image from pinterest.com
“Shape shifting requires the ability to transcend
your ego attachment; then you can slip in and out
of animal and deity forms.”--Zeena Schreck.
1(sound cue) loud buffalo hooves over snare drum.
2(medium one shot) Buck put down the big breech
loader and stood up calmly to face Tatanka--the
raging frost bull.
3(cut to overhead drone shot) The buffalo bearing
down on the hunter, as Buck stood his ground.
4( cut to behind Buck) as the bull charged.
Suddenly the great albino came to a halt, twenty
feet from Buck, catching its balance immediately,
a dust cloud settling around it.
5(sound cue) coronet and castanets.
6(two-shot) the huge hoar ox shook its shaggy head,
and settled to the ground, folding its thick legs
beneath it. Buck did the same, resting his fists on
his leather-clad knees. The bison switched its tail at
a squadron of horse flies, as it held Buck’s weary
blue eyes with its harsh red ones. An arrowhead still
embedded in its left shoulder, had a red feather
attached to it, and it flapped gently in the breeze.
7(sound cue) a cacophonous blast of a dozen
Sharps and Spencers.
8(close up) Buck’s eyes seeing, remembering...
9(insert scene--overhead shot) a buffalo slaughter,
the herd surrounded by hunters all firing at once.
Heavy bodies crashed to the ground. The Sea of
Hair flowed with blood and bleats.
10(sound cue) an eagle’s scree over a saxophone
11(medium close up) Buck looked up as the eagle’s
shadow crossed his face. When he looked back at
the bison, he saw a Shaman, a Lakota medicine
man of the Buffalo Nation, sitting cross-legged,
wearing a white buffalo head dress. His face was
painted white, with a red swath across his eyes.
He wore a bison vest, his bare arms painted
white with red lighting painted on both of them
Buck nodded, and the nod was returned, their
eyes locked, their jaws set. Silence reigned.
Buck: No...I am not ready.
12(sound cue) the staccato of many horses.
13(two-shot) Buck and the Albino rose together.
They could hear the horses laboring along the
switchbacks below the ranch, about halfway up.
The great Bull, returned to itself, pawed at the
ground, backed up, glanced once to the north
and the approaching horses, once at Buck, and
charged off to the east, moving at a swift gallop
for a beast of its size, running toward the purple
Buck waited until the flashing white hooves were
gone, thundering into cyan shadows.
14(tracking shot) Buck picked up the Sharps and
ran across the yard in huge strides, spinning up
soft clods of dirt, heading toward the flat bluff above
the burned barn, where El Blanco had materialized.
As he reached the top, he stood for a moment to
catch his breath. He could see his family plot a
hundred yards away, three gray tombstones boxed
in with its short picket fence, all white-wash in the
sun. Wait a minute--there’s someone standing over
there, an Indian. He blinked and the person was
gone. Christ, could it be Johnny?
Buck jumped into a thicket of tall scrub oak, and he
saw a rider come over the rise at the head of the
drive. The ground he knelt on was damp with dew.
He could smell huckleberries, wild chives, ferns,
black powder, burlap, and his own sweat. He parted
the brush in front of him, and peered out.
15(sound cue) harmonica and guitar.
16(wide shot) He could see them all clearly now.
There were four riders and one wagon, pulled by
twin Percherons. The point rider came down slowly
into the yard, while the others watched and waited.
The wrangler sat a horse well. He rode past the
eight bodies and the maple tree, and pulled up in
front of the bunkhouse. He was an older man, gray
stubble covering his face. He wore a long-barreled
Colt. He swung his left leg over the saddle horn,
and built himself a smoke. It was Bronson’s
Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN