Blackthorne Episode 145

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 Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 145

Stag Descending

1(sound cue) saxophone and piano.

2(one-shot that expands with the action, all in

slow motion)

Buck dropped the fifteen feet with his black hat on

his back, his big arms wide open, with a gun in each

hand, slipping through the air slowly, seeing three 

men off to his right moving toward him, their

weapons flickering fire. He felt the first bullet strike

his shoulder, the next slug his left knee, and

another bored fiercely into his right thigh.

   Now he could see himself, landing lightly in a pool

of quiet dust, firing his pistol and his sawed-off as he

barely touched the ground, dropping his guns and

immediately leaping back into the thick air, lunging

across a shaft of golden light as he heard hooves,

thousands of heavy unshod hooves pounding

against the cracked earth like rolling staggering

thunder, and there was Johnny Eagle on old white

Bob, and himself atop his Appaloosa, bursting 

through the piercing dust of a hump-horn ocean, a 

frenzied manic ballet of beasts, moving at quarter 

speed, muscles rippling, full on rushing, straining, 

panicked, punctuated suddenly by a chorus of 

Creedmoors, Sharps, Henrys, Spencers, Winchesters 

and Colts, all one fiery barrel, first putting down the 

great bulls, making thousands trip over them.

      Then there he was afoot, running on with death 

hot in his nostrils, his legs cramping, racing toward

the dark mountains; becoming a trio, his father

running on his left and Johnny Eagle on his right.

For a time they moved along together, each matching

the other’s stride, running as one six-legged creature,

as the rifles barked on. Buck heard his father stumble

and fall, but he did not slow or turn to the old man, he

just ran on, the Hunter and the Eagle, fleet as deer,

pumping their arms, tearing up clods as they sprinted,

their faces purple, foaming at the edges of their splayed

lips--and then the Indian went down, landing lightly like 

a loose feather, a soft death as Buck’s eyes were 

blazing with tears, as he ran on reaching for the 

purple mountains with his big hands.

    He pushed himself on until there was only the

running, and the running had no heart, no emotions,

no spirit, until he was overcome with a great fatigue,

and as he slowed the guns went silent, and the

hooves of thunder swelled up behind him, the sky

became a black funnel, an ebon tunnel. The

thunderous darkness tore at his limbs, and ripped at

his eyes, and his lungs turned to stone, until he was

full stop, and he finally turned to face the horns.

3(tight one shot) Buck’s broad back as he turned

toward the camera.

4(close-up) Buck’s face.

5(sound cue) the orchestra crescendoed.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN