Blackthorne Episode 130

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 130

Breakout

“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

dark store.

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

flashing red.

  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

quilt..

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN