When wandering a museum in the Southwestern United States, one expects reminders of bygone rugged lives, curated to local standards of conservative taste, intended to produce only mild provocations. I explored the exhibits in this archive anticipating relaxation — then this horror of an object confronted me.

The outline and condition of the thing jolts you first. Effortlessly we perceive the shape of a human head. Where a retina once existed attached to a living brain, dark nothingness lurks behind a ragged eye-slit. The passage of time has stained and deteriorated the shroud, originally manufactured in the 19th Century to contain milled grain.

A highwayman used a dull blade to fashion this flour sack into a disguise; then wore it to confuse his victims while he robbed wagons coming through the Superstition Mountains east of present-day Phoenix, Arizona. He reputedly made a prosperous living at this occupation. We might question this claim: if he was so successful in crime, why could he not afford better gear — something custom-made by a seamstress perhaps?

The multiple incisions near the crown of the skull on first examination are puzzling. But remember the brutality of the  climate in which the bandit operated his outdoor business. He would need to squeeze as much ventilation as possible out of his improvised camouflage.