image from westernpulpcovers.com
1(sound cue) saxophone and piano.
2(one-shot that expands with the action, all in
Buck dropped the fifteen feet with his black hat on
his back, his big arms wide open, with a gun in each
hand, slipping through the air slowly, seeing three
men off to his right moving toward him, their
weapons flickering fire. He felt the first bullet strike
his shoulder, the next slug his left knee, and
another bored fiercely into his right thigh.
Now he could see himself, landing lightly in a pool
of quiet dust, firing his pistol and his sawed-off as he
barely touched the ground, dropping his guns and
immediately leaping back into the thick air, lunging
across a shaft of golden light as he heard hooves,
thousands of heavy unshod hooves pounding
against the cracked earth like rolling staggering
thunder, and there was Johnny Eagle on old white
Bob, and himself atop his Appaloosa, bursting
through the piercing dust of a hump-horn ocean, a
frenzied manic ballet of beasts, moving at quarter
speed, muscles rippling, full on rushing, straining,
panicked, punctuated suddenly by a chorus of
Creedmoors, Sharps, Henrys, Spencers, Winchesters
and Colts, all one fiery barrel, first putting down the
great bulls, making thousands trip over them.
Then there he was afoot, running on with death
hot in his nostrils, his legs cramping, racing toward
the dark mountains; becoming a trio, his father
running on his left and Johnny Eagle on his right.
For a time they moved along together, each matching
the other’s stride, running as one six-legged creature,
as the rifles barked on. Buck heard his father stumble
and fall, but he did not slow or turn to the old man, he
just ran on, the Hunter and the Eagle, fleet as deer,
pumping their arms, tearing up clods as they sprinted,
their faces purple, foaming at the edges of their splayed
lips--and then the Indian went down, landing lightly like
a loose feather, a soft death as Buck’s eyes were
blazing with tears, as he ran on reaching for the
purple mountains with his big hands.
He pushed himself on until there was only the
running, and the running had no heart, no emotions,
no spirit, until he was overcome with a great fatigue,
and as he slowed the guns went silent, and the
hooves of thunder swelled up behind him, the sky
became a black funnel, an ebon tunnel. The
thunderous darkness tore at his limbs, and ripped at
his eyes, and his lungs turned to stone, until he was
full stop, and he finally turned to face the horns.
3(tight one shot) Buck’s broad back as he turned
toward the camera.
4(close-up) Buck’s face.
5(sound cue) the orchestra crescendoed.
Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN