image from westernpulpcovers.com
“Good wombs have borne bad sons.”
1(sound cue) banjo and harmonica.
2( wide shot ) as twilight was becoming dusk.
The TRIPLE B sprawled out at the mouth of a
small canyon, a canker sore masquerading as
respectability, hidden and rotten.
Behind it rolling hills seemed to crouch, then to
stand erect. A gorge. like an open vein, sliced
through the foothills at the base of magenta peaks
that loomed in the east.
3(slow tracking shots) It was a big spread. The
ranch house was three stories, with fancy Victorian
gables and new shutters on all the windows. It was
built at the intersection of two roads; one to
Blackthorne, the other to the gorge. There were
multi-colored plants and well trimmed bushes on
all sides of it. It was painted white, and the paint
was fresh. The prairie grass had been weeded and
it was reseeded into a gorgeous verdant lawn in
front of the mansion. A low unbanistered porch
stretched across the west end of the place. Two
large windows, one to each side of a huge oaken
front door, gave the occupants a sweeping view of
the Prairie, and the opportunity to witness the daily
descent of the sun of blood.
To the north of the main house, a vast two-story
barn stood. It’s hay loft door was thirty feet from
the ground. Nearby, two rough hewn work sheds
nestled together. Alongside one of them a tall
wood pile filled an open pen, its roof piece-meal
and rustic. The sheds were butted up against a
steep clay bank that rose quickly into dense timber.
South of the mansion was the over size bunkhouse,
three hundred feet long with a flat roof and ten
windows facing the main house. Beyond the big
bunkhouse, one could see three expansive corrals.
4(cut to a one shot) Rod Buck stood in the deep
shadows of the timber behind the sheds.
5(sound cue) snare drum and seed rattle.
6(close-up) Buck scanned the place carefully.
He stood there as the darkness gathered.
7(medium wide shot) the forest shadows linked
arms and hugged each other, as a bright half
moon ascended. Lights came on in the main
house and the bunkhouse. The barn and the
outbuildings were unlit. Two punchers stood
in one of the doorways to the bunkhouse,
having a smoke. Loud voices filtered out of
8(sound cue) Voice Over: I ought to join the
damn party, Buck thought.
9(medium wide shot) Buck melted back into the
shadows, moving through the dark forest like
a specter. He came up on the dun mare,
tethered to a low branch. In the moonlight, she
was a warm spot in the ink of the woods. He
rummaged through a burlap sack hanging from
the cantle. He extracted six slender sticks of
dynamite that had fulminate caps already
tamped on, and he slipped them into the back
of his gunbelt. He left the horse picketed, and
journeyed back to the edge of the clay bank.
No one moved in the ranch yard below. Half of
the house lights were out. Buck glided into the
moonlight and began climbing down the bank.
the sticky clay collected on his boots. At the
bottom, he cleared the sheds, and swiftly
crossed the distance to the barn.
10(sound cue) harmonica.
11(cut to interior of the barn) Buck entered from a
small rear door. He stood for a moment allowing
his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Moonbeams
found their way through the countless rifts in
the rough hewn walls, There were strong over-
lapping odors of alfalfa hay, horse manure, and
Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN