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“Decision is the spark that ignites action”.
1(sound cue) French horns & harmonica.
2(medium close up) Buck stopped, and turned
3(medium wide shot) seeing Ryker slumped in
unconsciousness, and the Palomino rearing and
squirming in his stall. He wrap-reined the
Appaloosa, and rushed back. He unlatched the
stall gate, and the Palomino burst out and
charged for the rear door. Buck snatched up the
rope rein and Chatawa pranced behind him, smoke
already in its wide nostrils. Buck could hear the
two other horses crying out in panic.
4(sound cue) snare drum over fire crackling.
5(close up) the fire found some dry straw and it
burst into a frenzy, racing across the south end
of the barn.
6(one shot) Ryker regained consciousness, and
immediately panicked, struggling against his bonds,
kicking and jerking, screaming against the rag in
his throat, watching the flames burning their way
toward him, both fascinated and petrified. The heat
from the fire began to scorch his shirt, and its demon
tongue began to burn the skin on his face. He closed
his eyes. He could smell his hair burning. For a
moment the pain was unbearable, until shock dulled
the heat. He knew he was screaming, but it sounded
far away. He could feel a dripping as the flesh began
to melt on his face. Then he saw his dead wife in the
flames, saw her reach for him.
7(cut to outside) Buck swung up onto the dappled
stallion’s back. The palomino had galloped off south,
toward the dark mountains.
8(sound cue) Castanets and horses crying out.
9(close up) Chatawa’s nostrils flared, and his ears
lie flat to his regal head,
10(medium wide shot) Buck leaned forward, and
lightly nudged the horse’s sides. The stallion’s
hooves dug into the clay, and it scampered up the
steepest part in five leaps. Soon they reached the
safety of the darkness in the timber. Buck swung
down and led the magnificent Appaloosa through
the thick ebon trees. Crackling through the brambles
and underbrush, they soon reached the three
hundred yards to where he had picketed the dun
mare. He secured Chatawa to a scrub oak branch,
and struck out again, working his way southeast.
Now his eyes had adjusted to the night, and he
moved rapidly through the dense growth, moving
like a ghost, like a demon in the dark. He emerged
well beyond the barn, near a brush-choked gully.
11(sound cue) coronet and seed rattle over men
12(wide shot) By this time the barn was an inferno,
the flames leaped into a starry sky hundreds of
feet. Bright sparks and hot cinders swirled in the
air like angry squadrons of fireflies. Buck could
clearly hear men shouting, Jesus Christ! Find more
buckets! Poor fucking horses! He could catch
glimpses of busy shadows rushing between the
barn and the ranch house.
He worked his way into the gully, and moved along
and in it until he was past the barn, near the
mountain road. He could feel the heat from the flames
from where he crouched. The fire had spread to some
of the work sheds. Two dozen men cursed and labored
back and forth from three large water troughs and the
flames, tossing cold stream water on the behemoth
blaze, the howling inferno.
Just pissing on the sun, Buck thought.
Staying in the shadows, the hunter crawled along
close to the ground. The huge barn became a colossal
torch burning back the night. He lie at the edge of the
first corral, only a hundred yards from the house. He
checked his dynamite sticks. They were intact, and
ready for battle.
A rider came galloping into the yard from the south;
his travel dust was visible in the fire’s glare. He pulled
up in the middle of the yard. He was greeted by two
hands that rushed out of the bunkhouse, jerking on their
jeans, wearing long john tops, rubbing the sleep from
their eyes. The rider was Paul Bronson.
13(medium close up) What the fuck is happening?
his whisky breath strong in the air.
Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN