Cherokee Uprising

[first lines]

Narrator:
Long after the Indian and the white man were at peace, small bands of renegade Indians were organized by unscrupulous white men. Pioneers coming west were murdered and their valuables stolen. These Indians traded stolen goods for the white man's whiskey. And as soon as they drank it, they wanted more. While the real criminals counted their profits and encouraged the Indians to more massacres, Americans were dying all along the frontier... and for no reason, save the ruthless greed of a few white traders.

[smoke signals are seen near Judge Harrison's ranch house]

Judge Harrison:
The Indians are on the warpath! Now listen, Gray Eagle, I want you to get the horses together and load them with everything they can carry... what are you grinning at me like that for?

Gray Eagle:
Not necessary to leave, Judge. Smoke signal, not war signal. It is message from friends.

Judge Harrison:
From friends? Whose friends... not yours, I hope. Those murdering drunken Indians who kill everybody they see, why I...

Gray Eagle:
Not red men, Judge... white men scouts. He of the great bullwhip; he of the hairy face!

Judge Harrison:
You mean Bob Foster and Jake Jones?

Mary Lou Harrison:
Really? Are you sure?

Judge Harrison:
Well how'd they get here so fast?

[more smoke signals billow above the ridge]

Gray Eagle:
He say, "Will arrive suppertime with much hunger!"

[Jake is sending smoke signals]

Marshal Jake Jones:
Aw, the dad-busted wind! Keeps blowin' the smoke right in my face. Say, Bob, why don't you finish the message? I'm plumb wore all out.

Marshal Bob Foster:
Haven't got time, Jake - gotta finish shavin'. Don't want to look like a tramp with these whiskers on my face. 'Course on some people it might look good.

[glances at the bearded Jones]

Marshal Bob Foster:
I don't know any of *those* people.

Henchman Smokey:
Something ought to be done with Gray Eagle. If he ever finds out the whiskey is made here...

Sheriff:
What are you going to do about setting up this Indian?

Longknife:
How much pay?

[The sheriff gives Longknife a pint of whiskey]

Longknife:
Small bottle - big job. No.

Sheriff:
That's just a starter. You do this job right - get the marshal, his deputy and throw in Gray Eagle - and you'll have all the whiskey you can drink.

Marshal Jake Jones:
You get the dog-gonedest hunches, but I'd wish you'd quit playing dead. You want my whiskers to turn white like Santa Claus's?

Marshal Bob Foster:
Why, it might give you a little dignity.

Marshal Bob Foster:
Sheriff Conger, you're under arrest!

Sheriff:
You've got nothing on me.

Marshal Bob Foster:
Oh no? Just moonshining, murder, giving whiskey to Indians... and a few other little things.

Sheriff:
You can't prove any of those things and you wouldn't talk that way if you didn't have that gun.

[Whip holsters his gun]

Marshal Bob Foster:
You'll a murderer, Conger, and you're gonna hang for it, but first I have a score to settle for Gray Eagle...

[The Sheriff slugs Bob and the fight is on...]

[Jake discovers the villain's moonshine still]

Marshal Jake Jones:
Oh, lookee... Enough of that stuff to take a bath in!

Marshal Bob Foster:
When did you start bathing?

[Although their cabin is burning and full of smoke, the marshals pick off their attackers one by one]

Marshal Jake Jones:
I got him! There can't be many left out there.

Marshal Bob Foster:
Keep firing, Jake! Keep me covered! I'm going out after 'em.

Marshal Jake Jones:
Well, don't be too long. I don't want to be well-done.

[Bob and Jake capture the brains behind the renegade Indian attacks]

Marshal Jake Jones:
Doggone, if it ain't Mr. Welch!

Marshal Bob Foster:
Yes, Mr. Welch... renegade and murderer.

[last lines]

Marshal Bob Foster:
Hey, Jake, here comes your girlfriend!

[Mrs. Strongbow gives Jake a small box]

Marshal Bob Foster:
Now isn't that nice. She brought you a going-away present.

Marshal Jake Jones:
Thank you, Mrs. Strongbow. Thank you very much.

Marshal Bob Foster:
Well, aren't you going to open it?

Marshal Jake Jones:
Aw, in front of everybody?

Marshal Bob Foster:
Oh, come on. It might be a baked apple pie.

Marshal Jake Jones:
Oh, apple pie? Maybe some cheese with it...

[Jake opens the box and, to his digust, pulls out a razor]