image from pulpcovers.com
“Poetry is not turning loose,of emotion--it’s an
escape from it.”--T.S. Eliot.
1(sound cue) metal hitting flesh.
2(two-shot) the lawman folded forward, his torso
onto the cache of pistols on his desk. Out cold, he
looked like he was sleeping. Buck bent down and
placed two fingers behind Hop’s ear. The pulse was
strong. Hop moaned.
3(sound cue) soft drumbeat over guitar chords.
Buck stepped around Hop, and jerked open the
lower left drawer of his desk.
4(close up) The Thunderer and the sawed-off
crouched in their holsters.
5(sound cue) Indian seed rattle and guitar blues slide.
6(close up) The hunter buckled the heavy gun belt on
and tied down both holsters. His hands filled up with
blood as they hovered over his own weapons.
7(medium wide shot) He plucked his jacket from a coat
rack, and hurriedly put it on. He swooped up his Sharps.
Hop moved a little, his face buried in the spider’s nest
of gun belts and iron. With the Sharp’s in one hand, he
stepped quickly to the front door. He opened the door
and stepped out.
8(sound cue) Metallic creak as the door opened, over
snare drum jazz brushing.
9(cut to outside, overhead drone shot) Buck stands for
a moment on the puncheon walkway.
10(cut to reverse wide shot, Buck’s back) Four oil lamp
street lights were still lit. A foggy cold mist lie on the
town. His nose tingled as stepped down into the damp
morning air. The sun of gold was stirring on the horizon,
behind the purple mountains, over the top of the Grange
Hall, the warehouse, the CHINA DOLL, the bank, the
freight office, and the big auction barns. It’s fiery
forehead began to appear in the tangerine sky. Some
of the markers, crosses, and stones up on Boot Hill
were catching the first random rays, and their sad
edges were soaked in blood.
11(medium close-up) Buck’s eyes scanning.
12(wide shot) Blackthorne was quiet, as silent as
the grotesque pile of stiff bodies on Hop’s front
porch. There were two horses tied to a hitching rail
near the jail. Buck cautiously moved in their direction,
the Sharps at the ready, his eyes clear, his flared
nostrils huffing steam puffs.
As he walks, we see the windows in front of the
CHINA DOLL were broken, and overturned green
felt table tops were rolled up to them. A light came
on at the Bronson House Hotel, above Wallace’s
13(sound cue) soft banjo and harmonica.
14(shot tightens up) One of the horses was a brown mare,
standing on three legs, slumbering and securely wrap-
reined. The other was a younger raven-black gelding,
who was alert, and watching Buck. The tack on it’s
broad back was worn, but well made. The gelding talked
to Buck. The hunter stroked its neck, and reached for the
pommel. Something moved. Buck whirled, the Sharps
leveled. A tiger-striped cat burst out of a bush. It ran
hissing and growling across the street and scurried
under the boardwalk. Buck heard a dog whine, Cheewa
appeared out of the shadows, staring up at him, its eyes
Buck stepped up into the stirrup of someone else’s
saddle, and settled into a comfortable outfit. He had
never stolen a horse before. He slid his Sharps into
an empty rifle boot. He backed up a couple steps,
and turned the sleek gelding’s head north.
15(the shot begins to widen) The horse slowly
picked his way through the pale dust on the dark
street. He saw the open road in front of him, and
he strained to canter, but Buck held him to a walk.
Cheewa trotted out ahead of them, his thick tail
wagging. Buck turned in the saddle. No one
stirred up the quiet. The light in the second floor
of the Bronson House was now out. The Wallace
house was asleep. He thought of his sweet
Salina, exhausted and wrapped up in green silk
Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN