The squaw had been so carefully selected. Or so said the Navajo, whether or not he was Hopi, Mojave, or something else. Still, this was the Navajo’s report. She was, finally, Sioux. Carried out of the jungle swamps of the south. The Navajo said he heard the echoes of her dreams, which contained the echoes of a dark, dark dance. A dance of which few dared speak. Of black women marionetted by the Queen of England (perhaps), forced through (willing) rage to tumble-stomp first their feet, ankles and shins - off. Black blood, mud and moss. And, when they were nothing but fallen husks of ripe flesh exposed below their knees, the filet, the feast, began.
So, when this nameless squaw was granted release, she was firmly told (forced) to search through the corn fields for one perfect ear of corn, speckled with at least three colors, according to the individually arranged kernels. She searched from some indeterminate point in time after high noon until just before twilight. When she found the ear of corn she was searching for, she knew it by the echoed sounds of cackling screams, the spiritual anointing stolen from the ritual in the swamp-lands to the east. This “perfect” ear of corn lay in its husk on the ground: Sod, loam, indeterminate. So, after this nameless squaw carried this nameless un-shucked ear of corn through the throngs of the warriors of every tribe, and given respite only through the cooling spirit-breath of the Navajo, she lay her offering before the “Cherokee Chief”, who then raped her on screen.