. Black Moon, breathing hard, straightens up to display his dollarcoat against the angry spirit of the dead white man. After a moment Black Moon steps around the body to the loose cash and kneels down and stuffs the bulk of the greenbacks into his leather pouch. The coyotes watch and some of the birds return to perch or the rocks, waiting. Black Moon stands and looks around, circling the body, challenging the spirits and the animals. Then he walks off and the birds and then the coyotes return to the body.
Dissolve to:

Captain Cooledge steps over to Lieutenant Hayes at the batterie. The four TROOPS snap to attention and salute. He returns their salute.

CAPTAIN: Carry on, men. Lieutenant, if I may...
The Lieutenant follows him out into the yard.
LIEUTENANT: Yes Captain. 
CAPTAIN: I’d like you to march the rest of our men around the desert so as to remind those bands of trespassers that we are impatient with them. No engagements, just a show - some target practice where the sound will carry. 
LIEUTENANT: Yes sir... (pauses) Shall we depart immediately and conduct a readiness field test as well? 
CAPTAIN: Excellent idea, Lieutenant. Proceed as you wish.
They notice Olson return to the fort on horseback.
LIEUTENANT: Do you want Superintendant Olson in formation? 
CAPTAIN: (laughs) No! Jesus, they’ll never come in if we go parading him around.
Captain salutes and Lieutenant returns it and goes back to his CORPORAL.
LIEUTENANT: Corporal, prepare the men to march two days out, two days back. We’ll need Cooks wagon, and freight wagon with tents for every man available. 
CORPORAL: Yes sir.
The Corporal salutes and he and the batterie Men run off to prepare. The Lieutenant follows.Captain glances over at Tuhudda and waves him to his office.
Cut to:

Captain removes his hat and coat and sits down behind his desk. Tuhudda closes the door behind him and the Captain motions him to be seated. He offers him a cigar and they each light up.

CAPTAIN: Well, Tuhudda... (sighs) My standing order is move the Mojave nation onto their reservation. That is their land now. The provisions they might find there have yet to attract them. In fact, they appear to be trickling back out hither and yon to hell and back as they damn well please! We’ll show ourselves out there one more time. You know them; what is your recommendation if that does not work? 
TUHUDDA: I know Mojave, but I am not Mojave. I am Shivawach.
The Captain nods; he knows this.
TUHUDDA: Mojave war-chiefs long ago lose the talk to the peace-chief Irataba. The Mojave War is over. If the Mojave return to war, then fight. If there is peace... leave them be American too, on the reservation or on the desert. Does the white man need all the desert too?
The Captain is nodding as he listens, then stops.
CAPTAIN: The peaceful nations will sometimes have to endure treatment that is designed for the worst, most bloody-minded tribes.... These orders come from Washington, Tuhudda. 
TUHUDDA: In Washington are the Injuns led by peace or war chief? 
CAPTAIN: I don’t believe the white men in Washington can even remember their Injuns.

Close up: Tuhudda thinks about forgotten tribes.
Cut to:

Close up: The Captain looks at Tuhudda and frowns.

CAPTAIN: I thought the Mojave being farmers might take to the modern ways more easily than the Apache.
Tuhudda pauses.
TUHUDDA: No, no Apache...
The Captain smokes and waits for him. Tuhudda motions with either hand, moving his cigar back and forth as he talks.
TUHUDDA: The Mojave plant his land. The white man plant his land. This is not the same. The land Mojave see is not the same. His plant is not the same. Mojave animal is not the same as the white man animal. Mojave is not the same.
The Captain cocks his head with faint smile.
CAPTAIN: Yes, but in time... 
TUHUDDA: Tuhudda know. In time the white man will forget. The secretary write everything so white man can forget.
CAPTAIN: I think you misunderstood me, Tuhudda. The reports are made and they are read by my generals and by the president. They are not forgotten.

Tuhudda pauses again and the Captain smokes.
TUHUDDA: Tuhudda know that forever before there was time Pokoh created each people from the ground where they live. But the white man Jesus and his followers, they wander away. They forget.
The Captain stares at him and then blinks.
CAPTAIN: Smoke your cigar, Tuhudda.
They smoke.
Dissolve to:

Thonathon is working in the smoky, dimly lit space on the moon flowers, cutting their leaves from the stem, opening the pods and separating out the seeds. She lays out the pieces on a flat rock beside the small fire.
Dissolve to:

The Troop squad’s six tents are up alongside the cook’s wagon, freight wagon, corral and the new outhouse. The Soldiers are hammering and sawing the milled lumber into row-houses.
Dissolve to:

A soldier’s horse is tied at the post.
Cut to:

The fort’s MESSENGER stands at the wanted poster board idly while Sheriff reads the official communique at his desk. His empty breakfast dish sits on the desk.

SHERIFF: Yes, soldier, take this back to your commanding officer...
The Sheriff writes a note quickly, then seals it in an envelope and addresses it. He stands to hand it to the Messenger.
SHERIFF: Thank you, soldier. 
MESSENGER: Thank you, Sheriff.
The soldier takes the envelope and pockets it; then leaves. The Sheriff sighs and looks up thinking.
Cut to:

The Sheriff has pulled a chair into the doorway to the back jail and sits down to question Doug and Bobby who sit on one bunk. Their breakfast dishes sit on a stool.

SHERIFF: Sorry for the delay, boys. The Indian Agent was by - maybe you saw him. Then I got a message from the Fort’s commander. Sounds angry; he had to send some soldiers to the reservation to replace civilian workers who ran out on their construction contract...
Bobby looks at Doug nervously while Doug holds his expression looking at the Sheriff.
SHERIFF: Well we all have our burdens to carry, don’t we? Now, where you boys from, Tennessee?
BOBBY: (brightens) How’d you know?!

Doug looks at Bobby sternly to shut him up and Bobby frowns and ducks his head down.
SHERIFF: I knew some Tennessee boys during the Mexican War. Good boys.
Doug is staring at the Sheriff, doubting him. In a moment the Sheriff continues.
SHERIFF: Last name?
There’s a long pause.
DOUG: Grady. 
SHERIFF: So, Bobby, tell me about your friend Cole.
Doug answers quickly to keep Bobby quiet.
DOUG: He wasn’t a friend. We only met Cole last Monday, in Bakers town. 
SHERIFF: I asked your brother. 
BOBBY: (nodding) That’s right Sheriff, it was Monday. 
SHERIFF: You know I can hang you boys right now for attempted horse theft. Not to mention lying about Cole and Baker’s field and what-not.... (pauses) People around here, we like Charlie, Jack and Frankie. We’re all glad they’re still alive. But I knew Jeff too, from the war in fact. And I’m telling you, you’re not going to win over a jury with this story you’re telling me. 
DOUG: Who’s Jeff? 
SHERIFF: Jeff Strohman is buried under a pile of rocks down at the end of town. He was the man riding shotgun on that stage.
Bobby looks down again. Doug stares at the Sheriff for a long moment while the Sheriff waits.
DOUG: What’s that mean, Sheriff? About the jury... 
SHERIFF: Well, I’m a realistic man. Probably all that’s provable is... your dead man killed our dead man...
The Sheriff pauses and lights a cigarette; Doug stares at him and Bobby glances between the two of them.
SHERIFF: So, if we were able to recover the money I might manage to postpone hanging you both until the day you set foot in this town again.
Doug looks away at Bobby. Sheriff stands up and looks out at his office wall clock.

Close up: The clock face reads a few minutes after 9am.

SHERIFF: Think it over boys. Maybe you can do with never setting foot in Belleville again. I’ll be back with some clothes for you.
He picks up the chair and leaves the jail section, closing the door behind him.
Cut to:

The Sheriff leaves his office for the Mercantile down the street.
Cut to:

A woman customer, MRS. GIBBS, about forty and wearing a plain calico work-dress, and the Sheriff are inside. The shopkeep, MR. GOMES, is older and speaks with a faint Mexican accent. She pronounces his name in an Anglo fashion. Sheriff waits but checks the wall clock.

MRS. GIBBS: I know you can’t bring in the fruits and vegetables, Mr. Gomes. All I’m asking of you is to supply the seeds! 
MR. GOMES: Yes, yes, Mrs. Gibbs, I understand. But they come to me not only from San Francisco, but around the Cape, around the Cape! Cabo de Hornos, the sailors’ tumba!
She turns to the Sheriff.
MRS. GIBBS: Can you understand this man, Sheriff?! All I want is the smallest seeds for our garden! They could be mailed to him. 
SHERIFF: I’m sure Carlos wants to sell you anything he can get for you, Mrs. Gibbs.
She scoffs and storms out.
SHERIFF: Now you got her mad at me, Gomez. 
MR. GOMES: Aye, aye, aye! I tell her wait til the Indios bring in their corn and beans, you can see the look she give me. This town, he have no future.
The Sheriff puts his hand up to stop him complaining.
SHERIFF: Senor, I need two pair of pants, two shirts, and four shoes. The cheapest you got, for my prisoners. 
MR. GOMES: Oh, more billing to the town with no future!
The Sheriff smiles as Mr. Gomez storms around picking up the stuff.
MR. GOMES: The cheapest I have... Are these malvados big or small, eh? Small brain, big feet?
SHERIFF: They don’t need hats as far as I’m concerned...

Gomes holds up some shoes and the Sheriff nods.
SHERIFF: Wrap ‘em up.
Gomes returns to his counter and tears out a length of paper and folds the clothes and shoes up in it and ties it with string.
SHERIFF: (looks at clock) I gotta meet Charlie at the jail; they stole his church suit. Send me the paper. 
MR. GOMES: Sure I send you the paper. (points at his sign) I accept gold and silver. None of those war-time shin-plasters here.
Gomes throws the package to the Sheriff who catches it.
SHERIFF: Thanks Carlos. Hey, did you see the Indian agent in here today? 
MR. GOMES: No, I see him on the street. He ride in and then he ride out. He’s a nosy man usually. Sheriff frowns and then leaves.

Charlie is standing outside the office when the Sheriff walks over with the package.

CHARLIE: I didn’t want to wait inside with those desperados in back. 
SHERIFF: That’s fine, Charlie; come on in.
The Sheriff opens the door for him and follows him inside.
Cut to:

The Sheriff goes right to the back room.

SHERIFF: Have a seat, Charlie; be right with you.
Sheriff disappears into the back and opens the package.
SHERIFF: Here’s your duds boys; get those off and hand ‘em back through.
We can hear them stand up and undress and take the new clothes. Sheriff returns to the front room with Charlie’s clothes and closes the back room’s door. He rolls up the clothes before handing them to Charlie.
SHERIFF: (whispers) You probably want to wash these. 
CHARLIE: You bet I will. Thank you Sheriff. (whispers) I hope you’re going to hang those fellows.
SHERIFF: I’m not sure, Charlie. They claim the Injuns delivered a mean justice to the man who killed Jeff. I don’t think they’d claim that if he got away with the money. They don’t have any of it. Anyway there could be a body and alot of cash out on the desert. I may take the young one out to look around. Maybe go easy on ‘em if that works out. 

CHARLIE: (frowns) Well, I suppose you know your job Sheriff.... Thanks again for coming by last night. 
SHERIFF: Thank Frankie, I might not have thought of it. 
CHARLIE: Already did.
Charlie leaves.
Dissolve to:

Smoke is leaking out through the scrub walls. Thonathon leaves the wikiup trailing smoke, closing the flap behind her. She stands up blinking against the sunlight; she stretches and breathes deeply the fresh air. Black Moon steps over and she hands him a folded up vest she has sewn out of the greenbacks. He carefully unfolds it and hangs it on a T-pole and then sets the pole between a rock and the wikiup wall so that it hangs above the wikiup vent’s. He reaches up and opens the vent so the smoke rises and envelopes the dollarcoat.
Dissolve to:

The Soldier returns on horseback to the Captain’s office. He knocks and enters the office. In a moment he returns to his horse and leads him away on foot.
Cut to:

The Captain at his desk is reading the Sheriff’s letter.

CAPTAIN: I’ll wring that Swede’s neck. 
AMALIA: What’s Mr. Olly do now?
She’s just come in from the living quarters with her broom and dustpan. The Captain folds the letter back up.
CAPTAIN: He’s stealing cookies again, Amalia, can you believe it?
 AMALIA: Oh that’s my fault, Captain; I make them so very good.
She smiles as she opens the door and walks outside past the window to empty the pan off the porch-side. She returns inside and closes the door.
AMALIA: (nods) Your Mr. Olson is back.
He rolls his eyes and she passes through to the back room.
Dissolve to:

The sun is setting below the surrounding rocks now.

Pan: Upward slowly, following smoke from the wikiup’s vent as it curls up around the dollarcoat which is still hit by the last rays of the sun.
Dissolve to:

Close up: Waning moon rising against the horizon.

Thonathon is naked and her tattooed skin is gleaming as she drips water onto rocks set in the fire’s coals. The vent above them is open and the steam rises illuminated by the glowing coals.Black Moon is wearing the dollarcoat and his skin is gleaming wet underneath it. He sits across the fire from Thonathon and is shivering, his eyes open but in a moonflower trance. A droning, whistling chord sounds and continues...
Cut to:

Wide: Black Moon’s POV is airborne but the moonlit desert beneath him is very dark at first. The droning music continues on the soundtrack. The moon’s reflection in a small lake is the first flash of real illumination below until the large trail campfire comes into view. The night guards and the two wagons and tents become visible in the firelight as Black Moon approaches the fort’s troop from above. Drone ends.
Cut to:

A couple of GUARDS traverse the makeshift camp which is circled by the Army’s wagons, tents and horses. The fire illuminates the scene. Tahudda walks from the periphery into the light and then stops and looks around. He sees nothing but the camp. He can’t see that Black Moon is standing in the dollarcoat and staring at him.

BLACK MOON: (whispers) (Tahudda, you must run the maze to clean yourself.)
Tahudda turns around quickly but still cannot see Black Moon who stares at him, his skin gleaming in the light of the fire.
BLACK MOON: (whispers) (Lead these brutes to the dead land and clean yourself, Tahudda.)

Close up: Tahudda understands now what is happening but he is still unnerved.

Close up: Black Moon’s face in a trance back in the smoky wikiup.

Wide: Two-shot with Thonathon dripping more water on the hot rocks between her and Black Moon; the burst of steam obscures them further.
Dissolve to:

Wide: Eastern sky lightens on the horizon.

The Troop is up and in motion for breakfast and resumption of the trek through the desert. Tuhudda is with the Lieutenant outside the officer’s tent; Lietuenant eats as they talk.

LIEUTENANT: Will the renegades be camped high or on the flats, Tuhudda? 
TUHUDDA: They have moved to Coyote Lake. 
LIEUTENANT: (surprised) When did this happen? 
TUHUDDA: They heard you will come. 
LIEUTENANT: There’s no surprising an Injun. 
TUHUDDA: Many families are split in reservation and in camps, Lieutenant. 
LIEUTENANT: There’s more than one camp?
Tuhudda nods.
LIEUTENANT: Well why don’t we show ourselves first to the nearest camp? 
TUHUDDA: We have.
The Lieutenant looks at Tuhudda and then almost smiles.
LIEUTENANT: Get some food, Tuhudda. You must need water like any man.
Tuhudda nods and leaves.
Dissolve to:

The shadows of the Troop on the move are early morning long as they head out to what looks like the heart of the wasteland.

Rufe stands near his new camp with coffeepot in hand watching the Troop line depart down below.

RUFE: Where you suppose the soldier boys is off to now, Rocky?
He shrugs and packs the pot.
Dissolve to:

The fort is nearly empty. Indian Agent Olson walks from the store across the yard to the Captain’s office.
Cut to:

The Captain and the Agent bring their coffee cups over to sit in easy chairs near the fire place.

CAPTAIN: So how’s business, Superintendant? 
OLSON: Which business, Captain? 
CAPTAIN: I meant your sutler’s. I’m afraid I know the state of the tribe. 
OLSON: Well, Captain, we could all do with either more Indians or more settlers. 
CAPTAIN: It was the silver rush that put us both here, but that’s over. I don’t like having my troops filling in for these criminal runaways of yours, but the Mojave won’t come in to the reservation in its present condition. 
OLSON: I beg your pardon! 
CAPTAIN: I want you to know that I’ve sent a preliminary estimate to the War Department for forwarding to the Bureau of Indian Affairs. As I understand it your contractor lost three men, and since they were known to spend most of their time at your sutler’s pub I’ve sent nine men and a cook so we can make up some time. 
OLSON: (exasperated) I wish you hadn’t done that, Captain. God knows how much of whose contract they’ll try to attach now! 
CAPTAIN: I had to assume you don’t want the reservation to look like a lumberyard any more than I do. 
OLSON: A dry winter will bring them in and we’ll build as needed. 
CAPTAIN: They need the river-bottom all year round, what are you talking about?! These are Mojave, not Sioux! Now there is housing for them to move into. I am done fretting I’m not doing all I can, Superintendant. 
OLSON: What more can I do, Captain?
They are interrupted by an urgent knocking on the door, followed by the entrance of a road weary MESSENGER. The Captain stands and salutes him.
MESSENGER: Sir, I have an urgent message.
The Captain nods and then looks at Olson who stands.
CAPTAIN: We’ll have to finish this later, Superintendant. 
OLSON: Yes, we will.
Olson leaves and the Army Messenger closes the door after him, then returns to attention to pull the order from his jacket and hands it to the Captain. The Captain sits down behind his desk and opens it and reads. He reads it as if frozen, then slumps and sighs.
CAPTAIN: When will the replacement force arrive, Corporal? 
MESSENGER: They are a day behind me.... I’m sorry sir.
The Captain stands up and paces.
CAPTAIN: Will you return to them or wait here? 
MESSENGER: The General ordered me to return if you had a message that couldn’t wait for his arrival. 
CAPTAIN: Then make yourself at home, Corporal. It can all wait now. The men are on patrol. Captain salutes.
MESSENGER: Thank you, sir.
He returns salute and leaves. The Captain follows him out the door and stands on the porch looking at the nearly deserted grounds.
Dissolve to:

Black Moon steps out onto a promontory and looks off into the hazy desert distance.

Telephoto close: Through the haze and the early heat waves off the desert floor we see the Troop leaving across the valley raising dust that hangs in the air behind them. Fade to black.

Close up: The last crescent of the waning moon rises from the Providence mountains to the east.

Close up: Black Moon in his wide-eyed trance the sound of water hitting the heated rocks and steaming.
Cut to:

Black Moon POV, aerial: Through the air at night approaching the 2nd night trail campfire of the troop.
Cut to:

The Lieutenant and the few Soldiers still up and patrolling the camp perimeter are notably more ragged looking after a second day on the desert. Tuhudda is staring out into the dark beyond the camp. The Lieutenant walks over to him.

LIEUTENANT: I don’t like this, Scout.
Tuhudda is still absorbed and doesn’t hear him.
LIEUTENANT: (annoyed) Attention!
Tuhudda breaks his stare and turns to look at him.
LIEUTENANT: Something out there, Tuhudda? 
LIEUTENANT: Well, we’re out here to show ourselves. 
TUHUDDA: I tell Captain leave Mojave, unless they take war. These men... (motions to tents) This is danger. 
LIEUTENANT: You don’t mean the Indians... 
LIEUTENANT: Will we see anything at Coyote? Or just be seen again?
Unseen, Black Moon glares at Tuhudda, who swallows hard and doesn’t answer the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant, alarmed, looks closer at him.
Dissolve to:

Close up: The crescent moon against the milky way.
Dissolve to:

Close: The face of the clock on the Sheriff’s office wall reads 3:45 by lantern light. We hear the light blown out and the door open.

SHERIFF: (O.C.) Let’s go...

Bobby walks ahead of the Sheriff. He’s wearing better fitting clothing and an old hat. He looks behind at the Sheriff who closes the door behind them. The Sheriff motions him to move down the street.

Jack and Frankie have readied two horses for the Sheriff and Bobby. Each horse carries four canteens. Jack steps back at the sight of Bobby. Frankie stares at him.

FRANKIE: Shouldn’t you handcuff him Sheriff? 
SHERIFF: Well, the man’s got to ride. And I got his brother locked up. 
JACK: You’re okay then, Cobb? 
SHERIFF: Yeah. Just don’t go near the jail. He’s got food there and a bucket... (to Bobby) Mount up, Grady.
Bobby mounts his horse and the Sheriff his.
SHERIFF: You know the way better’n I do.
Bobby rides out of the barn and Sheriff follows after nodding to Jack.
Dissolve to:

Wide: The eastern horizon brightens.

The Men are in two lines for roll call but the responses stop and a name repeated. SERGEANT reports to the Lieutenant.

SERGEANT: Sir, two men missing. 
LIEUTENANT: They take horses, Sergeant? 
SERGEANT: I don’t know, sir. 
LIEUTENANT: Sergeant, will the men hold for another full day of this?
SERGEANT: Yes sir.
A PRIVATE runs up and salutes and then points back.
PRIVATE: Sirs, the water! Most of it’s leaked out.
They run to one of the wagons. Two SOLDIERS are pouring what’s left of one barrel’s water into the remaining good barrel. The dirt around the wagon is wet. The Lieutenant walks back slowly, and stops when he catches sight of Tuhudda.
Tuhudda nods and walks over.
LIEUTENANT: Tuhudda, we’ve lost half the water.
The Sergeant runs up and salutes.
SERGEANT: Two horses are missing, sir. 
LIEUTENANT: Yes Sergeant...
The Lieutenant doesn’t break his glare at Tuhudda.
LIEUTENANT: We have just enough water to make it to Lake Coyote where we can refill the barrels.
The Lieutenant waits for Tuhudda to respond but he does not. The Lieutenant waits longer, confusing the Sergeant who looks between them trying to comprehend. The Lieutenant sighs slightly and finally turns to the Sergeant.
LIEUTENANT: Alright Sergeant, we return to the fort as soon as the men are fed. 
LIEUTENANT: Fort Mojave. 
SERGEANT: Yes sir.
The Sergeant salutes and leaves him. The Lieutenant looks at Tuhudda disappointed.
LIEUTENANT: (curtly) Track the deserters and report to me when you find out what direction they’re headed. We’ll be on the trail back to the fort.
Lieutenant dismisses him with a salute, which is returned by Tuhudda. The Lieutenant lights up a cigarette and then turns to watch Tuhudda head to the corral for his horse.
Dissolve to:

Bobby and the Sheriff ride slowly along the stagecoach trail through the cactus and scrub out toward the desert valley.

Pan: Up from behind Bobby and the Sheriff’s horses, fixing on the Mojave desert ahead.

Tuhudda on horseback moves slowly looking down at the tracks of two horses. In a moment he spurs his horse to a gallop. He pulls away from the tracks to reach nearby high ground.
Cut to:

Tuhudda on foot climbs to a point to look down the valley.
Cut to:

Telephoto: Tuhudda POV shot of the two Deserters on horseback. They are riding their horses too hard in the desert.
Cut to:

Close up: Tuhudda’s face as he hesitates and looks at his horse below on the ridge.

The Troop moves in a double line back through the valley. The Sergeant rides back along the line to the Lieutenant.

LIEUTENANT: Yes, Sergeant. 
SERGEANT: Sir, I can’t picture Troopers Clayton or Dodge sabotaging our water. 
LIEUTENANT: If Tuhudda returns... and then if he tells us they’ve fled west toward Coyote Lake or Bakers field... then they did it to prevent us from following them. 
SERGEANT: Sir, it’s not my place but I don’t trust that Scout.
Lieutenant nods and salutes.
LIEUTENANT: Well, Sergeant, he’s got one problem. I know there ain’t a barrel of drinking water in all of Coyote Lake.
Sergeant frowns, then salutes and rides back to the head of the troop.

Steam rises from Black Moon’s wikiup. Two Mojave men, a SINGER and a DANCER, perform a bird song dance in a circle around the wikiup. One shakes a rattle, the other sings.

SINGER: (My fingers become feathers, my hands wings. My fingers become feathers, my hands wings. My tailfeather guides my path, I don’t fall. My tailfeather guides my path, I don’t fall.I rest on the moon, on my way to the sun. I rest on the moon, on my way to the sun...)

In the dim interior Black Moon is passed out in his dollarcoat. The music is heard through the walls. Thonathon wipes her finger over some moon flower paste and touches it inside Black Moon’s lower lip. Then she pours more water on the hot rocks and steam fills the wikiup.

Wide: Black Moon aerial POV moving above the desert. He comes up on Tuhudda on horseback.

Tuhudda looks up after a bird’s shadow crosses ahead of him. He can’t see the bird against the sun so he turns away. Black Moon walks alongside Tuhudda’s horse.

BLACK MOON: (Shivawach! You are wandering between peoples...)
Tuhudda raises himself in his stirrups to look around, but he sees nothing. Tuhudda sits down in his saddle and Black Moon is now behind him on the horse.
BLACK MOON: (You will wander forever after death if you do not quit the white man!)
Tuhudda stops the horse, spooked by the nearness of Black Moon’s projection. Tuhudda pleads tearfully, turning this way and that in the desert.
TUHUDDA: (Black Moon, when you were a child I fought the white man with Chief Sickahote and Niaveh Espaniole until we are so many dead that Chief Irataba said we must have peace with the white man or lose our lands to the Maricopa! I remember this and I remember my birth! You are young and know nothing you do not see! It is you have forgotten, Black Moon!)

Close up, aerial: From directly above Tuhudda alone on his horse, quiet now, looking this way and that until he suddenly spurs his horse to a run across the desert.
Cut to:

Medium, aerial: From the side following Tuhudda, his horse at full gallup, while Black Moon running alongside at a Mojave runner’s pace but quicker by moon flower magic.
Dissolve to:

Rufe is breaking rocks with a small hammer in a shaded gully half way up the mountain. His donkey is chewing on some scrub down lower.

Rufe’s hammer continues on the soundtrack as we see the desert floor from his mountain perch. Across the floor a dust cloud is raised by Tuhudda’s horse. Rufe’s clinking ends and he steps over to look at the dust.
Cut to:

Telephoto, close up: Now Tuhudda and his horse are visible as they race across the desert as if chased by a ghost.
Cut to:

Rufe steps out for a look at where the horse may be heading. He sees something.
Cut to:

Telephoto: The Troop formation at the far edge of the desert floor raising its own cloud of dust.
Cut to:

Rufe scratches the back of his neck.
RUFE: Can’t be a one-Injun attack on the cavalry... Must be a messenger.
Rufe walks back to his work while the camera stays on the desert floor.
RUFE: (O.C.) He’s sure killing that horse.
In a moment the hammer clinking sounds begin again.

The Sheriff follows Bobby riding slowly down the stagecoach route. They follow the road from the valley to the dry flat ahead. The Sheriff has seen this place already but waits for Bobby’s response. It takes awhile.
BOBBY: (points) Seems like we must’ve hit the stage up here and then run up over that ridge to the other side. 
SHERIFF: Why’d you do that? 
BOBBY: We were looking to camp on the other side, as far as we could get. 
SHERIFF: (shakes head) Seems like a lotta work to try to avoid working for a living. 
BOBBY: We Gradys never been afraid of hard work, Sheriff. Of course being I’m younger I get most of the spade-work.
Ahead on the trail they stop the horses and look over the area where the robbery happened.
BOBBY: (points) There’s the wheel marks turnin’. And that’s where... Cole did the shootin’.
They find the three horses’ marks and follow them off the trail across the desert toward the ridge.

The horses leave the desert bottom and their hooves clatter on the rock flats at the foot of the ridge.

SHERIFF: We lost your trail here.
Bobby smiles and then points up the ridge.
BOBBY: We go right up there Sheriff.
Sheriff frowns at the prospect of the climb.
SHERIFF: You came down somewhere, didn’t you? 
BOBBY: I want to show you where the Injuns attacked us... (drops smile) Cole must still be there. We wanted to bury him and say words, but the Injuns don’t care about decency and they chased us away.
SHERIFF: Alright then, lead the way.

Sheriff and Bobby begin to ride their horses higher.

The Troop is dusty and ragged late in the afternoon but still moving forward when the REAR GUARD rides up to the Lieutenant.

REAR GUARD: Lieutenant! Scout approaching! 
LIEUTENANT: Report to Sergeant Greene ahead; have him order halt. 
REAR GUARD: Yes sir.
The Rear Guard rides to the head of the troop while the Lieutenant turns around to locate Tuhudda. He seems not to be approaching as his horse begins to collapse. The Lieutenant rides back to meet him. Tuhudda is on foot beside his dying horse. He is still spooked enough to be relieved at the approach of the Lieutenant.
LIEUTENANT: Scout! Report!
Tuhudda salutes distractedly.
TUHUDDA: Sir... 
LIEUTENANT: Tuhudda, what’s happened to your horse? 
TUHUDDA: Sir, I had to run when they...
Lieutenant looks out over Tuhudda.
LIEUTENANT: I don’t see anyone, you mean Dodge and Clayton?
Tuhudda nods.
LIEUTENANT: Where’d they head?
Tuhudda looks confused.
TUHUDDA: I have to see my family...
Lieutenant looks Tuhudda over carefully.
LIEUTENANT: Looks like you pushed your horse is all... Strip him, shoot him and get on a wagon. Lieutenant rides back to meet the Sergeant at the halted troop.
LIEUTENANT: I don’t know what happened to him; something did. I swear, they come at you with no fear, then they see a ghost and curl up in a ball. 
SERGEANT: When do want to set camp, sir?
The Lieutenant checks his pocket watch, then looks at the sun’s position.
LIEUTENANT: An hour. But wait for Tuhudda.
They salute and the Sergeant returns to lead the troop.
Dissolve to:

Close up: The sun sinks towards the western horizon.

The Sheriff and Bobby are now on foot leading their horses higher up the ridge. The Sheriff pauses at a small clearing and glances at his pocket watch then at the sun.

SHERIFF: We better make camp.
They leave the horses to forage the scrub, while they look back down the ridge.
SHERIFF: Pick up any wood you can find; we’ll fire here.
Bobby wanders around pulling up dead scrub.

Rufe glances to the west and then hurries to gather scraps of wood and brush for his night campfire.Rufe crumples up some of the greenbacks to help build the fire. He pours water from his canteen into his coffeepot and adds the last of the coffee grounds from a small canvas bag to the used grounds still in the pot.

RUFE: That’s that, Rocky.
He sets the pot down next to the fire.
Dissolve to:

Close up: Western horizon at the last of the light.

Rufe and his donkey lie on either side of the small fire.

RUFE: We better wash up on our way into town, eh Rocky?
The donkey looks at Rufe.

The Troopers are in their tents except for those on guard duty. Tuhudda is sitting on the ground by the fire with his head down. The Lieutenant comes out of the darkness and sits down next to Tuhudda; he isn’t as comfortable sitting this way. Tuhudda looks over at him.

LIEUTENANT: You are different, Tuhudda. What happened out there?
Tuhudda shakes his head.
LIEUTENANT: Our deserters didn’t chase you, but something did. 
TUHUDDA: Nuumet! 
LIEUTENANT: You’re not afraid of cougars. 
TUHUDDA: (angrily) Mahwat!
Lieutenant sits up to stretch, frustrated.
LIEUTENANT: You have another year in your hitch. I say this to you as a friend, Tuhudda. Prison is bad for white men but it kills the Indian. You know this. 
TUHUDDA: Two soldiers run to Mexico. I break the barrel to make you return. Not go to die as... Mahwat want.
Lieutenant looks at him and then sighs and looks at the fire.
LIEUTENANT: You fought the white man once.
Tuhudda nods.
LIEUTENANT: Mahwat or Nuumet or some young bucks want to fight the white man again.
Tuhudda nods.
LIEUTENANT: How can we stop this? 
TUHUDDA: Let me see my people and then see... Mahwat.
Lieutenant nods.
LIEUTENANT: Do you want to go in with us or take a horse and go? 
TUHUDDA: I take horse and meet you at the fort; then I will go on to...(motions out)...the camps.
LIEUTENANT: Fine, Tuhudda. I wish you good luck. The Captain will want to hear our reports.

The Lieutenant stands and stretches and sees the Sergeant watching them. Lieutenant nods to him and walks over, leaving Tuhudda staring into the fire.
Dissolve to:

Montage: Abstract womb memory to droning over drumming.

Black Moon startles those around the fire as he staggers from his wikiup trailing smoke and steam and stands up straight. He wears his loin cloth and the dollarcoat. The others gather around him and lay hands on his coat carefully. The Shaman walks over and the others part and he puts his hand on Black Moon’s forehead. The small band watches Black Moon walk away from the light of the fire-pit and away from the camp.

The Sheriff and Bobby sit on either side of the fire talking.

BOBBY: There was no place for us in the gold fields. Everybody got theirs and don’t need anybody more. So we come to try silver and that’s when Dougie started talking to Cole... about other things.
SHERIFF: How’d you meet Olly? 

BOBBY: He was Cole’s friend. 
SHERIFF: Your brother looks to me like he’s going to end up somewhere you don’t want to be. But you look to me like you’re going to follow along anyway. 
BOBBY: That’s right, Sheriff. I think you’re right about that.
The Sheriff smiles despite himself but then is distracted suddenly, and slowly stands up to face Black Moon who is standing at the edge of the fire’s light. Sheriff motions him forward as Bobby turns to look.
SHERIFF: Coffee, friend?
Black Moon walks in slowly but aggressively, slapping their possessions, knocking things over, startling the horses, and finally roughly poking Bobby who stands up cowering and sidling over to the Sheriff who is simply staring at Black Moon, confused by his actions and his dollarcoat made of the missing greenbacks.
SHERIFF: (points) Where’d you get those?
Black Moon is now satisfied the coat has power and he points out to the darkness.
BLACK MOON: White man leave the land of Ah’ Mahavi!
He turns to Bobby to get a better, more fearful response.
BLACK MOON: All white man!
Black Moon kicks dirt onto their fire. The Sheriff only now pulls his gun from his holster. Black Moon stands for a few moments expecting to be shot but protected by the coat. Then he turns and bounds away quickly into the night. Unsure if other Mojave may be near. He waves Bobby away from the remaining light of the fire and motions him to be silent. They crouch against a rock waiting and listening.
Fade to black.

Tuhudda leads his horse into the river to cross.
Dissolve to:

Tuhudda rides onto the dark, quiet reservation. There is no fire and no-one sees him. He ties his horse outside one of the hogans, and enters it.
Cut to:

Tuhudda lights a match and his wife, CHACH’HODA, sits up from her sleep quietly. Three young children are still sleeping. He lights one twig at a time as they talk in whispers.

TUHUDDA: (Chach’hoda, where are the people?) 
CHACH’HODA: (All have left for the Mountain, to fight. The soldiers make the white man’s houses.)
Tuhudda is thinking.
CHACH’HODA: (You need rest, Tuhudda; let me fix you something to eat.) 
TUHUDDA: (All Neolge and Wahlia are gone?)
She nods. The BOY who is about seven wakes and looks up at his parents worried at their grave expressions. Tuhudda smiles at him and reaches over and pulls the Boy onto his lap.
TUHUDDA: (Quahote, my son.)
Chach’hoda smiles momentarily at her son in his father’s arms.
TUHUDDA: (I will report, then follow to the mountains.)
His wife is worried to hear this. Tuhudda sets his son back down in his bedding.

Close up: The flame consumes the last of a twig and goes out.
Cut to:

Tuhudda silently leads his horse from the hogan and out of the reservation.
Dissolve to:

Wide: The eastern horizon is brightening.

Tuhudda rides onto the fort grounds as reveille is sounded for the few men still here. He stops his horse and watches the raising of the flag by the remaining Troop plus the Army Messenger. The flag raised, the men salute the Captain who then pauses on his return to his office at the sight of Tuhudda alone. Tuhudda dismounts and leads his horse to the office post where he meets the Captain. They salute but the Captain says nothing which strikes Tuhudda as odd.

TUHUDDA: The Lieutenant is returning, Captain.
The Captain nods.
TUHUDDA: Captain, I must go out to the Mojave camps.
The Captain steps up onto his porch and then turns back to Tuhudda.
CAPTAIN: (nods) Don’t go yet, Tuhudda. It would be good for you to see the arrival of the U.S. Army. The 7th California volunteers will be relieved in a matter of hours.
The Captain dismisses the confused Tuhudda with a salute and enters his office and closes the door. Tuhudda looks at the door close and then turns to walk his horse to the livery.

Later, the Lieutenant leads his Troop back to a different looking fort. The grounds are now full of the U.S. ARMY TROOP, a full garrison of a hundred men with wagons and artillery.

Close up: The Lieutenant looks at the new troop with confusion. The sergeant rides up beside him looking the same.

Tuhudda rides grimly past the returning Troop and salutes the officers who barely notice him.

Tuhudda rides out of the river; he and his horse are dripping water as they ride slowly toward the mountains.

The Sheriff looks down grimly at the rough exhumation of what’s left of Cole’s body. Bobby jerks away from the sight as he comes up on it and steps away slightly.

BOBBY: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Sheriff! Why’d they go and do that to him?! 
SHERIFF: No. This was done by animals.
Sheriff stops staring at the remains and steps around the area looking. Bobby follows him looking nauseous.
SHERIFF: You say they took everything from you here? 
BOBBY: Yeah, only they left all the money. Dougie saw it too because we was gonna come back and get it. 
SHERIFF: Well our friend was wearing some of it. So maybe they came back.
Sheriff picks up a greenback from the brush and studies it.
SHERIFF: I better pick these few up. Bobby, get the horses and follow me. These footprints move along here. 
BOBBY: Alright.
Bobby goes back for the horses and the Sheriff follows the few stray greenbacks that he sees spread around.

Rufe is drinking coffee and looking up at circling hawks and vultures down along the ridge.

RUFE: What are those devils back for?
Rufe is puzzled as he knows he buried the body.
Dissolve to:

Tahudda’s horse is tied at the edge of the Mojave maze. The maze is made of lines made of piles of small stones and designed to run through and lose bad spirits by taking its complicated turns and back tracks quickly.
Cut to:

Wide aerial pan: From the horse and Tuhudda’s things, then across the maze lines until Tuhudda himself comes into view. He is stripped to his loincloth and running through the lines, making sharp turns and directional changes.

Back outside of the maze Tuhudda breathes hard and looks around as if he expects to catch sight of the spirit he hopes to elude.

The old hunting camp is filling up with new Mojave arrivals. They set up makeshift lean-tos and wikiups and fill the area.

Olson is now wearing work clothes and spurring a horse with two more horses in tow.

Doug is sleeping in his bunk. Olson’s voice comes through the bars on the small window.

OLSON: (O.C.) Grady! ...Doug! ...Bobby!
Doug stirs and then quickly stands and jumps up on the bunk to grab the bars and lift himself up.
DOUG: Yeah!
OLSON: (O.C.) I’ve got horses for you. Use this. We gotta find that money!

A small sack is pushed through the bars. Doug grabs it and opens it. Inside he finds a stick of dynamite and box of matches. Doug pushes the bars out and jams the stick between the bunk steel and the bars and lights it. Now in a panic Doug steps over to the far side of the cell and then curls up on the floor. The dynamite blows and one side of the bars clatters out against the wall.

Olson and Doug ride quickly into the desert.

The Sheriff walks carefully up the side of the rock-strewn ridge, watching the trail for tracks and dollars. Behind him a ways Bobby is following on foot with the horses. Drumming is heard faintly now. Sheriff turns and holds up his hand to stop Bobby who pauses and watches the Sheriff move up to the edge of a rim to take a look.

Close up: The Sheriff raises from behind a rock and sees the now large Indian camp.

Wide: Sheriff’s POV, the ridge top is filled with Mojave, drummers on one side of the large fire and dancers on the other. Ten warriors including Black Moon wear dollarcoats and the Shaman is giving each of them a sip of moon flower tea in turn.
Cut to:

The Sheriff scrambles back down to Bobby.
SHERIFF: Quite the pow wow up there. And they’re wearing our money. 
BOBBY: Wearing it?!
Sheriff nods and looks around at the ridge.
SHERIFF: They’re going to war. Maybe that’s why we haven’t been seen. But we better not move until night.
The Sheriff sits down and Bobby looks around.
SHERIFF: Tie them there and sit down.
Bobby ties the horses to some scrub and sits down.
SHERIFF: They’ll probably burn the reservation and then attack the fort. And if they manage all that, Belleville next. 
BOBBY: Think they can do all that? 
SHERIFF: They can try.

The Sheriff lies back and takes a look at his watch. Then he tips his hat down over his eyes. Bobby looks at him and then does the same.
Dissolve to:

Close up: The Sun sets against the horizon; the drumming continues on the soundtrack.

Elsewhere on the ridge Rufe can hear the drums and he peers over and spots the war dance by firelight. He immediately ducks and starts back down the ridge to his donkey and leads it away.
Dissolve to:

Close up: The new moon; drumming on the soundtrack.

Bobby and the Sheriff stir; they hear war chants with the drumming now.

BOBBY: Think we should get out of here, Sheriff? 
SHERIFF: Let me take a look first.
The Sheriff climbs back up to the rim and peers over it.
Cut to:

Wide: Sheriff’s POV, the ridge top is all in motion with Mojave reaching the trance state together.

Close up: Tuhudda arrives at the gathering and he breaks his way into the dancing circle.
Cut to:

Down below the Sheriff, Doug and Olson reach Bobby.
BOBBY: Dougie! 
DOUG: Hey little brother; where’s that Sheriff?
Bobby points up the ridge.
OLSON: Where’s the money? 
BOBBY: He said the Injuns are wearing the money. 
DOUG: Wearing the money! Goddamn it Olson, we’re all going to wind up like Cole!
Olson motions for them to be quiet as they move up the ridge to the rim. The Sheriff hears something and turns around to face Olson’s gun.
OLSON: Hold still, Sheriff.
The Sheriff can’t help smiling and shaking his head.
SHERIFF: (points) Look at your money, Ollie.
Olson is leery of taking the gun off the Sheriff. Doug climbs to the rim next to the Sheriff and looks. He is stunned by what he sees and slowly motions Olson up. The Sheriff turns back to the sight unconcerned with Olson’s gun so Olson too moves to the rim followed by Bobby.

Close up: In a row left-to-right, Bobby, Olson, Doug, and the Sheriff stare at the sight, their faces lit by the fire.
Cut to:

Their POV: Black Moon and nine more Warriors are wearing dollarcoats and are dancing as if in trances. Black Moon is the leader and this is denoted by the open watch fob that hangs around his neck. The Shaman has a roll of burning greenbacks in one hand and he waves the smoke to each Warriors face in turn. Another hundred or so Mojave circle them to touch the smoke themselves.

Medium: Tuhudda has pushed his way through the crowd and reaches Black Moon and interrupts the Shaman who steps aside and the dancing and drumming begin to fall apart to silence. Tuhudda stares at Black Moon until everyone is quiet and then talks loudly for all to hear.

TUHUDDA: (Black Moon! You must not war against the white man! Chief Irataba’s word must rule! There is a new army at the fort! One hundred soldiers with horses, rifles and cannons! The Mojave will die and the land will be lost! To your children! To your spirits!)
Black Moon steps forward and raises his arms to show his dollarcoat.
BLACK MOON: (We do not fear the white man! No more! Now we pick up Chief Sickahote’s spear and bow and strike from behind the magic of the white man’s dollar and time face!)
The Shaman shakes the burning roll of greenbacks to Black Moon’s words and a cheer goes up from the Mojave. Tuhudda looks around at the war crazy Mojave and despairs. He raises his pistol and holds it until Black Moon focuses on it and waits confidently for the shot. The entire camp builds to a loud chanting until Tuhudda fires a shot at Black Moon. Black Moon staggers back with arms still raised. Black Moon can’t believe he is shot and now staggers forward and falls into the fire sending sparks into the sky. The chanting ends. The Shaman and a Warrior pulls Black Moon from the fire. Other Warriors unsheath knives and attack Tuhudda together. Tuhudda doesn’t seem to resist and goes down under their blows.

The Mojave now are quiet as what’s happened sinks in. The Warriors remove their dollarcoats and drop them into the fire. All drift away into the darkness leaving the Shaman dancing over the body of Black Moon.
Cut to:

The Sheriff turns away from the Mojave fire and joins the brothers and Olson who are staring into the dark night. Olson is slack-jawed. Doug is sullen. Bobby is still scared. The Sheriff is somehow tickled by what he’s seen.

SHERIFF: (sighs) Well... give them some time boys and they’ll print up another batch of money for ya... But right now you’re under arrest.
He casually pulls his pistol but otherwise none bats an eye.
Dissolve to:

Close: The new moon against the milky way.
Dissolve to:

Wide pan: The sun rises against the eastern horizon. On the soundtrack we hear the clinking of Rufe’s hammer.
Cut to:

Close: The sun on the dark stained skull setting on the rock. Fade to black.

(illustrations: header collage by Mike Vann Gray; sunset by Nunzio Carducci; other photographs by Joe Carducci)

Copyright 2018 D. Joseph Carducci | reg. WGAw P.O. Box 276, Centennial Wyoming 82055

"Desert Poem" by Rafael Carducci

Photograph by Joe Carducci

From the Wyoming Desk…

Richard Rodriguez in FIRST THINGS, Padre Mestizo.
The Jesuits in Baja California plastered the walls of their missions with the brightest, most supernatural white they were capable of fabricating in order to enchant the Indians down from the hills. My father would have come. I would have come down to see what the missions were about. To hear about Jesus-God. As a mestizo, like most Mexicans alive today, like my ancestors, I was made by the missions. St. Junípero is not our role model; not the first. He was part of a procession. We are called to his grave because of the strength of his resolve—a resolve he shared with thousands of missionaries. His great ambition, his deep desire, was to join his soul to the souls of Indians, many of whom fled his presence. You may find yourself unwilling to praise the old priest. But I will.


Simon Romero in NYT, Indian Slavery Once Thrived in New Mexico.
New Mexico, which had the largest number of sedentary Indians north of central Mexico, emerged as a coveted domain for slavers almost as soon as the Spanish began settling here in the 16th century, according to Andrés Reséndez, a historian who details the trade in his 2016 book, “The Other Slavery.” Colonists initially took local Pueblo Indians as slaves, leading to an uprising in 1680 that temporarily pushed the Spanish out of New Mexico. The trade then evolved to include not just Hispanic traffickers but horse-mounted Comanche and Ute warriors, who raided the settlements of Apache, Kiowa, Jumano, Pawnee and other peoples. They took captives, many of them children plucked from their homes, and sold them at auctions in village plazas. The Spanish crown tried to prohibit slavery in its colonies, but traffickers often circumvented the ban by labeling their captives in parish records as criados, or servants. The trade endured even decades after the Mexican-American War, when the United States took control of much of the Southwest in the 1840s. Seeking to strengthen the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery in 1865, Congress passed the Peonage Act of 1867 after learning of propertied New Mexicans owning hundreds and perhaps thousands of Indian slaves, mainly Navajo women and children.


Allen Guelzo in WSJ on Brooks Simpson’s anthology, Reconstruction.
The first document in the anthology is from no less than Frederick Douglass, whose optimistic speech in January 1865 was titled “What the Black Man Wants.” Douglass’s answer was, simply: to be left alone. “The American people have always been anxious to know what they shall do with us…. I have had but one answer from the beginning. Do nothing with us! Your doing with us has already played the mischief with us. Do nothing with us! If the apples will not remain on the tree of their own strength… let them fall!” The balance of the anthology can be seen as one long, exasperated illustration of how that advice was ignored. Former Confederates had no intention of leaving the freedpeople alone, because Southern wealth and white supremacy depended on keeping African-Americans in an economic condition as close to slavery as possible. At the same time, infuriated anti-slavery Northerners… made it clear that they had not fought the Civil War merely to obtain some minor readjustments of Southern society, and the freedpeople became their proxies in a war to bury forever an anti-republican and anti-capitalist slave-holding elite.


Michael Barone in WSJ on James Simon’s book, Eisenhower vs. Warren.
The fact is that Eisenhower and Warren were both acting under political constraints – something that Mr. Simon, in his gripping account, describes generously in Warren’s case but somewhat more grudgingly in Eisenhower’s. Eisenhower was a politician who in 1952 had won 49% in the South and wanted to do even better in 1956 (he got 50.2%). A plunge in his job approval would weaken his ability to govern. As it was, as Mr. Simon notes, the Southern federal judges he appointed did yeoman work insisting on desegregation. Warren was constrained by his statesmanlike desire for unanimity. The price was delay. It required the work of a brilliantly led civil-rights movement, passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act over a dramatic filibuster and the hammer of the Voting Rights Act a year later to dismantle the segregation system. And it was the administration of Richard Nixon, whom Eisenhower disdained and Warren loathed, that finally ended segregation in the schools.


H.W. Brands in WSJ on John Sedgwick’s book, Blood Moon.
In the case of the Cherokee, it was often difficult to tell who was white and who Indian.
 Mr. Sedgwick deftly hangs his tale on two remarkable individuals: The Ridge (He Who Walks on Mountaintops) and John Ross. Each was of mixed ancestry, with The Ridge looking more like his Cherokee father than his Scots grandfather, and Ross resembling the seven of his eight great-grandparents who were white. The Ridge never learned to speak fluent English; Ross never mastered Cherokee. For decades the two battled whites, collaborated with whites and eventually fought against each other for the future of the Cherokee nation. The question that finally drove them apart was the one that confronted every Indian tribe sooner or later: retreat in the face of white pressure or fight to the bitter end?


Andrew Higgins in NYT, Kazakhstan Prizes Its Cowboys.
As the world’s largest landlocked country, Kazakhstan covers an area nearly four times the size of Texas but has only 18 million people, a ratio that leaves plenty of open spaces for cattle and cowboys. In the first two decades after independence, Kazakhstan focused mostly on developing its oil fields and mostly ignored its cows, whose number declined steeply. Also neglected were cowboys. In 2012, the government decided, for both economic and cultural reasons, to start pouring money into the cattle industry. It sent groups of cowboys to train in North Dakota and brought in American cowboys to help out on the steppe. The number of cattle has since risen sharply. Nearly all of the money, however, went to big ranches linked to or owned by the government, not to small-time cowboys like Mr. Kozhakov. Instead of delighting in Kazakhstan’s progress, both he and his wife say they miss the Soviet Union. His wife said she and her family were living in a remote camp without television or telephone when the Soviet Union fell apart and did not even know anything had happened until the state farm they were herding cattle for stopped sending supplies. “We knew nothing,” she recalled. “All the leaders of the state farm were too busy dividing up the property among themselves to tell us anything.”


Jim Carlton in WSJ, In Battle for American West, Cowboys Are Losing.
Since 1979, when the environmental movement kicked into gear, the number of ranchers permitted on Bureau of Land Management-owned lands fell from about 22,000 with 12 million permitted livestock, mostly cows, to 18,000 ranchers with about seven million livestock, according to the most recent government estimates, from 2016. The number of ranchers and cows on public lands continued to drop even as cattle prices stabilized and rose.


Chad Nelson in POLITICAL SCIENCE QUARTERLY, Why the Great Powers Permitted the Creation of an American Hegemon.
There were, in fact, benefits to American hegemony for Britain and France, at least in the short and medium term, which was more explicitly acknowledged when the future of that hegemony seemed in doubt during the Civil War. One of the motives Americans had for obtaining hegemony in North America was to keep the state weak. In the unusual conditions of North America, expansionism was a substitute for state building. American statesmen wanted to prevent a competitive security environment from developing, as in Europe, as this would require a stronger state and a standing army, thus endangering liberty. Europeans benefited from this weak state, which, for the most part, did not engage in European diplomacy and did not embroil them in conflicts in the Western Hemisphere, confining the bulk of their interactions to trade. When that arrangement seemed to be breaking down, British and French observers did not see it as a necessarily positive development. The breakup of American hegemony would (and did) create powerful states that threatened to suck the British and French in to a dangerous cauldron. Perhaps American hegemony gave Britain a balancer of last resort in Europe, but there is no evidence that Britain appreciated this longer-term benefit. It was rather the more immediate benefit of a peaceful North America that the British prized.


Christopher Hawthorne in LAT, Los Angeles, Houston and the Rise of the Unreadable City.
Houston is casually written off even more often than Los Angeles, which is saying something. Now the fourth largest city in the country in population — and gaining on third-place Chicago — it's an unruly place in terms of its urbanism, a place that (as Los Angeles once did) has room, or makes room, for a wide spectrum of architectural production, from the innovative to the ugly. Like Los Angeles, it's a city that invested heavily in freeways and other car-centric infrastructure last century and remains, in many neighborhoods, a terrible place to walk. It's long been a place people go to reinvent themselves, to get rich or to disappear. The flip side of its great tolerance is a certain lack of cohesion, a difficulty in articulating a set of common civic goals. (Here's where I concede that the instinct behind the New York Times piece on L.A., if little about its execution, was perfectly reasonable.) As is the case in Los Angeles, the greatest thing and the worst thing about Houston are one and the same: Nobody cares what anybody else is doing. Freedom in both places sometimes trumps community. It also tends to trump stale donor-class taste. Roughly one in four residents of Houston's Harris County is foreign-born, a rate nearly as high as those in New York and Los Angeles. Houston's relationship with Dallas, the third biggest city in Texas, is something like L.A.'s with San Francisco; the southern city in each pair is less decorous, less fixed in its civic identity and (at the moment, at least) entirely more vital.


Adam Liptak in NYT, Trump v. California: The Biggest Legal Clashes.
In the Obama years, red states tried to strike down the heart of the Affordable Care Act and succeeded in blocking a major immigration program. “Now we see the blue states battling Trump over sanctuary cities, the census and other issues,” Professor Somin said. Greg Abbott, now the governor of Texas, used to say that his job description as the state’s attorney general was simple: “I go to the office in the morning, I sue Barack Obama, and then I go home.” Xavier Becerra, California’s attorney general, has said that his attitude is slightly different. “We don’t wake up in the morning looking to pick a fight with the Trump administration,” he said. “But we will do what is necessary to defend our values.” Texas sued the Obama administration at least 48 times, according to a survey conducted by The Texas Tribune. The Trump administration is a little more than a year old, and California is already within striking distance of those numbers.


Max Fisher, et. al., in NYT, Losing Faith in the State, Some Mexican Towns Quietly Break Away.
Local orchard owners, who export over $1 million in avocados per day, mostly to the United States, underwrite what has effectively become an independent city-state. Self-policing and self-governing, it is a sanctuary from drug cartels as well as from the Mexican state. But beneath the calm is a town under tightfisted control, enforced by militias accountable only to their paymasters. Drug addiction and suicide are soaring, locals say, as the social contract strains. Tancítaro represents a quiet but telling trend in Mexico, where a handful of towns and cities are effectively seceding, partly or in whole. These are acts of desperation, revealing the degree to which Mexico’s police and politicians are seen as part of the threat. Visit three such enclaves — Tancítaro; Monterrey, a rich commercial city; and Ciudad Nezahualcóyotl, just outside the capital — and you will find a pattern. Each is a haven of relative safety amid violence, suggesting that their diagnosis of the problem was correct. But their gains are fragile and have come at significant cost.


Azam Ahmed in NYT, Using Billions in Government Cash, Mexico Controls News Media.
Despite vowing to regulate government publicity, Mr. Peña Nieto has spent more money on media advertising than any other president in Mexico’s history — nearly $2 billion in the past five years, according to government data compiled by Fundar, a transparency group. It found that his administration spent more than twice the generous media budget Mexican lawmakers allotted it for 2016 alone. And that is just the federal money…. According to the executives and editors involved in the negotiations, some government press secretaries openly demand positive coverage from news organizations before signing an advertising contract. The result is a media landscape across Mexico in which federal and state officials routinely dictate the news, telling outlets what they should — and should not — report, according to dozens of interviews with executives, editors and reporters. Hard-hitting stories are often softened, squashed or put off indefinitely, if they get reported at all…. Mr. Peña Nieto’s Institutional Revolutionary Party, also known as the PRI, pioneered this system during its 70 years in power. Former President José López Portillo explicitly laid out the government’s expectations decades ago — he was even quoted as saying that he did not pay the media to attack him — and the practice continued when the opposition claimed the presidency in 2000, then again in 2006.


Raymond Zhong in NYT, China Isn’t Happy About Its Newest Internet Stars: Teenage Moms.
The slapdown — which comes as China’s government extends its internet controls to encompass not only what it finds politically subversive, but also what it deems unwholesome or pornographic — prompted quick declarations of remorse from the video apps’ creators. “Content appeared on the platform that shouldn’t have been there, and it has had an extremely bad influence on society,” Su Hua, the chief executive of the company that operates Kuaishou, one of the apps, wrote in a statement. “I am very grateful to CCTV and other media for criticizing Kuaishou, so that I could clearly see my own deficiencies.” The company behind the other app, Huoshan, wrote: “Thanks to CCTV’s supervision, Huoshan feels a deep sense of responsibility.” The creators of both apps said that they would strengthen their systems for screening videos.


Javier Hernandez in NYT, Chinese Sperm Bank Seeks Donors. Only Good Communists Need Apply.
No bald men. No hereditary diseases like color blindness. And in case there were any doubts, the sperm bank at Peking University Third Hospital clarified: Only men with an abiding love for the “socialist motherland” need apply. President Xi Jinping’s drive to restore the Communist Party’s place at the center of everyday life in China has brought socialist banners to city streets, nationalistic rap music to the airwaves and patriotic heroes to movie theaters. Now Mr. Xi has inspired a new test of party loyalty — reproduction. The ad placed by the hospital sperm bank, which has circulated widely on social media in recent days, listed support for the Communist Party and Mr. Xi as its top requirements for potential donors. “He must have good ideological thoughts,” the ad said by way of describing ideal donors, “love the socialist motherland and support the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party.”


James Millward in NYT, What It’s Like to Live in a Surveillance State.
According to Radio Free Asia, a county official and a police officer in southern Xinjiang were instructed by superiors to lock up 40 percent of the local Uighur population. Adrian Zenz, a researcher at the European School of Culture and Theology, estimates that 5 percent of the Uighur population across Xinjiang has been or is currently detained — more than 500,000 people in all. Local orphanages overflow with the children of detainees; some children reportedly are sent to facilities in the eastern parts of China. Why are so many Uighurs subjected to these harsh policies? A Chinese official in Kashgar explained: “You can’t uproot all the weeds hidden among the crops in the field one by one — you need to spray chemicals to kill them all.” The C.C.P., once quite liberal in its approach to diversity, seems to be redefining Chinese identity in the image of the majority Han — its version, perhaps, of the nativism that appears to be sweeping other parts of the world. With ethnic difference itself now defined as a threat to the Chinese state, local leaders like Mr. Chen feel empowered to target Uighurs and their culture wholesale.


Walter Mead in WSJ, Left and Right Agree: Get Tough on China.
Within the Republican Party, China is what unites the Steve Bannon wing with the H.R. McMasters and the Rex Tillersons. Where the populists see a threat to American jobs and wages from unfair Chinese competition, the national-security types worry about protecting important sea lanes and American allies in the region from an aggressive, rapidly arming power. As many traditional pro-China voices in corporate America fall silent in the face of Beijing’s mercantilism, the Richard Nixon-George H.W. Bush legacy of Republican friendship with China is on the wane. Democrats also are increasingly focused on perceived threats from Beijing. Organized labor has long argued that Chinese competition undermines American wages and jobs. But now China, not content with suppressing human rights in its own territory, is seeking to advance the cause of nondemocratic governance in places like Venezuela and Zimbabwe. That brings it into conflict with the powerful human-rights constituency in Democratic politics. Beyond that, the often left-leaning tech lords of Silicon Valley have been hit by some of China’s most aggressively mercantilist abuses.


Keith Bradsher & Jane Perlez in NYT, Is Trump Series About Trade War? China’s Leaders Hunt for Answers.
In these meetings, the Americans have warned that Mr. Trump’s complaints should be taken seriously because of widespread frustration in Washington with Chinese policies, especially a $300 billion program to dominate critical high-tech industries, known as Made in China 2025, that has alarmed the United States national security establishment. It is unclear whether that message is making it through to Mr. Xi — or whether he has chosen to ignore it after concluding that Mr. Trump is bluffing and that the United States will back off, as it has in the past. Governing with a new mandate since engineering the removal of presidential term limits last month, Mr. Xi has personally taken control of decision-making in the trade standoff, according to analysts and political insiders with ties to the leadership. His unquestioned authority, some say, has made it more difficult for the party apparatus to deliver news that contradicts him. “When you have this kind of regime, you want to report the good story,” said Tao Jingzhou, a managing partner at the global law firm Dechert who deals with senior Chinese officials. “I have the impression the leadership is not fully briefed about the seriousness of the atmosphere against China in the U.S. establishment.”


Jamil Anderlini in FT, Enduring Suspicion Weighs on Capitalists in China.
In ancient times, merchants were at the very bottom of the four official social classes, below warrior-scholars, farmers and artisans. Although some became very rich they were considered parasites in Chinese society. Ever since the Han emperors established the state salt monopoly in the second century BCE (remnants of which remain to this day), large-scale business enterprises have been controlled by the state to completely reliant on the favour of the emperor and the bureaucrat class. In the 20th century, the Communist emperor Mao Zedong effectively managed to stamp out all private enterprise for a while. Until the party finally allowed “capitalists” to join its ranks in 2002, many of the business activities carried out by the resurgent merchant class were technically illegal.


Zephyr Teachout in NYT on Adam Winkler’s book, We the Corporations – How American Businesses Won Their Civil Rights.
Corporations have rarely won rights by trumpeting their own importance, or openly arguing for civil rights. Instead, over generations, they have succeeded by claiming that corporate rights are necessary and useful tools for vindicating the rights of others — of people. In the first major corporate-rights case, in 1809, the issue was whether a bank had the right to sue in federal court. Given the politics of the time, the bank was likely to lose in state court. The problem was that the Constitution gave access to federal court only to “citizens.” Instead of trying to argue that a corporation is a person qua person, the bank’s lawyer insisted that the rights of the owners — an association of people — would be trampled on if the bank couldn’t be heard in federal court. The Supreme Court acquiesced…. In 1946, the Supreme Court justice Hugo Black proposed an alternative way to think about big corporations, as quasi governments. Black wrote the majority opinion in Marsh v. Alabama, arguing that when corporations take on the role of governments, they must be subject to the limitations we put on governmental power. Had Black’s logic been taken more seriously, it would have reshaped American rules regarding corporate power. Winkler spends several pages on the case but doesn’t persuasively explain why Black’s argument never took hold.


Andrew Sullivan in NEW YORK, We All Live on Campus Now.
And, sure enough, the whole concept of an individual who exists apart from group identity is slipping from the discourse. The idea of individual merit – as opposed to various forms of unearned “privilege” – is increasingly suspect. The Enlightenment principles that formed the bedrock of the American experiment – untrammeled free speech, due process, individual (rather than group) rights – are now routinely understood as mere masks for “white male” power, code words for the oppression of women and nonwhites. Any differences in outcome for various groups must always be a function of “hate,” rather than a function of nature or choice or freedom or individual agency. And anyone who questions these assertions is obviously a white supremacist himself.


Patrick Buchanan in WSJ, With Nixon in ’68 .
The stage was set for an explosive Democratic convention in Chicago. I asked Nixon to send me. He agreed. Our listening post was on the 19th floor of the “Comrade Hilton.” I was alone in the suite one night when Norman Mailer walked in with the light-heavyweight champion Jose Torres. As we talked, a commotion erupted outside. A phalanx of cops had marched up Balbo Drive to Michigan Avenue and halted. Suddenly, the cops took off into Grant Park, clubbing the radicals and dragging them to patrol wagons. Mailer and I saw it all from our 19th-floor window. On and on it went, as Torres cursed the cops and I stayed mute. I had been down there at night among the protestors, who were as ugly a crowd as I had seen in the Vietnam era. When Humphrey left Chicago, the Democratic coalition that had give LBJ a historic landslide in 1964 was shattered. Wallace seemed certain to shear off the electoral votes of the Deep South. The McCarthy-Kennedy wing was enraged over how Mayor Richard Daley’s cops had beaten the protestors. The nation had seen a convention where Democratic delegates cursed one another on the floor as their partisans brawled with police in the streets. I came back from Chicago and told Nixon that we should side with Daley and the cops. Nixon’s first campaign stop that fall was a motorcade through downtown Chicago, where huge crowds cheered him.


Patrick Deneen in FIRST THINGS, The Ignoble Lie – How the New Aristocracy Masks Its Privilege.
Socrates is reluctant even to speak the myth aloud, recognizing how repulsive it is likely to sound to his hearers. More, he admits that it will require great acts of persuasion—likely over generations—before it is accepted by denizens of the city, and even then, it is likely not to be persuasive to the ruling class. If anyone is likely to accept the myth, he suggests, it is the uneducated working class…. When pressed on the question of why it will prove more difficult to persuade the ruling class of the truth of the noble lie, most students believe that the ruling class’s superior education and intelligence make them more resistant to propaganda, while the simple working people are likely to succumb to deception because they don’t adequately understand their own interests. My students implicitly side with Marx in believing that the less educated are likely to adopt “false consciousness.” Plato intends us to understand the myth ­differently. Unlike Marx, he did not believe that the members of the lower class would be unlikely to know their own interests. The underclass is likely to accept the myth because they realize it works to their advantage. Its members are keenly aware of the fact of inequality. That part of the “lie” hardly seems false to them. What is novel, and what works to their advantage, is the idea that inequalities exist for the benefit of the underclass as well as the rulers. That is, members with noble metals in their souls are to undertake their work for the benefit of everyone, including those whose souls are marked by base metals. By contrast, members of the ruling class are likely to disbelieve the myth out of self-interest. They balk at the claim that every person, regardless of rank, belongs to the same family. They do not want the advantages that might solely benefit their class to be employed for the benefit of the whole.


John Gray in TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT, The Problem of Hyper-Liberalism.
It would be easy to say that liberalism has now been abandoned. Practices of toleration that used to be seen as essential to freedom are being deconstructed and dismissed as structures of repression, and any ideas or beliefs that stand in the way of this process banned from public discourse. Judged by old-fashioned standards, this is the opposite of what liberals have stood for. But what has happened in higher education is not that liberalism has been supplanted by some other ruling philos­ophy. Instead, a hyper-liberal ideology has developed that aims to purge society of any trace of other views of the world. If a regime of censorship prevails in universities, it is because they have become vehicles for this project. When students from China study in Western countries one of the lessons they learn is that the enforcement of intellectual orthodoxy does not require an authoritarian gov­ernment. In institutions that proclaim their commitment to critical inquiry, censorship is most effective when it is self-imposed. A defining feature of tyranny, the policing of opinion is now established practice in societies that believe themselves to be freer than they have ever been.


Shelby Steele in HOOVER DIGEST, A Sick Hunger for Racism.
Today Americans know that active racism is no longer the greatest barrier to black and minority advancement. Since the 1960s other pathologies, even if originally generated by racism, have supplanted it. White racism did not shoot more than four thousand people last year in Chicago. To the contrary, America for decades now—with much genuine remorse—has been recoiling from the practice of racism and has gained a firm intolerance for what it once indulged. But Americans don’t really trust the truth of this. It sounds too self-exonerating. Talk of “structural” and “systemic” racism conditions people to think of it as inexorable, predestined. So even if bigotry and discrimination have lost much of their menace, Americans nevertheless yearn to know whether or not we are a racist people. A staple on cable news these days is the “racial incident,” which stands as a referendum on this question. One day there is Charlottesville. In previous days there were the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray, and others. Don’t they reveal an irrepressible racism in American life? At the news conferences surrounding these events there are always the Al Sharpton clones, if not the man himself, ready to spin the tale of black tragedy and white bigotry. Such people—and the American left generally—have a hunger for racism that is almost craven. The writer Walker Percy once wrote of the “sweetness at the horrid core of bad news.” It’s hard to witness the media’s oddly exhila-rated reaction to, say, the death of Trayvon Martin without applying Percy’s insight. A black boy is dead. But not all is lost. It looks like racism. What makes racism so sweet?


Martin Jay at aeon.co, A History of Alienation.
By undermining the realist illusion and preventing emotional identification with characters, Brecht de-familiarised the familiar, and forced the audience to reflect critically on unjust conditions beyond the world of art. What was needed, he argued, was more discomfort with the world and less feeling at home in it – more reflective estrangement and less aesthetic comfort food. At the very least, that’s what was required until the spell of false consciousness was broken, phoney gratifications revealed for what they were, and our true state of alienation exposed so as to open the path to true healing. Such arguments were still rooted in the idea that alienation was a pathological condition, one that ultimately needed to be redressed. But what if the alleged healing was itself ideological? This more radical riposte to the notion of alienation emerged in the theories that came to be called ‘post-structuralism’. Despite all their complexities and diversity, the thinkers within this rubric shared a common distrust of a key assumption: that a unified, holistic self or community was inherently superior to their opposites. A rejection of unity can be seen in the so-called ‘linguistic turn’ in the humanities. This began to loom in the 1970s and took inspiration from many different theories of language: ordinary language philosophy, hermeneutics, universal pragmatics, speech-act theory and the ‘deconstruction’ of Jacques Derrida and Paul de Man. This last movement was viewed as the vanguard of post-structuralism, and underpinned by a suspicion of the universal, knowing human subject which sat at the heart of traditional humanism.


Richard Reinsch in MODERN AGE, Autonomy on the Road to Tyranny.
On an existential note, love for the living tradition of one’s culture and the ballast it establishes lead the members of that culture to reproduce. To reject the past, doubt everything, and affirm nothing save for a constructed future, or to forbid forbidding in the manner of a postmodern theorist, negates the very idea of an inheritance. It ends in sterility, a fact understood by the vast majority of Western nations struggling with below-replacement birth rates. Administrative theory dissolves this culture, notes Eliot. The previous class of custodians are purged by what amounts to a new class of managers. But this elite must form its own standards to maintain its rule. What will be their standards, and what will this group share in common with the country it rules? Eliot argues that they will have no culture and will only share with one another the technique of management, i.e., the committee meetings whereby they dominate a society. They feel no sense of duty or gratitude to the larger body they rule. This is not limited to politics, Eliot observes, but operates in all manner of pursuits and undertakings. The elite assumes the essential malleability of society, which can be shaped by theory without concern for history or culture or actual existing people. We can accept standardization and a certain amount of machinery ruling us, Eliot thought, for a limited time and a definite purpose: wars, catastrophes, etc. But elites will try to keep the levers of power in their hands. How? Having achieved their status on the basis of examinations, educational attainment, and ideology, it stands to reason that these experts, united only by their functions, will find ways to make their position permanent. So they will come to govern inscrutably, striking down challengers as enemies of Progress, the people, and change.


Timothy Snyder in NY REVIEW OF BOOKS, Ivan Ilyin, Putin’s Philosopher of Russian Fascism.
Ilyin’s proclamation of a fascist future for Russia in the 1920s was the absolute negation of his hopes in the 1910s that Russia might become a rule-of-law state. “The fact of the matter,” wrote Ilyin, “is that fascism is a redemptive excess of patriotic arbitrariness.” Arbitrariness (proizvol), a central concept in all modern Russian political discussions, was the bugbear of all Russian reformers seeking improvement through law. Now proizvol was patriotic. The word for “redemptive” (spasytelnii), is another central Russian concept. It is the adjective Russian Orthodox Christians might apply to the sacrifice of Christ on Calvary, the death of the One for the salvation of the many. Ilyin uses it to mean the murder of outsiders so that the nation could undertake a project of total politics that might later redeem a lost God. In one sentence, two universal concepts, law and Christianity, are undone. A spirit of lawlessness replaces the spirit of the law; a spirit of murder replaces a spirit of mercy.


Stefan Buchen at qantara.de, Hedwig Klein and Mein Kampf.
"Allah will help me." Hedwig Klein, a 27-year-old native of Hamburg, is feeling confident. She is an Islamic studies scholar who had been planning to make a career for herself at Hamburg University. But there is an insurmountable obstacle in her way: Hedwig Klein is Jewish. On board the steamer Rauenfels, she writes a postcard to the man in Hamburg who helped her escape, Carl August Rathjens. "I feel very comfortable on board in this good weather and at the moment am not worrying about the future." The postcard is dated 21 August 1939. The ship had left Hamburg two days previously, heading for Bombay in India. Rathjens, an economic geographer with contacts in many different countries, had managed to get the persecuted Jewish woman a visa for the British colony. Salvation seemed so close, but it was to remain elusive. Hedwig Klein’s attempt to emigrate failed. The last hope of the Hamburg Jew would ultimately hinge on helping spread anti-Semitism in the Arab world. She ended up working on a dictionary that was intended to serve as the basis for the translation of "Mein Kampf" into Arabic.


Bernd Schmitz at qantara.de, The History of Jazz in Iran.
The word jazz – or "jaaz" as Iranians tend to pronounce it – was however initially subject to some misunderstanding. "Because the drum kit was seen as the main instrument in what for most Iranians was a novel style of music, there was a tendency initially to refer to any music that featured it as jazz," says Tehran music producer Ramin Sadighi. "One of the biggest Iranian pop stars of that time, Vigen, for example was dubbed the 'Sultan of Jazz', simply because his band featured a drummer." According to Sadighi, the story of jazz in Iran begins in the early 1960s: "The country's oil industry was booming at the time, especially in Khuzestan province in the south-west. Most of the oil extraction back then was done by British and American companies and the employees had their own clubs – in Ahwaz, Khorramshahr and Abadan, for example – where jazz music was played." In an article published in the book "Jazz World/World Jazz" in 2017, the London-based musicologist and teacher Laudan Nooshin describes jazz as a minority interest in Iran in comparison to pop music, but also points out that Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi made use of its growing popularity to further his aim of turning Iran into a secular state along Western capitalist lines.


Marcia Qualey at qantara.de on Dunya Mikhail’s book, The Beekeeper – Rescuing the Stolen Women of Iraq.
But, even when the word sabaya is removed from the title, it remains central to the book. One of the women who talks to Mikhail, an Iraqi sewing instructor named Hiam, says that "what happened to us was completely unprecedented. We had lived through continuous war but we had never heard certain words like sabaya, caliphate, fucking." For Daesh forces, "sabaya" was a word applied to non-Sunni-Muslim women who were considered less-than-human war booty. Hussein Koro, director of the Office of Kidnapped Affairs, explained to Mikhail that, "Daesh calls our men prisoners of war and our women sabaya." And while a heroic Abdullah Shrem rescues stolen women, it was women who first rescued him. Escaping his home town, he journeyed with about 350 others to Syria "on a road that was being protected by the Peopleʹs Defence Brigades." He added: "To tell you the truth, it was an unusual protection force, as it was mostly made up of women." Throughout the book, women continue to rescue each other. Itʹs their large and small heroisms that make the book bearable, full as it is of Daeshʹs fairy-tale grotesqueries: mass murder, enslavement, starvation, beatings and children sold for parts.


Dan Bilefsky in NYT, Don’t Burn Women.
With its gray identikit houses seemingly frozen in a 1950s time warp, Hérouxville would seem like just another Quebec village. Except that this quiet hamlet attracted global opprobrium about a decade ago when the local council introduced a code of conduct for immigrants that, among other things, warned against stoning women in public and burning them alive. There was also a section explaining Christmas trees. “We listen to music, we drink alcoholic beverages in public or private places, we dance and at the end of every year, we decorate a tree with balls and tinsel and some lights,” the code explained. “The only time you may mask or cover your face is during Halloween.” There was just one thing: The town had no immigrants. The code of conduct, which also affirmed the rights of same-sex parents, was the brainchild of a local official, André Drouin, who died last year, and had come up with the idea after traveling in the Middle East.


Marilynne Robinson in TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT, Poetry of Puritanism.
I’ve read a good deal of Fascist literature over the years, and I know it was believed and taught and spun into philosophy and philology all over the Continent that mingled and rootless people who spoke an adopted language could never even know how utterly they fell short – of profundity, of authenticity, both important terms of the time. By these lights such people were a corruption, a threat to the organic integrity of any true culture. A splinter in the flesh, Hitler said. In our deference to European thought we applied this thinking to our hapless selves and kind, never reflecting on the uses that had been made of it in Europe or the biases it legitimized here. I have never admired deference. I was dosed with Sartre and Artaud, as any college girl then would have been. I felt their nausea. It made an Americanist of me. But for those whose tolerances were different from mine, figures like these defined the future. It was not a very interesting or habitable future, but in the short term it opened the way to study abroad. Juniors returned knowing better how to hold a fork or a cigarette. They had heightened social confidence – they had checked an important box. None of this ends with adolescence. Or this adolescence never ends. It seems to be true now that there is no Europe of the kind to potentially unleash new literary trends or to make us line up around the block for a new French or Italian movie. Without any particular object of emulation to measure our deficiencies by, the sense of deficiency is at least as strong as ever. It is absurd that the products of a civilization as old and solid as this one should forever be such colonials, feeling sophisticated in the fact that they have and confess such deeply internalized prejudices against themselves.


Martin Peretz in WSJ on Michael Walzer’s book, A Foreign Policy for the Left.
According to Mr. Walzer, the left’s vanguardism has put it in bed with dictators, fanatics and activists who reject reasoned debate as a means to democratic change. This is most obvious to Mr. Walzer in foreign policy because its so extreme. He gives many examples: leftists’ unwillingness to engage with unionist and feminist allies in Afghanistan and Iraq because American intervention as a force for good didn’t fit their theory of America as a force for evil; their mischaracterization of America’s world reach as totalistic, which allows blame always to ricochet back to us…. Mr. Walzer also sees the vanguard impulse at work domestically. He finds, in the aftermath of 9/11, American leftists opposed to America. They equate American soldiers’ accidental killing of civilians in Afghanistan with terrorist actions, which “denies one of the most basic and best understood moral distinctions: between premeditated murder and unintended killings.” From these observations, Mr. Walzer poses a searing question: “Can there be a decent left in a superpower?” The alternative is that “the guilt produced by living in such a country and enjoying its privileges makes it impossible to sustain a decent (intelligent, responsible, morally nuanced) politics. Maybe festering resentment, ingrown anger, and self-hate are the inevitable result of the long years spent in fruitless opposition to the global reach of American power.”


Robert Kaplan in WSJ, How Russia and China Could Become Unhinged.
Technology is unhinging all sorts of societies. Look at the U.S. A world without instant polling and internet-fed polarization would yield a calmer political climate. A world of smoke-filled rooms rather than primaries would have produced a more conventional Republican presidential candidate in 2016. But America’s newfound political instability – with all of its dangers – is of a self-correcting sort. The U.S. holds elections at the local, state and national levels that allow citizens and their elites to respond and adapt to ever-changing circumstances. Russia and China are different situations. Russia is a rickety house that at some point may crumble. China is sturdier; nevertheless, it could slowly become a compressed pack of social dynamite with less of an outlet for its internal frustrations. It is theoretically possible for Mr. Xi, as president for life, to institute a program of dramatic economic reforms. But doing so would unleash the need and yearning for more personal freedoms, the kind that the regime is moving with its technological thought control to try to eliminate.


Sheila Fitzpatrick in NY REVIEW OF BOOKS on Elizabeth McGuire’s book, Red at Heart – How Chinese Communists Fell in Love with the Russian Revolution.
The Comintern in China sent new student-revolutionaries to Moscow, but they were a dispirited bunch. Their schooling in the 1930s included a new emphasis on conspiracy and secrecy and lessons on withstanding interrogation. This training may not have been much use to students whose next encounter with political police was likely with the NKVD in the Great Purges a few years later. One school for Manchurian operatives in Moscow was so secret tdhat it was never officially acknowledged by the Soviet Communist Party, but its students continued the tradition of pairing off and having babies. Kang Sheng, who would become notorious as a brutal chief of the secret police under Mao, arrived from China to lecture at the University of the Toilers of the East (the main destination for Chinese students in Moscow after the demise of Sun Yat-sen University in 1930). He was trained for his harsh police work by the NKVD. Unlike some other Western commentators, who concentrate primarily on the exposure of Chinese students to the Soviet apparatus of political repression, McGuire emphasizes other ways in which they learned to think and live like Soviets. But repression was certainly an aspect of Soviet life that could not have escaped their attention. While they were not particularly targeted in the Great Purges, it is estimated that at least 1,700 Chinese citizens (not counting Soviet citizens who were ethnic Chinese) had been sent to the Gulag by 1939, and Chinese “enemies of the people” were executed as well.


Yoram Hazony in WSJ, The Dark Side of the Enlightenment.
For Kant, reason is universal, infallible and a priori – meaning independent of experience. As far as reason is concerned, there is one eternally valid, unassailably correct answer to every question in science, morality and politics. Man is rational only to the extent that he recognizes this and spends his time trying to arrive at that one correct answer. This astonishing arrogance is based on a powerful idea: that mathematics can produce universal truths by beginning with self-evident premises – or, as Rene Descartes had put it, “clear and distinct ideas” – and then proceeding to what Kant called “apodictic certainty.” Snce this method worked in mathematics, Descartes had insisted, it could be applied to all other disciplines. The idea was subsequently taken up and refined by Thomas Hobbes, Baruch Spinoza, John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau as well as Kant. This view of “reason” – and of its power, freed from the shackles of history, tradition and experience – is what Kant called “Enlightenment.” It is completely wrong. Human reason is incapable of reaching universally valid, unassailably correct answers to the problems of science, morality and politics by applying the methods of mathematics.


Ed Finn & David Guston in WSJ, The 200-Year-Old Novel That Became a Monster.
This durability derives not just from the fact that Frankenstein is a great work of literature, but from the way it encompasses our anxieties about scientific creativity and responsibility. Victor Frankenstein, the novel’s protagonist, predates the first usage of the word “scientist” by at least a decade. Before we even had the calling of the modern scientist, we had this depiction of a deeply flawed initiate pursuing knowledge at any cost. Before we had scientific ethics, we had Frankenstein’s characters anticipating the success of their technical endeavors and agonizing over unexpected consequences. And yet, 200 years into the new editions, adaptations, rip-offs, and remixes, we might only now be ready to learn what Frankenstein has to teach us. The story’s central, science fictional premise – that a human can create life with scientific tools and knowledge – is no longer speculative.


John Hawks in WSJ on David Reich’s book, Who We Are and How We Got Here.
The stories are varied: People who brought Indo-European languages into Europe seem to have originated in the Yamnaya, or Pit Grave, culture of the Ukrainian steppe. Some indigenous peoples of Brazil carry a faint trace of DNA not found in other Native Americans – DNA traces that resemble the populations of Australia, New Guinea and the Andaman Islands in the Bay of Bengal. Up to half of the ancestry of West African people may represent an ancient “ghost” population long diverged from other modern humans. One of the most interesting chapters concerns India. There, Mr. Reich and his co-workers have documented a series of migrations, starting 4,000 years ago, that brought Indo-European languages and peoples into the subcontinent from the northwest. The science paints a scenario that seemingly parallels events described in the “Big Veda,” the 3,500-year-old collection of Sanskrit hymns. The concordance of near-mythological history with genetic fact was scientifically exciting but to the surprise of Mr. Reich and his mathematician colleague Nick Patterson, it was also a potential political bombshell.


Carl Zimmer in NYT, Be Fruitful and Multiply. So A Mutant Crayfish Did.
The marbled crayfish became popular among German aquarium hobbyists in the late 1990s. The earliest report of the creature comes from a hobbyist who told Dr. Lyko he bought what were described to him as “Texas crayfish” in 1995. The hobbyist — whom Dr. Lyko declined to identify — was struck by the large size of the crayfish and its enormous batches of eggs. A single marbled crayfish can produce hundreds of eggs at a time. Soon the hobbyist was giving away the crayfish to his friends. And not long afterward, so-called marmorkrebs were showing up in pet stores in Germany and beyond. As marmorkrebs became more popular, owners grew increasingly puzzled. The crayfish seemed to be laying eggs without mating. The progeny were all female, and each one grew up ready to reproduce. In 2003, scientists confirmed that the marbled crayfish were indeed making clones of themselves. They sequenced small bits of DNA from the animals, which bore a striking similarity to a group of crayfish species called Procambarus, native to North America and Central America.


Fenton Johnson in HARPER’S, The Future of Queer.
The assimilationists have won, with state-sanctioned marriage as the very mortar cementing the bricks of the wall of convention that separates us from ourselves, from one another, from all that is unfamiliar, strange, challenging, and thus from learning and growth. The assimilationists have won, with the neocons building their Wonder Bread philosophies upon the ashes of queers who laid their lives on the line in the fight for AIDS visibility and treatment. The assimilationists have won, those men and women whose highest aspiration was to be like everybody else, whose greatest act of imagination was picturing matching Barcaloungers in front of a flatscreen television and matching, custom-designed wedding rings. The evolution from ACT UP and Zen Hospice to state-sanctioned marriage is precisely analogous to gentrification—the creative outliers do the heavy lifting, and when a certainlevel of safety has been achieved, the assimilationists move in, raise prices, and force out the agents of change.


Richard Rodriguez in HARPER’S, The Castro.
It was the glamour of gay life, as much as it was the feminist call to career, that encouraged heterosexuals in the Seventies to excuse themselves from nature, to swallow the birth control pill. Who needs children? The gay bar became the paradigm for the singles bar. The gay couple became the paradigm for the selfish couple—all dressed up and everywhere to go. And there was the example of the gay house in illustrated lifestyle magazines. At the same time that suburban housewives were looking outside the home for fulfillment, gay men were reintroducing a new generation in the city—heterosexual men and women—to the complacencies of the barren house. Puritanical America dismissed gay camp followers as yuppies; the term means to suggest infantility. Yuppies were obsessive and awkward in their materialism. Whereas gays arranged a decorative life against a barren state, yuppies sought early returns—lives that were not to be all toil and spin. Yuppies, trained to careerism from the cradle, wavered in their pursuit of the Northern European ethic—indeed, we might now call it the pan-Pacific ethic—in favor of the Mediterranean, the Latin, the Catholic, the Castro, the Gay.


Obituary of the Issue… Chen Xiaolu (1946-2018)
As the 50th anniversary of the cultural revolution approached, Chen formally and publicly proposed to apologise on behalf of his high-school classmates to the teachers they victimised during the tumultuous period. Actions by Chen and other princelings served as a proxy for the ruling Communist party and helped spur a low-key movement among the public to recognise teachers’ suffering during the period…. During the cultural revolution, Chen attended Beijing’s No 8 Middle School, an early hotbed of violence as the children of the revolutionary elite attacked their parents’ former colleagues, their teachers and each other. He helped organise violent public denunciation sessions, he later wrote. He subsequently organised a “Beijing Xicheng District Red Guard Picket Corps” to rush to the defence of conservative party members whose homes were under attack by more radical Red Guard groups, Mr Bao said. Thousands of people, many of them teachers, were beaten to death in Beijing in August and September 1967, when the movement erupted into violence. Between 1.5m and 3m Chinese were murdered in the following decade as factions struggled to succeed an ageing Mao Zedong. His father Chen Yi, a commander of Communist troops in southern China during the Japanese occupation and Chinese civil war, served as mayor of Shanghai and foreign minister before being sidelined for criticising the cultural revolution.