tripwire by anton diether based on a novel by … · twenty or so indistinguishable figures on...

TRIPWIRE

by

Anton Diether

Based on a Novel

by

Brian Garfield

Judy Coppage - Producer(818) 980-8806

TRIPWIRE

FADE IN:

EXT. ARIZONA CANYON - DAY

Sandstone cliffs tower over a narrow canyon pass. A sweeping view, barren and silent.

Dust clouds rise in the distance. Then, a RUMBLE OF HOOVES.

An Indian war party rides through the pass. Twenty or so indistinguishable figures on horseback.

EXT. CANYON BLUFF - DAY

CAPTAIN McQUADE, a war-toughened veteran in cavalry blue, sights down the canyon through a spyglass.

Behind him, an all-black regiment in ragged uniforms peers out. BUFFALO SOLDIERS from the Tenth Cavalry. Ebony faces dusted white by desert alkali. Their horses in b.g.

Far below, the dust clouds are a good half-mile away.

McQuade shuts closed his spyglass.

CAPT. MCQUADEApaches. Looks too small to be Geronimo’s bunch.

(looking back)What d‘you reckon, Sergeant?

JOHN B., a rough-hewn Mississippi youth, glances up as if McQuade is talking to him. He looks back at:

SERGEANT BOAG, big and black as night, sitting on a higher outcrop. He scrapes a bouldertop with a blacksmith file, idly as if whittling a stick. Taciturn, his youth and good looks weathered by years of warfare.

John B. waits for a sign from his partner.

Boag stares down the canyon with an eagle eye. He resumes his rock-filing, looking not too happy.

John B. turns back to the Captain.

JOHN B.Ain’t Geronimo, Cap’n. No siree.

McQuade watches the dust clouds approach a point in the pass, growing impatient. He looks back again.

CAPT. MCQUADESergeant Boag!

Boag dusts off the bouldertop, testing its smooth flatness. John B. leans toward him.

JOHN B.They’re almost there, pard.

BOAG(grunts)

I know’d that.

He picks up a Springfield rifle with a calibrated, long-range hunting sight. Rests it over the flattop boulder. Aims the sight down the canyon at:

A sheer cliff face above the Apache riders, far away. His target: a red-flagged speck in the cliffside.

Boag takes his sweet time. Fixed to the rifle sight, his eye pierces through the obscuring dust clouds. He steadies his aim. Takes a sharp intake of breath, holds it...

And FIRES!

EXT. CANYON PASS - DAY

A blasting charge in the cliff face IGNITES -- a MASSIVE EXPLOSION! Tons of dynamited sandstone THUNDER DOWN onto...

The war party -- burying Apaches and their Mustangs under an AVALANCHE of tumbling rocks! They vanish from sight in a sky-high billow of dust.

EXT. CANYON BLUFF - DAY

Buffalo Soldiers CHEER and WHOOP, many staring in awe.

BUFFALO SOLDIERGawddamn! Gotta be a thousand-foot range. That’s dang near impossible.

The Captain smiles back at the Sergeant. Boag saddle-bags his rifle, his expression unreadable.

CAPT. MCQUADELet’s mount up, men. Go look for survivors.

2.

Boag trades looks with John B., who answers for him.

JOHN B.Ain’t gon’ be none of those.

EXT. CANYON PASS - DAY

The regiment rides into the avalanche site. Their horses pick through the rubble, soldiers gazing down at:

Half-buried corpses and dead steeds, a tangle of limbs. Occasional heads jut out from the debris...the dirt-mottled faces of Apache teenagers. Some even younger.

BUFFALO SOLDIERShit. Just a bunch o’ dang kids.

CAPT. MCQUADEFind the leader if you can.

The riders spread out, Boag and John B. together. The two stop over a downed figure still in its mount, the body and its Mustang crushed under boulders. John B. calls out:

JOHN B.Cap’n.

McQuade rides over and stares at: an old man in war paint.

CAPT. MCQUADEMedicine man. Pretty slim pickins.

JOHN B.Ain’t no more Innuns left to fight.

Boag glares bitterly at the dead old warrior.

EXT. CANYON FOOTHILLS - DAY

The black cavalry unit trots in formation onto desert flats. A dispirited pace, McQuade in the lead, Boag and John B. flanking his rear.

An ARMY MESSENGER gallops toward them in a dusty plume. He reins in beside the Captain and hands over a dispatch.

During this, Boag and John B. share a canteen together.

JOHN B.Fuckin’ Arizona...not a drop o’ water for a hunnerd miles.

3.

Boag empties the canteen. He nods east.

BOAGColorado River’s thattaway.

JOHN B.Yeah. We could go for a swim.

Dispatch in hand, McQuade turns his mount to face them.

CAPT. MCQUADEGeronimo surrendered. General Crook’s disbanding the Tenth Cav. We’re all discharged, boys.

A grim silence in the ranks. Boag and John B. trade looks.

JOHN B.We got any muster-out pay comin’?

CAPT. MCQUADETwo gold eagles a head.

Boag grunts and spits into the hot sand.

JOHN B.That ain’t fair -- we been in the Army six years.

CAPT. MCQUADEWay it is, John boy. My prospects aren’t much better than yours.

JOHN B.Yeah, but you white.

Boag gazes east, his eyes lost in the heat-rippled horizon.

EXT. COLORADO RIVER - DAY

It slices through the parched flats, wide and muddy. Boag and John B. trek along its bank, alone and out of uniform except for yellow-striped cavalry pants. John B. eyes the Colorado’s cool, rushing currents.

JOHN B.I’m dyin’ to get wet.

BOAGGotta find work.

They ride on.

4.

JOHN B.Who’s gon’ hire us out here, Boag? Coupla field hands from Missassip. Least the Army paid us regular.

BOAGArmy paid shit.

JOHN B.Yeah, but they done you all right. Trained ya, gave ya your sergeant’s stripes. ‘Course, they had no call to dump us here like trash. That weren’t right.

BOAGThat was wrong.

JOHN B.What we gon’ do now? Bust horses for six bits? Only trade we know’d is soldierin’. What we gon’ do?

(getting no answer)Say somethin’, dammit -- yer makin’ my butt itch.

BOAGSo scratch it.

JOHN B.Y’know, Boag? All the years we’ve been together? You ain’t said more ‘n three words to me in one breath.

BOAGThat ain’t true.

JOHN B.See -- there ya go again. It gets mighty lonely talkin’ to a wall. How ‘bout four words for a change?

BOAGYou talk too much.

JOHN B.Shee-it. Well, thank ye kindly.

Boag chuckles. John B. laughs back, a surly affection between them. Boag squints upriver.

BOAGTown up yonder.

5.

EXT. HARDYVILLE - DAY

A main drag leads to a riverside docking pier. MINERS and TOWNSFOLK populate the street, a mix of the scruffy and the well-to-do. Swanky saloon-hotels line the walkways.

Boag and John B. walk their horses, trying to look invisible.

JOHN B.A heap of hotels for one li’l town.

Boag grunts, his eyes roaming warily. A few local RUFFIANS glare at them with veiled hostility. Boag glares back.

JOHN B. (CONT’D)What the hell’s that?

They pass an open wood structure, a blazing furnace inside pouring smoke. A sign reads HARDYVILLE SMELTERY. The two peer in through the smoke:

Mexican WORKERS pour liquid metal into cast-iron molds... the glimmer of gold.

DEPUTIES block their view, cradling shotguns.

SHERIFF’S VOICELookin’ for something?

They turn. A grizzled SHERIFF in fancy, tailored duds regards them with disdain.

SHERIFFYou boys gold miners?

John B. removes his hat with the humility of an ex-slave. Boag copies him, not so humbly.

JOHN B.No sir. We just lookin’ for work. Mebbe a meal and a bunk.

SHERIFFYa got two choices in Hardyville: ride on out, or sleep in my jail. That comes with a ten-dollar fine for vagrancy. Your choice.

JOHN B.We’s leavin’, sir. Thank ye, sir.

6.

He nudges Boag, who swallows his pride with a grunt. The two mount up and trot back the way they came. Out of Hardyville.

EXT. RIVERSIDE TRAIL - EVENING

A dying sunset casts a gilded glitter over the Colorado. Boag and John B. ride on upriver.

JOHN B.Well, I reckon that went well--

BOAGShuddup.

The glimmer of distant campfires catches his eye, deep in an arroyo. The WHINNY of horses, the MURMUR of men. The two slow to a halt, assessing the camp.

From the camp, a lone rider canters toward them.

They study his gait, hands instinctively on their sidearms.

JOHN B.Ridin’ hard. Friendly or hostile?

BOAGMexican.

GUTIERREZ, a wily, dark-complected Sonoran with a larcenous grin of rotten teeth, reins his horse before them.

GUTIERREZHola, señores!

Boag and John nod in greeting, watching his every move.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)Where you boys from?

JOHN B.Around.

GUTIERREZSoldados, hey? Looking for work maybe? Come join us. I have mescal.

Boag and John B. swop suspicious looks.

BOAGThat’s mighty generous.

7.

GUTIERREZWe are brothers, amigo -- of the same color, si? You need a job? We pay in gold.

JOHN B. That a fact? Ya wouldn’t be aimin’ to steal our horses, would ya?

GUTIERREZNo, no, Señor! We just need spare hands. You two have strong backs. Come with me, hey? Andale.

He whips his horse around and trots back toward the camp. The two shrug at each other and turn to follow.

EXT. ARROYO CAMP - EVENING

A tiny creek leaks inland from the Colorado. Dozens of picketed horses, THIRTY MEN bedrolled in the dusk.

Boag and John B. dismount, tether their steeds and tread cautiously behind Gutierrez between campfires.

Hardscrabble faces scan the two in the firelight. Most of them white rawhiders, a few Mexicans, two Yaqui Indians. A rough-looking bunch, all heavily armed.

Boag gazes around in defense mode. He and John B. settle around a campfire with Gutierrez, facing a rawhider...

JACKSON, a burly ex-Confederate. He glares evilly at Boag. Gutierrez produces a mescal bottle and passes it around.

JOHN B.Some crowd ya got here. Y’all plannin’ to go to war, Señor...?

GUTIERREZGutierrez. This here is Jackson. No war. We work with Jed Pickett.

Boag frowns, recalling the name. John B. takes a long draw off the bottle and savors the burn.

JOHN B.I’m John B. That’s Sergeant Boag. He don’t talk much. We’re Tenth Cavalry. “Honorably” discharged.

8.

BOAGWhat’s the job?

Gutierrez grins his bad teeth and chugalugs the bottle. Jackson glares a hole through Boag.

GUTIERREZOne day’s work. Very good pay.

Boag grunts.

JOHN B.You didn’t answer the question.

GUTIERREZNot for me to say...

The shadows of two men approach their campsite.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)You talk to the boss about that.

The firelight blazes across the hard features of...

JED PICKETT, a Texan with cold, piercing eyes. Small in stature but ramrod straight. A booming voice:

PICKETTWhat we got, Gutierrez? Freedman?

GUTIERREZCouple hard workers, Señor Pickett.

BEN STRYKER enters the light. A looming, leather-faced giant chewing tobacco, eying them with an inscrutable gaze.

PICKETTThis the best ya can do?

GUTIERREZEx-soldiers, sir. Tenth Cavalry.

(nods at Boag)Big negro there was a sergeant.

Stryker spits a tobacco splotch in the dirt. Pickett levels his eyes on Boag.

PICKETTIndian fighter, huh? Got a name?

BOAGBoag, sir.

9.

PICKETTYou got a front name to that?

BOAGJust Boag.

JOHN B.He don’t talk much, sir. Family was plantation runaways, mammy got kilt after she birthed him. Had no time to give him a proper name.

Boag penetrates Pickett’s eyes, a glimmer of recognition. Sensing it, Pickett leans closer.

PICKETTYou know me, boy?

BOAGI heard of ya. Bounty hunter for Bloody Bill. Fifty dollars for an Apache warrior’s scalp. Twenty-five for a squaw...

PICKETTYeah, and ten dollars for every child. Babies didn’t count.

John B. frowns at Boag, mystified by his outpouring of words.

BOAGSo your bounty gang’s all here now.

PICKETTYou got a problem with that?

Stryker spits another load. Boag averts his eyes, avoiding trouble.

BOAGNo sir.

PICKETTI’ll bet you killed as many Apaches as I did.

BOAGDon’t rightly know.

PICKETTFunny. They freed you coloreds from slavery, then they enslaved ya to the Army to kill redskins.

10.

He turns to Stryker with a smile, barely hiding his contempt.

PICKETT (CONT’D)Buffalo Soldiers did their jobs so well, Ben -- hell -- they put us bounty hunters outta business.

STRYKERThey ain’t worth hirin’.

PICKETTNo, they’ll do just fine.

(to Boag and John B.)No hard feelings, gentlemen. The West has changed, and we all gotta survive somehow. Welcome aboard.

JOHN B.Much obliged, sir.

PICKETTBen Stryker here is your crew boss. You answer to him.

He turns away as if they never existed. Disappears into the night. Stryker spits more black goo. A dead gaze.

STRYKERYour share is one gold bar between ya. Twenty-five hundred American.

BOAGTo do what?

STRYKERHeavy lifting.

BOAGOf what?

STRYKERNone of your goddamn business. You just follow orders and be there when the time comes.

BOAGWhere?

STRYKERHardyville. Riverboat pier.

11.

JOHN B.Shee-it. We just got run outta that town.

STRYKERYou want the job or not?

BOAGNot particularly.

JOHN B.That means we’ll think on it. Jaw it around a bit, if ya don’t mind.

STRYKERYou got five minutes.

John B. nudges Boag away.

The two step into the darkness, out of earshot.

JOHN B.Two and a half thousand -- in gold!

BOAGUse your head, boy. They’re outlaws. If we go in with ‘em, so are we. It’d be dead wrong.

JOHN B.So we keep blinders on for a while. We don’t know nuthin’.

BOAGTell that to the hangman when he jerks us to Jesus. Besides...

He glances at the campfire:

Gutierrez cleans a Colt .45, Stryker stokes a Bowie knife in the fire, Jackson glares.

BOAG (CONT’D)...I don’t trust this bunch.

JOHN B.What choice do we got? That much gold rights a lot of wrongs.

BOAGI dunno. I got a bad feeling about this.

12.

JOHN B.We can go up north, get us a spread. Maybe Canada, where they don’t piss on black skin. That’s worth the risk to me, Boag.

Boag gazes back, weighing his words.

At the campfire, Stryker pulls his knife from the flames, its giant blade red hot. The two finally step over.

BOAGWe’re in.

STRYKERWell, that’s good. I don’t need no loose cannons walkin’ outta here. I would’ve had to kill ya.

He dips the knife into a cup of coffee to heat it up -- the blade SIZZLES. Gutierrez cackles. Jackson glowers.

Boag deadpans Stryker.

BOAGThat’s real white of ya.

EXT. HARDYVILLE RIVER PIER - DAY

A quiet lull over the town. Boag and John B. hasten onto the pier, watching their backs. They approach an express office’s ticket window by the pier entrance.

BOAGTwo tickets. Yuma City.

A laconic TICKET CLERK reacts to their ebony faces.

TICKET CLERKDeck passage’s all I got. Standing room only all the way.

JOHN B.You got no place to sit?

TICKET CLERKLower deck, take it or leave it. Six bits apiece.

Boag and John B. fork over change and grab their tickets. They head on toward the end of the pier.

13.


A flat-bottom, double-decker paddlewheel boat rounds a bend, forging toward the dock. Her steam whistle BLOWS.

EXT. HARDYVILLE - DAY

Miners and locals materialize to the WHISTLE BLASTS, the street filling with traffic toward the pier.

Blending into the crowd, Stryker, Gutierrez and their rawhiders ramble along in long duster coats. Their Mexicans and two Yaquis lead along an eight-mule team.

EXT. RIVER PIER - DAY

The paddlewheeler docks, Boag and John B. among the scant few passengers boarding the gangplank.

EXT. RIVERBOAT - DAY

The two settle by a lower deckside facing town, close to the gangplank. Boag gazes away toward the broad, fast-flowing Colorado. John B. glances around the deck.

JOHN B.Standing room only? Shit. Ain’t hardly nobody here.

FRAILEY, a white-trash youth, turns from the railing nearby.

FRAILEYThis boat ain’t really meant for passengers. She’s a gold runner.

They regard Frailey, a friendly type. He nods toward town.

FRAILEY (CONT’D)Hardyville services the gold camps. Smelts the ore and ships it to the merchant banks. They make more money than the miners.

Boag absorbs that. Frailey flashes them a sly grin.

FRAILEY (CONT’D)You boys ready for some action?

John B. reacts to that.

14.

JOHN B.You one of us?

FRAILEYJust got hired on yesterday.

JOHN B.Any idea what we’re doin’ here?

FRAILEYNo, but I can guess.

Boag grunts. He leans over the railing, watching the town.

EXT. HARDYVILLE STREET - DAY

A mob of citizens gather around a guarded warehouse next to the smeltery. Two freight wagons rumble out, their heavy loads covered in canvas. Horses struggle to pull them.

The Sheriff leads a horseback phalanx of his armed Deputies alongside the wagons, drawing toward the waterfront.

Anxious miners follow. Stryker’s gang ambles along, their hands on hidden bulges under their dusters.


The Mexicans and Yaquis drag the eight mules up the gangplank and board the lower deck. Boag and John B. stare at them.

JOHN B.Lookit that. How come Stryker said we couldn’t bring our horses?

BOAGBeats me.

FRAILEYWho cares. With that gold money, I could buy a stampede o’ horses...

A flurry of SHOUTS distracts them toward town.

EXT. HARDYVILLE STREET - DAY

A plume of black smoke rises down the block. Pandemonium, VOICES CRYING OUT:

15.

TOWNSFOLK/MINERSFIRE! The assay office’s on fire!

Townspeople rush en masse toward a faraway burning edifice, leaving the wagons without a crowd.

The Sheriff and his Deputies keep riding, tensing their guard. Stryker’s rawhiders track them from sidewalk shadows, closing in. Almost to the pier...


Along the deck railing, Boag, John, Frailey, the Mexicans and Yaquis bear witness to -- an ERUPTION OF GUNFIRE!

THEIR POV - PIER AND STREET

Multiple shotguns BLAST the Sheriff and Deputies off their saddles. No one is spared -- wagon riders BLOWN from their carriages. It’s over in seconds.

Stryker and Gutierrez mount the wagons and whip the horses down the pier and up the gangplank.

Behind them, thirty rawhiders form an armed line across the pier. They turn to face the town.

Boag and company watch all this, dumbstruck by the sheer efficiency of the operation.

Aboard ship, Stryker and Gutierrez leap from the wagons and yank off the canvases to reveal...

Two pyramids of gold bars. Stacked like glittery bricks. A million in gold bullion.

The sight catches men’s breath, jaws dropping.

STRYKERAwright, boys -- start heftin’!

John B. climbs on the wagon and reaches for an ingot. He almost loses his balance from its weight. Boag watches warily. Stryker spits goo at his feet.

STRYKER (CONT’D)Let’s move! Bend your backs!

Boag heaves two gold bars under each arm and plops them on the deck, the ship planks CRUNCHING under them.

Frailey and the others excitedly grab a load.

16.

Beyond the pier, hordes of miners and locals stream back in frantic rage. A mass rush to the pier.

The defense line of rawhiders switch to carbines.

On deck, the crew of minorities form a bucket-like brigade and work faster, emptying the wagons. Spurred on by:

STRYKER (CONT’D)Heave, you lazy bastards!

GUTIERREZAndale, hombres!

STRYKERDon’t stack them -- just throw ‘em down!

PIER FRONT

The whole town converges on the wharf, many of them armed. They start FIRING at the riverboat.

The rawhiders answer with a deadly FUSILLADE, all of them ruthless sharpshooters. Citizens fall, corpses littering the street. Gunsmoke obscures our view of the bloodbath.

ON DECK

Boag reacts to the carnage. Bullets RICOCHET off the gold bricks -- he and others drop down. He glances toward the upper-deck pilothouse at:

Jed Pickett in the window. Nearby, Jackson holds a gun trained on the CAPTAIN and HELMSMAN. Pickett grins down. Not at the gold...at the massacre.

STRYKER (CONT’D)Get off your ass, nigger! Move it!

Stryker kicks Boag to his feet. Boag keeps hauling gold.

PIER FRONT

A RAGGED AFTERVOLLEY, townspeople scrabbling for cover. The rawhiders retreat along the pier and up the gangplank.

ABOARD SHIP

Heaped ingots fill the lower deck. Gutierrez SHOUTS SPANISH ORDERS. The Mexicans shove the wagons down the gangplank. The two empty wagons roll fast down the pier into...

17.

An army of miners, charging forward with hellfire.

STRYKER (CONT’D)Cut those shore lines!

A GRINDING OF PADDLEWHEELS. The riverboat inches out.

Streaming sweat, Boag and John B. stare at the hill of gold.

JOHN B.You ever seen so much gold?

BOAGJust one of them bars’ll do.

BULLETS PIERCE woodwork around them! The two scatter. More PING OFF the ship’s brass. Boag dives into a companionway.

Sharpshooters line the aft railing, as the riverboat backs into the Colorado’s currents. They FIRE at:

Miners pressing onto the pier, BLAZING away at the boat.

The rawhiders pick them off with well-aimed calculation.

The riverboat turns downstream and sweeps far away.

EXT. RIVERBOAT (MOVING) - DAY

An eerie silence. Boag peers out from the companionway at:

John B., in a tense stance. Clustered with Frailey, the Mexs and Yaquis...surrounded by rawhiders with carbines by their sides and ugly looks on their white faces.

STRYKERC’mon out, Boag.

Boag steps out and walks straight to Stryker. Face to face:

BOAGBe a man of your word, Stryker, or you ain’t nuthin’ but an animal.

STRYKERIs that so?

He looks up:

Jed Pickett stands on the upper deck. His voice bellows:

18.

PICKETTGet it over with!

Boag stares up at his impervious face. Parting looks between them -- until Stryker PISTOL-WHIPS him to the deck. Boag falls hard. Stryker faces the hired hands.

STRYKERAwright. You boys over the side.

Betrayed faces stare back. John B. shakes his head wearily.

JOHN B.You rotten sonsabitches.

He picks up Boag. Gutierrez SHOUTS SPANISH at the Mexicans.

They edge back against the aft railing, glancing down at the rushing river, refusing to go any further.

Gutierrez draws his Colt six-shooters and RAPID-FIRES -- MOWS them down! A bloody heap on the deck.

Scared Frailey and the two Yaquis jump over the side. Boag and John B. are alone on deck.

A crazed Gutierrez turns his weapons on them.

GUTIERREZAndale, gringos!

BOAGYou said we were the same color.

GUTIERREZYou’re the wrong color.

Jackson steps out and levels his carbine on Boag.

JACKSONLemme do the big coon...

Stryker stops him. He spits tobacco, eying Boag.

STRYKERG’won, dammit. I’m givin’ you a chance, but do it quick.

The two stand frozen, hands on their guns, weighing their options. John B. leans into Boag.

JOHN B.I won’t go without our gold bar.

19.

BOAGWe can’t win this one.

He takes the lead, the two backing up to the aft railing...

JOHN B.Just ain’t fair...

(hollers out)Damn you all to HELL!

They turn fast, vault onto the railing and leap overboard.


DOUBLE SPLASHES. The two surface in a churning froth -- too close to the giant turning paddlewheels. Almost plowed under them, they swim clear.

Bullets SPOUT UP in the turbulent waters around them. Both dive under.

UNDERWATER

They flail madly away from the foamy swirl of the stern. Bullets jet through the water, streaking past them.

ABOVE WATER

Surfacing, they paddle hard against the downstream current. Rifles FLASH from the aft railing of the receding riverboat. Sharpshooter bullets SPIT UP water close to them.

Frailey power-strokes ahead of them. Not a single bullet comes near him.

Close by, a frantic Yaqui takes a HIT in the neck. Then the other -- the back of his skull BLOWN off!

Their bodies float past Boag and John. Bullets ZING closer.

BOAGGet back down!

They dive under. The target practice intensifies -- SHOTS pockmark the surface in a blizzard of lead. Until...

The riverboat disappears around a bend.

SHORE WATERS

Boag wades through the shallows, gasping for breath. He looks back at:

20.

John B., flailing weakly in the harsh current.

JOHN B.Boag!...I been shot!

Boag plows back to him. Grabs hold and drags him ashore.

EXT. COLORADO RIVER BANK - DAY

Crawling on his knees, Boag hauls him upshore to the shade of a scrub willow. A sharp pain stops him from rising...

A bullet hole in his thigh, oozing blood from his wet pants.

John B. agonizes on his back. Boag searches his friend’s body for a wound.

BOAGWhere you hit?

JOHN B.My back...shot in the back like a dog...

He spits up blood from his lungs.

JOHN B. (CONT’D)Ain’t fair...just ain’t fair...

He grows still. A blank, skyward stare.

Boag holds a somber vigil over him. Then gazes downriver, a slow burn...

BOAGI had enough of what ain’t fair.

SPLASHING FEET jerks him around. Frailey approaches from the shallows and stands over them. Winded, but intact.

FRAILEYHe dead?

Boag closes John’s eyes, full of silent emotion.

FRAILEY (CONT’D)They shot you too, huh?

BOAGBullet went through. I’ll live. Ya think you could help me dig a grave?

21.

The youth turns away as if he won’t. Then breaks a branch off the willow. He scrapes the ground and digs a trench.

BOAG (CONT’D)Much obliged.

He tends to his thigh, tying a bandanna tourniquet around it.

FRAILEYBastards just used us, didn’t they?We was just pack mules to them.

BOAGYou’re lucky. They didn’t shoot ya cause you’re white.

(glances downriver)I’d sure like to know where they’re headed.

Frailey stops digging, staring at Boag cleaning his wound.

FRAILEYYou ain’t goin’ after ‘em, are ya?

BOAGThey owe me, and John B. You, too.

FRAILEY(keeps digging)

Not them hooligans. I know when it’s time to take my losses.

BOAGYuma’s downriver. If we had a raft, we could float our way there. Get ourselves fed and cleaned up.

FRAILEYWith what? I’m as dirt-nigger poor as you...no offense.

Boag yanks his boot off with a grimace. He removes a gold-eagle coin from the inside heel. Tosses it to Frailey.

BOAGMy army pay. There’s one more in the other boot, if ya get me to Yuma City.

FRAILEYYou’re plumb loco, mister. You’ll never catch up to that bunch.

22.

BOAGThey’re haulin’ a shitload of gold. That’ll slow ‘em down a piece.

Frailey ponders the gold eagle, tempted.

FRAILEYI don’t want no part of your plans.

BOAGI don’t need you, boy. I just need you to build us a raft.

FRAILEYWith what?

Boag nods at the branch in his hand, then the willow tree.

FRAILEY (CONT’D)How am I gonna tie it all together?

Boag turns to his dead friend. He broods over him for a beat...then strips off his bloodied trousers.

BOAGSorry, John. Gon’ need your help here.

Frailey watches him tear the pant cloth into long strips, shaking his head at him.

FRAILEYBiggest damn fool I ever met.

EXT. COLORADO RIVER - LATE DAY

A crude raft drifts at a fast clip. Lying on a bed of arrowweed, Boag redresses his bullet wound with pieces of John’s shirt. Frailey navigates with a makeshift oar.

FRAILEYThat leg gettin’ any better?

BOAGIf I can stay off it. With God’s help...

The current rushes faster. The raft sweeps into an eddy of rapids, rocking and pitching. Frailey fights for balance.

FRAILEYI reckon God’s changed his mind...

23.

BOAGGet down flat -- brace yourself.

Frailey tries to. He teeters as they dip over a swell -- tumbles off, SPLASHING into the drink. Boag looks back:

The youth flounders, the rapids claiming him. He’s gone.

The raft SMASHES into a river boulder! It disintegrates...

Boag seizes hold of a willow branch, as timbers break up and scatter. He rides the tumultuous river, belly down, clinging to the branch for dear life.

Whitewater swells smack into him head on, nearly drowning him. But Boag won’t let go.

EXT. COLORADO RIVER NEAR YUMA - EVENING

The river settles in the dusk, flowing peacefully.

Boag floats along on the willow branch, waterlogged and drained of energy, numbed to the agony in his thigh.

Beyond the west bank, the glimmer of town lights.

Boag paddles both arms fiercely toward the west shore, fighting pain and exhaustion.

EXT. YUMA - NIGHT

The fandango district, a busy strip of saloons and brothels. A shadowy figure peers out from a dark side alley.

ALLEYWAY

Boag eases back into moonlit darkness, avoiding pedestrians. A sorry sight, his clothes ragged and mud-caked. He hobbles down the alley, keeping his weight off his wounded leg.

A CHEERFUL RACKET draws him to a smoky saloon window. He peeks inside:

A rowdy crowd at the bar. Cowboys sit at tables, chowing down on thick steaks, guzzling whiskey.

Boag watches them, starving. He works off a boot with pained effort and finds his last gold eagle. Stares at the coin, sorely tempted. Then shakes his head. Too risky.

VOICES from a second window distract him, its pane broken.

24.

Boag limps over and peers in, eavesdropping on:

INT. YUMA SALOON - NIGHT

A poker game by the broken window. A portly, well-attired merchant (ELMER) rakes in a pot, CACKLING drunkenly. Other GAMBLERS throw down their cards in disgust.

GAMBLER 1I’m cleaned out. You must’ve hexed that deck, Elmer.

ELMERI had a mind to cheat, but with you bunch -- why bother. Sam, where’s that cherrywood bed I ordered?

GAMBLER 2Should’ve been on the boat from Hardyville, but she didn’t show up.

GAMBLER 1Must’ve got hung up on a sand bar.

Outside the window, Boag listens. His black face barely a shadow in the dark, but his eyes glisten white.

ELMERYou sure she didn’t pass through?

GAMBLER 2That’s what Leroy at the dock said.

Elmer downs another shot, thoroughly plowed. He scoops his winnings into a canvas poke and pockets it.

ELMERWell, I’m goin’ down there and wake up that ol’ cuss. I wanna know where the hell my damn bed is!

EXT. YUMA SIDE STREET - NIGHT

Boag leans against the wall, mulling this over. Suddenly...

Elmer staggers around the corner, heading straight for him.

Boag flattens back into the shadows.

The fat merchant goes right past, too blind drunk to see him. He weaves on, barely able to walk.

25.

Boag limps quietly after him. The LOUD SLUSH from his wet boots gives him away. Elmer turns with alarm.

ELMERWho’s there?

Boag freezes. Elmer focuses through his alcoholic haze on a big, black shape in the gloom. He recoils in terror.

ELMER (CONT’D)Whaddya want?! Y’gonna rob me?!

BOAGI’m just lookin’ for answers--

ELMERDon’t kill me, mister!

He gropes for the pouch in his pocket, slipping in the mud.

ELMER (CONT’D)You want my money -- here! Just don’t kill me!

BOAGI ain’t doin’ nuthin’!

Extending the pouch, Elmer stumbles wildly backwards...

ELMERDon’t hurt me! G’won, take it!...

He falls off balance, flops down in the mud and passes out.

Boag leans over the merchant lying on his back, dead-drunk out cold. The canvas poke sits there in his open palm.

BOAGWell, hell. If you insist.

He plucks it up, the fat pouch JINGLING with coins...

BOAG (CONT’D)Much obliged.

And hastens away into the night.

EXT. COLORADO RIVERSIDE - DAY

Boag canters along the river on a new horse, riding back the way he came. Clean and freshly clothed, his saddle bags full. A Henry .44 rifle protrudes from a saddle scabbard.

26.

EXT. COLORADO-GILA RIVER CONFLUENCE - DAY

Boag reaches a fork and stops. He ponders the Gila River, a tributary off the Colorado. It streams south into the desert. Following a hunch, he turns down the Gila.

EXT. GILA RIVERSIDE - LATER

The Hardyville paddleboat sits anchored under a clump of cottonwood trees, hidden in the shade. Abandoned.


Boag roams the empty stern deck, visiting a bitter memory:

The space where a fortune in gold laid...dried blood on the planking...the railing where he and his partner jumped.

His face hardens to steel.

EXT. GILA RIVERBANK - DAY

Boag stands over a clearing. All around, a trampled mess of horse and mule tracks. His eyes follow their direction:

South, deep into the Sonora Desert.

EXT. SONORA DESERT, ARIZONA SIDE - DAY

Vast, hot and inhospitable. A broiling sun.

Boag rides slow, tracking the ground: baked and cracked, the hoofprints still showing, heavy from the weight of gold.

SAME SCENE - LATER

The sun blazes mercilessly. Boag lies under a patch of mesquite, his horse shaded nearby. He waits out the heat.

SAME SCENE - NIGHT

Boag rides, following the tracks by moonlight, observing off to the side: bleached human bones on the sand.

SAME SCENE - SUNRISE

Framed against an orange globe on the horizon, a dog-weary Boag keeps tracking. He reins to a halt, peering down:

27.

The tracks split up. All southward, but diverging off in different directions. Four separate sets of tracks.

He maneuvers his horse around them, deliberating over which set to follow. His eyes fix on something:

A splotch of black, dried tobacco juice.

BOAG(a hushed snarl)

Ben Stryker.

JOHN’S VOICEWhat’d you say?

Boag darts his head around. No one there, but Boag answers.

BOAGNuthin’.

He rides on, following the hoofprints by the tobacco stain.

EXT. SONORA DESERT, MEXICO SIDE - DAY

High noon. The white-hot sun beats down. Boag rides and tracks, his lips cracked, skin blistered. He passes a heap of stones with a crude sign: MEXICO BORDER.

SAME SCENE - LATER

A rockier plain studded with boulders. In the distance, the timbered foothills of the Sierra Madre.

Boag leans low from the saddle, his head covered with his shirt. Weak and near delirium, he scowls down at:

The faint tracks. They dwindle from sight on the hard earth. Then...nothing. He’s lost them.

Boag turns and backtracks, circling the area. His eyes catch the broken stem of a greasewood branch. He follows a new direction, tracking on. His POV of the ground:

Rocks and faceless dirt. His horse-mounted figure casts a long shadow...

Another saddled shadow draws into view next to his.

JOHN’S VOICEYou’re losin’ time, brothuh.

Boag glances over from under his shirt:

28.

John B. rides alongside him on his old horse, still in his soiled, bloodied outfit.

JOHN B.How’s that bullet hole?

BOAGItches bad.

JOHN B.That’s good. You’re healin’.

Boag reins and reaches for a canteen. He lowers his shirt and guzzles from it. Stares out at the craggy foothills.

BOAGI lost their tracks.

JOHN B.No you ain’t.

He nods just ahead: the telltale sign of mule droppings. Boag dismounts and leans down to examine the sun-dried stool.

BOAGI’m three days behind ‘em.

JOHN B.They had eight mules on that boat.

BOAGFour pairs of mules, a gold load for each one. And saddle horses waitin’ for ‘em. They split up to avoid bandits...then they’ll join up somewhere. I’ll be there.

JOHN B.How you talk, Boag...

BOAG(angrily)

You’re the one talked me into that fool job! Not that it makes much difference now -- you bein’ dead.

JOHN B.You keep doggin’ like this, you’re gon’ be dead too. Ya gotta start thinkin’ about what you’re doin’.

Boag paces, heat-crazed, fighting demons...

29.

BOAGI am thinkin’, dammit. I can’t think it all the way through -- or I’ll just give up. And I ain’t gon’ do that!

Fired up, he goes to his horse and swings up his bad leg... gasps in pain. He hobbles around and mounts from the other side. John B. shakes his head.

JOHN B.Lookit you. You’re just one man. One crippled nigguh. The desert’ll kill ya before that gang does.

BOAGMebbe. I shoulda bought a hat.

JOHN B.You shoulda done a lot of things different. Not too late to start.

BOAGDon’t try to talk me out of it, John boy. I’m gittin’ our gold.

Dust clouds rise out of the Sierra foothills ahead, specks galloping fast toward them.

BOAG (CONT’D)Shee-it.

JOHN B.Is it Pickett’s bunch?

The DISTANT SHOUTS OF SPANISH VOICES answer him.

BOAGNo. Banditos.

He looks around fast. No place to hide in this desert.

JOHN B.Well, that’s it. You’re done.

Boag turns, but John B. is gone. He’s alone.

The specks turn into dozens of riders, THUNDERING closer.

Boag spurs his steed to a hard gallop, toward an oasis of broken boulders. He almost reaches them...

A FLURRY OF SHOTS -- his horse tumbles from a bullet.

30.

Thrown clear, Boag staggers forward on his good leg.

In front of him, a wave of Mexican riders pours over the lip of a rise. Horses converge on him, Boag surrounded by...

A HUNDRED YIPPING, HOLLERING PISTOLEROS, every weapon trained on him, ready to blast him out of the sand...

LEADER’S VOICEALTO! Hold your fire!

An AMERICAN VOICE. Boag squints up into the sun at:

A sun-scorched, mounted figure on the rise. It rides down out of the light to reveal:

Captain McQuade, decked out in fringed buckskin, looking like Buffalo Bill. He hovers over Boag. A grin splits his face.

CAPT. MCQUADEWell, I’ll be damned.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE REBEL CAMP - DAY

A village-like sanctuary in the Sierra foothills. Adobe huts and a makeshift cantina. MEXICAN REBELS carouse, WOMEN scrub clothes and pat tortillas, CHILDREN run about.

INT. CAMP CANTINA - DAY

A mug of beer plunks down on a plank bartop. Boag eyes its foaming suds ravenously.

CAPT. MCQUADEBottoms up, soldier.

Boag drains the mug in one gulp, then downs a tequila shot. Leaning against the cantina walls under oil lamps, armed Mexicans watch them with fierce faces.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)Feeling better?

BOAGI do indeed.

CAPT. MCQUADENot sure what you’re doing out here alone, Boag, but the federales will gun you down sooner than banditos. We got a revolution here in Sonora.

31.

BOAGWe, sir? Is this your rebel army? You a mercenary for hire now?

CAPT. MCQUADEWhat else is a soldier to do. You want a job, Sergeant? You can be my topkick. I need your tactical know-how, and a man I can trust.

He nods at the pistoleros around them.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)These gentlemen would likely slit my throat for a peso.

BOAGWho you fightin’?

CAPT. MCQUADESonoran Governor and his troops of rurales. It’s honorable work.

BOAGLike the Apache wars back home? Hangin’ Injuns and rapin’ their squaws wasn’t my idea of honorable. Made me sick to my gut.

CAPT. MCQUADEThis is different. Pays good, too. How about it?

BOAGMuch obliged, but I got other fish to fry. Lookin’ for some people.

McQuade shrugs and nurses his tequila.

BOAG (CONT’D)Gringos with mules. Headin’ south. Ya seen anyone like that?

CAPT. MCQUADEThere’s not a jackrabbit in these parts we don’t know about. You’re talking about Jed Pickett’s gang.

Boag turns, surprised.

BOAGYeah. That’s the one.

32.

CAPT. MCQUADEThey’re all over. Pickett’s in bed with the Governor, protected by the rurales. His boys are untouchable.

BOAGI gotta find ‘em. Him especially.

CAPT. MCQUADEWell, you’ve got some burden. What d’you want with that bastard?

BOAGHe owes me somethin’. Killed my pardner, too.

CAPT. MCQUADEJohn boy? I’m sorry to hear that. You’d best forget it, Boag. That bunch will take you apart.

BOAGMost likely, but I aim to cause ‘em some misery before they do.

McQuade rises, shaking his head.

CAPT. MCQUADEAlways thinking with your fists. You helped us beat the Apaches, but you never were a true Army man. Always taking your own road.

Boag rises and faces him, his eyes ablaze.

BOAGNot the white man’s road, that’s for damn sure. But I’d sure like to catch up with Jed Pickett.

CAPT. MCQUADEThere’s a ranchero outside Caborca, named Ortiz. He’ll know something.

BOAGWill he talk to me?

CAPT. MCQUADEYeah. Jed Pickett cleaned him out of a fortune. Ortiz is your man.

Boag nods. They shake hands.

33.

BOAGThank ye. I’ll need a new horse.

CAPT. MCQUADEI’ll find you a good fast one. If you don’t get yourself killed, Sergeant, you come look me up. Any time you want that job.

EXT. CABORCA COUNTRYSIDE - DAY

A faraway view of battle in a farmland valley. PEASANTS POP rifles at uniformed troops, tiny tuffs of smoke...

RURALES answer with a GATLING GUN, its hand-cranked STUTTER laying vicious waste to the rebels.

High on a bluff, Boag observes the massacre from astride a feisty white palomino. He squints down at the Gatling gun with particular interest. Then rides on.

EXT. ORTIZ HACIENDA - DAY

A Mexican ranch nestled in lush cattle country, dominated by a stately, two-story hacienda.

Boag reins in and looks around. No cattle, no ranch hands, not a soul in evidence. He rides through the open gate.

EXT. HACIENDA COURTYARD - DAY

A casa grande in decay, its second-story floor bordered by a veranda. Boag dismounts and tethers his horse, scanning the deserted courtyard.

BOAGHullo?!

An old ex-vaquero servant (MIGUEL) peers from the veranda, half in hiding. Boag nods up.

BOAG (CONT’D)Buenos dias. I’m lookin’ for the patron? Señor Ortiz?

The old man retreats out of sight. Boag draws his saddle rifle and advances upstairs with caution.

At the top, he peers down a shadowy gallery. Freezes to--

34.

A rifle barrel pressed against the nape of his neck. He slowly turns, his eyes widening on:

CARMEN ORTIZ, a luscious beauty with fiery eyes, a shapely figure...and an old Spanish percussion rifle aimed dead on his face.

BOAG (CONT’D)Whoa. Por favor, Señora...

CARMENDo not move! I will shoot you.

BOAGI believe ya. I mean no harm.

CARMENQue es eso, gringo?

She nods at the Henry .44 in his hand.

CARMEN (CONT’D)You wish to rob our house?

BOAGWhy’s everyone think I’m a robber?

He gently sets aside his rifle, leaving it against a railing.

BOAG (CONT’D)Like to speak to...your husband?

CARMENDon Pablo Ortiz. Como se llama?

BOAGBoag.

CARMENWhat does it mean, this “Boag”?

BOAGJust means Boag. What’s yours?

Carmen eyes him curiously. Boag can’t stop staring at her, a vibrant provocation about her.

CARMENCarmen Ortiz. What is it you wish to speak to him about?

BOAGSome missing gold bullion.

35.

Reacting to that, Carmen lowers the rifle.

BOAG (CONT’D)I’m a friend of Cap’n McQuade.

CARMENYou get rid of those guns, si?

BOAGSeguro que si.

He unties his gunbelt, drapes it over the railing. Carmen watches, assessing his big physique with amused speculation. A flirting look, then she leads him down the veranda.

The servant Miguel appears. Carmen waves him away.

INT. DON PABLO’S ROOM - DAY

Carmen opens the door gently, speaking with quiet softness.

CARMENQuerido. A visitor. Something about missing gold.

A LAUGH RINGS OUT, then a HACKING COUGH. Boag walks into the dimness, gauging the sad specimen before him:

DON PABLO ORTIZ, a pale young aristocrat, sits amidst a huge room with no furniture and missing wall paintings. He coughs fitfully, sick with consumption. Then it settles.

DON PABLOMissing gold, Señor...?

BOAGBoag, sir. I need to know about a man called Jed Pickett.

DON PABLO(grimly)

Ah yes.

BOAGHe’s got somethin’ of mine, and I’m lookin’ to find him.

Don Pablo bursts into bitter laughter, then doubles over with another coughing seizure. He waves Carmen over.

DON PABLOQuerida, por favor...

36.

Carmen rushes over with a violet vial. He sips from it. She watches him in anguish. Recovering, he nods at it to Boag.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)Laudanum for the pain, opium in alcohol. Even dying has its small pleasures.

(faces him)We have something in common, Señor Boag. Jed Pickett has something of mine too...three million in pesos.

(gestures around)Everything I ever owned, in fact, except this house.

Boag stares around the nearly empty room.

CARMENIt is time for your soup, querido.

DON PABLOWill you take a meal with us, Señor Boag?

BOAGI ain’t got a lot of time.

DON PABLOIf you wish to know about Señor Pickett, you will make the time.

EXT. HACIENDA YARD - DAY

A dining table in the shade of oleander trees, a tranquil setting bordered by an apple orchard.

Boag and Carmen sit together, sharing a scrawny cooked rabbit. Miguel serves.

Don Pablo barely touches his soup. Emotion in his words:

DON PABLOI assumed he was a man of means, in the light of his friendship with Governor Pesqueira. I trusted him. Pickett proposed an exchange, two million in gold for three in cash. I sold my cattle, everything on the risk of profit...so I could leave something behind for Carmen.

His sad eyes fall on Carmen, who picks glumly at her food.

37.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)Pickett came here with the gold as promised, made a big show of it. I showed him my cash. His ladronesshowed me their guns. They walked out with the gold...and my money. Laughing all the way.

A pall hangs over the table. Boag’s hatred only deepens.

BOAGBad luck. When did this happen?

DON PABLOThree days ago. It is not easy for a man to admit he was a total fool.

BOAGI know the feelin’. So he has five million in gold and pesos. What would he do with all that money?

DON PABLOBuy land. Own half of Sonora, like some gringo Napoleon. I suspect the Governor is helping him.

(leans into Boag)That is where you will find him, Señor. In Ures, the capital. Look for a horse brand, a “P” within a circle. He also stole my horses.

Boag nods, digesting every word. Don Pablo regards him.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)How much did he steal from you?

BOAGOne gold bar.

(to his reaction)Not much, next to your millions.

DON PABLOAnd you came all this way for that?

BOAGHe owes me somethin’ else. There was a friend of mine. Jed Pickett needs killin’.

Carmen’s eyes flare at his intensity. Don Pablo is so excited by the thought that he coughs himself into another seizure.

38.

CARMENAy, Don Pablo. I will get your--

DON PABLONo, no, querida...enjoy your meal.

He eats his soup with a sudden appetite, new hope in his sickly eyes. Carmen nods Boag at his plate of rabbit.

CARMENIt is all right? I shot it myself.

BOAGSi. A woman after my own heart.

Don Pablo smiles, looking between them.

DON PABLOI would not survive without her. I had to let go my ranch hands, and Miguel here stays without pay. It is only the three of us now.

(to Carmen)Querida...fetch us some apples.

Carmen dances over to an orchard tree and picks some apples. She reaches high, revealing her curvy figure.

Boag watches her keenly.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)Muy bello, si? I bought her from a bordello in Mexico City, then I married her. Now I am not fit to hold her stirrup. It is tiresome looking after a dying man. She has no reason to stay...yet she does.

BOAGWhy’re you tellin’ me this?

DON PABLOI do not wish to leave her alone.

Uncomfortable with that, Boag rises restlessly.

BOAGI got three days to catch up on. Thank ye for your hospitality.

Don Pablo rises weakly on a cane. Carmen rushes over with an armful of apples under her ample bosoms.

39.

DON PABLOSeñor Boag is leaving us, Carmen. Perhaps he will be back one day.

Saddened, Carmen hands Boag an apple.

CARMENI hope you find great fortune in your travels.

Boag nods thanks. Don Pablo shakes his hand.

DON PABLOVaya con dios, Señor. If you find this man, how will you fight him?

BOAGDirty. It don’t matter much. The winner is the one left standin’.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE FOOTHILLS - DAY

Spiked mountains dwarf San Ignacio, an adobe village in a small valley. Viewed from a distance, its thatched roofs are dominated by a towering mission church.

Horse-mounted Boag observes the town from a high, wooded game trail. His eyes sweep the valley, stopping on:

A troop of SONORAN RURALES on horseback...escorting two horsemen with two pack mules. One dressed like a rawhider, the other in a sombrero. A white and a Mexican.

Riding toward San Ignacio, they’re met on the outskirts by three Yankee riders.

A rawhider in the lead talks to a SONORAN OFFICER. Tall in the saddle, his face unseen under a Stetson.

Boag focuses on the big one, his eyes like binoculars.

HIS POV - HORSEBACK FIGURES

The big Yankee hands something to the Officer. Too far to distinguish, but its shiny glint gives it away: a gold bar. The five horsemen ride into town, the rurales behind them.

An irresistible flame glows in Boag’s eyes.

JOHN’S VOICEI wouldn’t, Boag. Ures is dead ahead. It ain’t that far.

40.

BOAGThat’s Ben Stryker down there.

JOHN’S VOICEYou’re outgunned. Stay on Pickett.

Boag isn’t listening. WE PULL WIDE TO REVEAL he’s alone. He spurs his palomino forward. Toward...

EXT. SAN IGNACIO - DAY

A busy Mexican bazaar, outdoor stalls lining the town square. Crowded with villagers, a perfect cover for...

Boag, walking his palomino between stalls. He maintains a low profile, his eyes panning across the road:

A corral by the village entry, swarming with soldiers. The Sonoran Officer jokes with a mescal-swilling ALCALDE.

Outside a cantina, four hitched horses with Western saddles.

Boag focuses on the cantina, dissuaded by rurale dragoons roaming the square directly in front.

He trades looks with a pregnant WOMAN VENDOR at a stall, her children shooting with imaginary guns. She senses his agenda, her eyes flicking subtly toward:

The town church. A lone horse tied to a post outside.

MISSION CHURCH

Boag leads his palomino to the horse, treading gingerly. He notices the Mexican saddle...and a brand on the horse’s hide. A “P” within a circle. Don Pablo’s brand.

He hurries to a side entrance and ties his steed close to the door. Grabs his Henry rifle and ventures into...

INT. MISSION CHURCH - DAY

Spanish grandeur with a high pulpit, long pews and hundreds of lit candles. A few villagers pray before the altar.

From the altar front, Boag steals up a side aisle. Past...

A Mexican, his sombrero in hand, praying devoutly in a pew. His head bent low, his face unrecognizable.

41.

Boag creeps silently into a pew several rows behind him, watching him, his rifle in hand. Startled by--

STRYKER’S VOICEGutierrez! Let’s go.

Boag spins around to -- Ben Stryker at the back entrance, carrying a bullwhip. He approaches the Mexican down the central aisle, then suddenly spots Boag. Jerks to a halt.

Gutierrez turns, donning his sombrero. He sees Boag frozen in the rear pew. Gawks at him like a ghost...

GUTIERREZMadre de dios!

Boag’s eyes dart between them. Gutierrez grins his rotten teeth. Stryker’s stoic face darkens. A tense standoff, gun hands flexing toward their holsters...

Behind them marches in Jackson, the ex-Confederate, with TWO RAWHIDERS. He stops dead at the sight of Boag.

JACKSONHey -- it’s that nigger!

Stryker and Gutierrez draw at the same time -- Boag ducks -- their guns ERUPT! Pew seats SPLINTER!

Boag crawls low and fast along the pew -- under constant FIRE. BULLETS chew up seats in tandem behind him. He disappears down the side aisle.

The five men converge on the wrecked pew, their six-shooters pointed at...nothing.

Villagers flee out the side exits.

Stryker scans the escape aisle, his eyes catching:

The slight flutter of a confessional’s curtain. He aims...

STRYKERThere. Git ‘im!

All six-shooters BLAZE! BLASTING the bejesus out of the confessional -- its wood frame SPLINTERING UP, its curtain SHOT full of holes. The men stop to reload.

The bullwhip uncoils in Stryker’s hand. He steps forward and expertly SNAPS it -- rips off the curtain.

The confessional is empty.

42.

A RIFLE SHOT RINGS OUT -- a rawhider CRASHES into the pew benches, scattering them, half his skull blown off.

Boag towers from the high pulpit, his Henry aimed over the dais. He FIRES without mercy!

The second rawhider flies dead off his feet.

Stryker, Gutierrez and Jackson dive behind pews and RETURN FIRE with ruthless zeal!

Boag ducks and rolls out from the BULLET-RAVAGED pulpit.

A THUNDEROUS VOLLEY in the church -- stained glass SHATTERS, candles EXPLODE, holy relics BLOWN to bits! The shrine is decimated, gunsmoke clouding our view.

Jackson takes a HIT in his gun arm -- his weapon flying!

JACKSONShit! Goddamn coon shot me!

A BULLET sends Gutierrez’ sombrero flying off his head! Stryker ceases fire, losing sight of his target.

Out of the haze of smoke, Boag’s figure leaps like a spirit from the mist -- out through a shattered window.

EXT. MISSION CHURCH - DAY

Stryker, Gutierrez and wounded Jackson rush outside to see:

Boag, galloping away.

GUTIERREZI will kill that negro!

STRYKERForget it. He’s not important.

He FIRES a warning SHOT in the air.

STRYKER (CONT’D)Let the rurales take care of him.

EXT. TOWN SQUARE - DAY

The dragoons have no time to react -- Boag’s palomino ZIPS PAST in a blur. He charges the village entry at breakneck speed, crouched in the saddle.

43.

The Officer draws his pistol. His rurales pour across the road to form a blockade, scrambling for their weapons.

SONORAN OFFICERAlto!

Boag veers his steed behind the Alcalde, who drops his bottle in a panic -- and leaps over the corral fence. He races across the corral, scattering soldiers’ horses.

The Officer and his men OPEN FIRE into the corral.

Boag slings low behind his horse, half off the saddle, BULLETS ZINGING past. He almost falls, as--

The palomino jumps the far fence.

Boag grips the saddle horn to stay mounted, as the palomino races on. This is one fast horse. Boag can barely hang on, scared shitless.

Rurales run into the corral for their mounts -- their spooked horses pour out past them. Men chase after them. Utter chaos, the Officer SHOUTING SPANISH.

The Alcalde gapes after the galloping black Zorro on the white palomino, fleeing into the foothills.

The Woman Vendor stares too, her children mystified. So too do the other villagers. RUMORS fly amongst them.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE FOOTHILLS - DAY

Boag rides hell for leather, the palomino more in control than he is. They zip into the woods.

FAR BEHIND

The Officer and a few soldiers gallop in pursuit, flogging their horses faster.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE CREEK - DAY

Approaching a shallow creek, Boag struggles to slow the wild, frothing beast, yanking hard on the reins.

BOAGWhoa, whoa! You mind me now!...

He guides the palomino at an easy trot across the creek and onto a muddy embankment, leaving visible tracks.

44.

Boag jumps his steed sideways onto low boulders. They CLIP-CLOP over flat rock...backtracking into the stream.

Man and horse canter down the length of the creek, receding out of sight.

SAME SCENE - MOMENTS LATER

The rurales converge fast on the creek. Following Boag’s tracks, the Officer crosses the water in the lead and picks up the muddy tracks on the far side.

SONORAN OFFICERAndale!

His troops gallop forward, continuing a futile chase.

EXT. GOVERNOR’S PALACE, URES - DAY

A huge mansion in the Sonoran capital. Spanish elegance and splendor, guests flocking inside. A party in progress.

INT. GOVERNOR’S PALACE - DAY

FLAMENCO BOOTS POUND the floor to CASTINETS and GUITARS. Andalusian dancers spin fast and wild before CLAPPING guests. One beauty twirls her gypsy skirt, eye-flirting with...

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRA, a stout tyrant in uniformed refinery, a mix of grace and savagery. He devours a chicken leg at a banquet table and cheers her on.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAMatelo, matelo! Olay!

An entourage of officials around him, drunk and pigging out. Among them, directly across from the Governor:

Jed Pickett, looking stiff in fancy duds. He hard-eyes the Governor, sober and impatient. Leans across the table.

PICKETTDon Ignacio...a word with you.

The dance ends. Pesqueira jumps up to applaud the señorita.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRABravo! Bravo!

He sits back down, eying Pickett with mild displeasure.

45.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRA (CONT’D)Ay Señor, you are never satisfied.

PICKETTThat’s the American way. A few old dons ain’t cooperatin’. They won’t sell me their ranches. Some even threatened to join the revolution.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAAghh! These rebels are a pimple on my ass. But the dons...they have owned that land for generations.

PICKETTMy land now, Gov’nor, my God-given destiny. I want Santa Cruz and the southern district. All of it.

Pesqueira stares him down, his savage side showing.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAGreedy gringo. I am not sure I like your business, Señor Pickett.

PICKETTBut you like my gold, don’t you, amigo? And I need your rurales to protect the property I’m buyin’.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAAnd stealing too, eh? But you have an army. Why do you need mine?

PICKETTYours is bigger, Your Excellency.

Amused chuckles between them. Pickett glimpses a dusty rawhider approaching across the room:

Big Ben Stryker, drawing stares.

The Governor notices him too, with a cunning smile.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRASi, but your soldados are better. I could use their talents, to put down a Yankee’s rebel army. Some gringo capitan...McQuade.

Stryker strides forward. Pickett rises.

46.

PICKETTExcuse me, Gov’nor.

He ushers Stryker aside, irritated.

PICKETT (CONT’D)This ain’t the best time.

STRYKERWe had a little problem up north.

PICKETTSomethin’ you can’t solve yourself?

STRYKERThat Buffalo Soldier from Arizona.

PICKETTWho?

STRYKERBoag, sir, remember? He’s alive. He’s been trackin’ us.

PICKETTSo? Get rid of him.

STRYKERSure, but he’s kinda hard to find. He already killed two of our boys.

PICKETTChrissake, Ben, you can’t deal with one egg-suckin’ nigger? Handle it!

STRYKERYes sir. Just wanted you to know.

He marches off, parting the crowd. A bit disturbed, Pickett rejoins the Governor and jumps back into his role.

PICKETTMy apologies. Once I’m set up in Santa Cruz, Gov’nor, you can have my best men. Consider it a gift.

Pesqueira raises a brandy in a gracious toast.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAMost generous of you...Don Pickett. You shall be the greatest land baron in all southern Sonora.

47.

PICKETTBut I’ll need that protection.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAI’ll persuade the old dons to sell.

PICKETTAnd safe escort to Santa Cruz.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAWhatever you wish. Anything else?

PICKETTOne more thing. A small favor.

GOVERNOR PESQUEIRAOf course. A señorita perhaps?

PICKETTNaw. There’s an annoying fly out there...that needs a good swat.

EXT. RIO SONORA, URES - DAY

A broad river faces the distant church steeples of Ures.

On the wilderness side, Boag reins before a ferry landing. He regards the city beyond the far shore, then...

An old, craggy-faced BOATMAN on a docked, flat-plank raft.

RAFT ACROSS RIVER

The Boatman steers his craft through currents with a long pole. Beside the palomino, Boag gentles the nervous beast. The old man keeps staring at him.

BOAGWhat’re you lookin’ at?

BOATMANYou are him. El guerrero negro.

BOAGWhat’d you say?

BOATMANPeople talk about you, guerrero.

BOAGWhat people?

48.

BOATMANPeople. Everyone!

BOAGI dunno what the hell you mean.

BOATMANAy, no? But they do.

He nods ahead toward the Ures shore:

A capital militia swarms down the embankment, a prison wagon behind them. Rurales line the river and aim rifles at...

Boag, stiffening to the sight of their overwhelming numbers.

BOAGI don’t suppose you could turn around.

BOATMANThey will shoot us out of the water, guerrero.

Boag nods, resigning himself to--

URES SHORE - MOMENTS LATER

A rifle butt RAMS his kidneys, sending him tumbling into the prison wagon. Boag sprawls inside, gasping for breath, stripped of his gun belt and everything but his clothes.

An INFANTRY LIEUTENANT stares impassively in at him.

INFANTRY LIEUTENANTBy order of the Governor of Sonora, you are under arrest.

BOAGWhat for?--

The caged door SLAMS SHUT on him. The wagon rolls forward.

EXT. URES STREET - DAY

The prison wagon rumbles along, past the Governor’s mansion.

INT. PRISON WAGON (MOVING) - DAY

Boag peers through a barred window at the passing city:

49.

Ancient missions. Bronze sculptures. A tall mesquite stairway. A colossal flour mill. Throngs of PEDESTRIANS, a mix of rich gentry and poor peasantry. Then--

EXT. JAILHOUSE COURTYARD - DAY

High iron gates SLAM CLOSE. The wagon enters a walled compound with two watch towers and roving guards. Then--

INT. CELLBLOCK - DAY

A heavy wood cell door SLAMS, SHUTTING Boag inside.

INT. BOAG’S CELL - DAY

A tiny isolation cubicle with an even tinier barred window. Boag punches the cell door in fury, shouting out:

BOAGHey! What’s the charge?!

A KEY RATTLES in a lock. BOOTSTEPS CLUMP AWAY.

JOHN’S VOICEYou know better ‘n that, brothuh.

His dead friend crouches pensively in a dank corner.

JOHN B.This is Mexico.

Boag paces, scanning his cesspool of a cell: a blanket for a bed on the hard-dirt floor, a filthy clay chamberpot, the ancient wood cell door.

EXT. URES EXIT ROAD - EVENING

A quick glimpse of stacked gold ingots -- another door SLAMS SHUT. A safe vault atop a fortified flattop wagon. Rawhiders guard the moving vault, armed to the teeth.

The wagon trundles down a road, flanked by horsemen.

Pickett rides up front, Stryker beside him. Pickett glances behind toward:

The city’s skyline, silhouetted against a blood-red sunset.

50.

PICKETTWhere are those goddamned rurales? He promised me troops.

STRYKERMebbe the Gov’nor lied to ya.

PICKETTThat yellow-livered greaser -- he’s just another bandito.

STRYKERRelax, we’re almost home. We don’t need his sorry troops.

Pickett nods, unconvinced. Angry, nervous...paranoid.

EXT. JAILHOUSE COURTYARD - NIGHT

A hay-filled test dummy DROPS DOWN through a trap door on a noose. Atop a hangman’s scaffold amidst the compound, NIGHT GUARDS pull up the dummy.

INT. BOAG’S CELL - NIGHT

Boag peers out through the tiny, barred window over the poorly lit courtyard. He assesses the watch tower and the entrance gate. Fewer guards mull about.

Behind him, John B.’s phantom shadow lingers in the dark.

JOHN B.Gon’ be a hangin’. Gon’ be yours.

Boag turns and inspects the peeled adobe walls, desperate for a way out. His eyes fall on the cell door.

He kneels down and studies its old wood frame, cracked with dry rot. Gaps of light along its jamb and bottom.

Then he sits back against a far wall and contemplates that door, as if willing it to open.

BOAGI’m slow to hate, John boy, you know that. My temper takes a long time risin’. But I dearly hate Jed Pickett. This is his doin’.

John B. observes him sadly, knowing him too well.

51.

BOAG (CONT’D)Only thing worse than dying is not gettin’ close to that peckerwood. I own his ass, J.B., I can feel it.

JOHN B.And you ain’t gon’ wait to die, are ya, Boag?

(shakes his head)God help us all.

The cell door opens. A burly CELL GUARD lets in a robed MISSION PRIEST, a Bible in his hand.

Boag is alone, of course. He sits irritably, as the Priest performs final rites over him, MURMURING in LATIN.

BOAGGracias, padre. Gracias...just leave me the Bible, por favor.

The Priest nods and lays the Bible in Boag’s lap. Then he MUTTERS HAIL MARY’S, crossing himself endlessly.

During this, the Cell Guard lights a cigar in the doorway. He drops some matches and stoops down to pick them up.

Boag keenly eyes the Guard checking the floor for stray matches. He feigns sudden anger at the Priest:

BOAG (CONT’D)That’s enough! G’won now, git!

Startled, the Priest hastens out the cell. His quick exit distracts the Guard, who closes the door and LOCKS UP.

Boag scrambles to the door on all fours. His fingers grope under the bottom gap, maneuvering feverishly until...

He gingerly extracts a single sulphur match.

INT. CELLBLOCK HALLWAY - NIGHT

A dim-lit labyrinth of corridors. The Cell Guard ushers the Priest out a far door into the courtyard.


Boag rips out pages from the Bible, crumpling each page into a paper ball. He shoves a pile of them against the door.

52.

JOHN’S VOICEYou crazy? This cell’s too small -- you’ll just kill yourself.

BOAGShuddup.

JOHN’S VOICEDon’t forget the blanket.

Boag nods and grabs the bed blanket. Tears it into strips.

INT. CELLBLOCK - NIGHT

In a doorway at the farthest end, the Cell Guard and a BLOCK GUARD share a tequila bottle.


The sulphur match FLARES to life. Boag lights a tall mound of Bible pages and blanket strips covering the width of the door. From one end to the other, moving fast...

One match, one chance. It burns down to the stem, singeing his fingers.

Flames lick up and consume the pile, growing quickly into a bonfire. Boag steps back, seared by its heat. The cell fills with smoke. He rushes to the window for air.


In b.g., the two Guards bicker over the tequila bottle...

In f.g., wisps of smoke trickle out from the door frame.


Boag presses his face against the window bars, coughing, smoke pouring out. He grimaces from the heat behind him.

JOHN’S VOICEIt’s burnin’ away from the door.

BOAGDammit, do somethin’!

JOHN’S VOICECan’t -- I’m dead.

53.

Boag pounces across the cell and kicks the burning pile back against the door. He covers his face in a coughing spasm, the air thick with smoke. Finally...

The dry-rotted door catches fire, sparking and glowing.


Roiling with smoke. Flames shoot out the burning door’s cracks. PRISONER VOICES SHOUT. The Guards turn, stunned.


Boag flattens against the wall, protecting his face with the chamberpot, coughing, gagging, watching, listening...

CLUMPING BOOTS OUTSIDE, PANICKED SHOUTS IN SPANISH. The door is completely consumed now, burning to its center.

Boag drops the chamberpot and makes his move. He runs full weight at the door, powers his shoulder forward and--


CRASHES through fiery wood! Burning cinders fly! He lunges blind at the closest man standing. The Cell Guard topples back, Boag falling over him.

Staggering off guard, the Block Guard draws his gun. Boag flips the fallen man over on top -- the Block Guard SHOOTS, hitting the Cell Guard.

Boag whips out the dead man’s sidearm -- BLASTS the Block Guard backwards into the cell fire.

Boag bolts for the doorway, prisoners SCREAMING after him.

INT. CELLBLOCK HALLWAY - NIGHT

He runs at a half limp through the lamp-lit labyrinth, a hard-bent desperado with a guard’s revolver...

TRACKING WITH him, TURNING a corner...

A HALL GUARD leaps into view and aims a pistol. Boag FIRES point-blank at his face -- the Guard drops in a crimson splatter. Boag scoops up his pistol...

AROUND another corner...

54.

A DOOR GUARD BLAZES AWAY from the courtyard exitway!

Boag drops flat to the floor, adobe chunks raining down over him, and PLUGS him in the gut!

The Guard snaps back against a wall, clutching his belly, SHRIEKING in agony. Boag rushes forward to silence him...

The outside figures of NIGHT GUARDS stop him -- a squadron running toward the cellblock. Boag ducks into...

INT. GUARD’S LOCKER ROOM - NIGHT

Darkness, locked cabinets. An open window to the courtyard. Boag rushes toward it, as WE ZIP AROUND TO REVEAL:

Night Guards swarming past in the hallway, SPANISH ORDERS RINGING OUT. One checks inside the locker room...

Boag is gone.

EXT. JAILHOUSE COURTYARD - NIGHT

TRACKING FAST WITH Boag through shadows. He bolts behind the cover of the hanging scaffold. Peers out:

A nearly abandoned compound, all the COMMOTION inside the smoking cellblock. One tower guard CLANGS an ALARM BELL. The other climbs down, the street gate unguarded.

Boag starts for the gate, then stops...

A DRUM OF HOOFBEATS. A HALF-DOZEN MILITIA HORSEMEN mill to a halt outside the gate.

The second tower guard runs over, an EXCHANGE IN SPANISH, then he opens the gate.

The militiamen pour into the courtyard and dismount.

Boag jumps out into the open -- and unleashes a FUSILLADE, his two-handed guard guns ERUPTING at arm’s length!

Two soldiers drop, a third spared a bullet -- it pierces the neck of the panicking tower guard caught in the line of fire.

The other four dive for cover.

Boag dashes into the confusion of rearing army horses.

The militia OPENS FIRE, the horses blocking their target.

55.

Boag vaults onto a saddle and whacks a flank with a gun butt -- the horse bolts in fright, POUNDING out the gate.

EXT. URES STREET - NIGHT

A mad gallop down a hillside street, HOOVES CLATTERING over cobblestone.

Far behind Boag, the second tower guard FIRES a rifle from the jailhouse wall. Boag rides on, drawing stares from...

Mexican peasants on sidewalks, gawking at the black phantom racing past in the night. A BOY cries out in awe:

PEASANT BOYEl guerrero! El guerrero NEGRO!

Boag gallops on, invincible -- until a BULLET slams into the back of his thigh! The impact throws him off.

He lands hard on a stairtop, losing his guns. Tumbles down:

EXT. MESQUITE STAIRWAY - NIGHT

A flight of mesquite-wood steps to a lower street. Boag rolls downhill head over heels, then fights the inertia and stops himself. Suffering badly, shot in the same leg.

BOAGShit!

He grimaces at his blood-soaked thigh. His old wound has a new bullet hole in it. He looks up toward:

The mounted militiamen, appearing on the stairtop like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They ride down in pursuit, their horses CLIP-CLOPPING down the stairs.

CURSING under his breath, Boag slides to the bottom. His butt bucks against the steps, all the way down to...

EXT. FLOUR MILL STREET - NIGHT

A lamp-lit road, deserted of people. Boag hobbles across to the giant flour mill seen earlier, gasping painfully.

He seeks refuge in a dark recess and waits.

Four horses ride past, militiamen searching storefronts. They continue their manhunt down the street.

56.

Boag waits until they’re gone, then limps out. He scans the woods bordering the street. Looks back:

Above on the hillside road, a RURALE REGIMENT gallops toward the jailhouse, their HOOVES CLATTERING.

Boag tries to think. Desperate, hurting, angry. He notices:

A fish-oil lantern, hanging in the entrance of the mill.

Hobbling over, he plucks the lamp off its hook and unscrews the lit cap -- then throws it against an inner wall.

The shattered lantern IGNITES. Its splattered oil spreads a small fire up the wall, toward the ceiling.

Boag sits miserably outside. He strips off his shirt, twirls it into a long knot and ties it around his upper thigh like a tourniquet. He swoons a bit, growing dizzy.

Behind him, the fire spreads inside the flour mill.

He limps toward the woods, his big figure framed against...

An EXPLOSION of flames -- the whole mill going up in smoke.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE TRAIL - NIGHT

The rawhiders and their vault wagon progress along a high ridge. Pickett and Stryker gaze back below:

Ures’ faraway lights...and the distant flicker of a fire.

STRYKERLooks like the capital’s on fire.

PICKETTI hope it’s the Governor’s house.

They ride on, Pickett glancing back. Worried.

EXT. FLOUR MILL STREET - NIGHT

The mill burns out of control, spectacularly consumed. A Mexican brigade works futilely to fight the roaring blaze.

Silhouetted against it, DOZENS of RURALE HORSE SOLDIERS ride back and forth. An angry mood, their numbers growing.

With an officer’s SHOUT, they fan out into the woods.

57.

EXT. URES OUTSKIRTS - NIGHT

Boag limps and stumbles aimlessly through moonlit thickets, weak from loss of blood. Half-naked, resembling a runaway slave. He squints ahead:

Rocks and brambles. He’s lost.

The DISTANT RUMBLE OF HOOVES darts his head around...

Torches flit through the far woods like so many fireflies, drawing near. The lights of mounted men.

Boag half-runs, half-falls down an incline into a gully, searching for refuge. Pain and exhaustion forces him to his knees. He slumps onto a dry creek bed.

In his wounded delirium, it seems the fireflies are almost upon him. One torch draws too close...

Its flames right in his face. Boag stiffens back, staring dazedly at:

A PEASANT REBEL, his torch-lit face studying him curiously. Others watch from behind him, bearing machetes.

Boag instinctively reaches for his gun...then realizes he doesn’t have one. He passes out. FADE TO BLACK.

INT. CAMP TENT - NIGHT

FADE IN TO Boag’s UNFOCUSED POV: blurred, lamp-lit faces. A SEPIA-TONED VISION, like some insane dream...

Ben Stryker raises his glowing-red Bowie knife with spiteful eyes. Jed Pickett hovers close in fringed buckskin, with a gleeful grin. Striker lowers the hot knife OUT OF FRAME...

TIGHT ON Boag’s sweaty face, flinching to a stab of pain...

BOAGGoddamn y’all to HELL!...

His POV: a red-hot iron smokes against his exposed thigh wound, cauterizing it.

Stryker’s BLURRED face FOCUSES INTO the wizened Hispanic features of an old MEDICINE MAN.

Reeling from burning agony, Boag loses consciousness.

58.

EXT. ARIZONA CANYON PASS (DREAM) - DAY

The same narrow pass from the beginning, in BLEACHED SEPIA. Boag, in Apache war garb, gallops on a Mustang in SLOW MOTION between sandstone cliffs, trying to escape from...

Pickett’s gang in cavalry uniforms, riding hard after him...

A DYNAMITE EXPLOSION THUNDERS above Boag! An AVALANCHE tumbles down, Boag gaping up in horror--

INT. CAMP TENT - DAY

Boag’s eyes blink open, wincing from a blinding flash of...

Bright sunlight, a tent flap opening. An OUT OF FOCUS, buckskinned figure draws close, FOCUSING INTO...

The face of McQuade, eying him curiously.

CAPT. MCQUADEHowdy, Boag. You got more lives than a goddamned cat.

Boag orientates himself to the tent interior, the bunk he’s lying flat on.

BOAGReckon I’m runnin’ out of ‘em...

He lifts his head to focus on his leg: the thigh wrapped in swathes. It BLURS OUT. His head reels, flopping back.

BOAG (CONT’D)Aw jeezus...my head...

CAPT. MCQUADEYou gotta rest a spell, trooper. You almost bled to death.

BOAGI can’t think straight...

CAPT. MCQUADEYou haven’t been thinking at all. What were you trying to do -- burn down the capital of Sonora?

BOAGJust tryin’ to get outta town...

59.

CAPT. MCQUADELocal folks don’t see it that way. They think you’re a revolutionary, some kind of legend. Even got a name for you...

BOAGEl guerrero negro?

CAPT. MCQUADEYeah. “The Black Warrior.” You’re getting an awful lot of attention.

BOAGThat I don’t need. I gotta get outta here...

He tries to rise but he can’t move, his head spinning.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou’re not going anywhere.

BOAGGot to...I’m losin’ their tracks...

Struggling mightily, he collapses back -- overpowered by fever. He fades, his eyes closing...

EXT. ARIZONA INDIAN CAMP (DREAM) - DAY

A SEPIA-IMAGED hanging, THREE APACHE WARRIORS dangling from an oak branch.

Boag and John B., in cavalry blue, watch them die.

Surreal glimpses of SHOOTINGS in b.g., their Buffalo Soldier buddies dragging screaming SQUAWS into teepees.

Boag lowers his head in shame. John B. shrugs grimly.

JOHN B.Redskins, beaners, nigguhs...don’t make no difference, Boag. You can’t win.

BOAGThen I’m gonna die tryin’.

He looks back up at the hanging:

Jed Pickett, Ben Stryker and Gutierrez twitch at the end of the nooses, convulsing in death. DISSOLVE TO:

60.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE REBEL CAMP - DAY

Boag awakens outside, lying prostrate on a blanketed litter. Activity all around him, rebel pistoleros breaking down tents. McQuade walks over.

CAPT. MCQUADEHow’re you making out, warrior?

BOAGDon’t call me that.

He sits up and tests his strength, moving his torso better. But his legs won’t budge. The pain is excruciating.

CAPT. MCQUADEWe’re moving out. These hills are crawling with rurales, no thanks to you. The Governor wants your ass.

BOAGGit me a horse...I can ride.

CAPT. MCQUADE(laughs)

Ride?! You can’t even sit up.

Challenged, Boag tries to rise. He falls back in misery, already exhausted. McQuade nods at his litter.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)That’s your ride, boy, ‘til that bullet hole mends. You might have to retire that leg altogether.

BOAGWhere ya headin’?

CAPT. MCQUADERailroad junction at the Yaqui River. We got a train to catch...

(smiles)With dynamite. Stole a wagon load from the federales, and lots more.

Boag ponders that, but he’s too groggy to focus.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)I could really use your head for that, Sergeant. Could be fun.

BOAGI got my own war.

61.

From his POV, McQuade’s figure RACKS IN AND OUT OF FOCUS.

CAPT. MCQUADEThen I got to drop you somewhere.

BOAGNot too hard, please...

CAPT. MCQUADEGot any friends who can take care of ya?

BOAGJust you, Cap’n...

Drifting off, he fights to keep his eyes open.

BOAG (CONT’D)...and Don Pablo...

CAPT. MCQUADEWho?

BOAGOrtiz...the ranchero in Caborca...

CAPT. MCQUADEAll right. But you’d be better off with us.

BOAGCan’t do that...

CAPT. MCQUADEBoag, you’re a damned fool.

Over his words, his IMAGE BLURS OUT.

BOAG’S VOICEYessir.

INT. INDIAN TEEPEE (DREAM) - DAY

A SEPIA-WASHED POV, low from the floor of an Apache wigwam, facing the entry. GUNSHOTS outside. Running figures.

A cavalryman storms in -- Jed Pickett, smeared in blood, ready to party. He gloats wickedly down at us and unbuckles his gunbelt and trousers, cackling, grinning...

62.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE WOODS - DAY

CLOSE ON Boag’s anguished face, lying on the fast-moving litter, bouncing over rocky ground...

BOAGNo...nuh-uh...that ain’t fair!

INT. INDIAN TEEPEE (DREAM) - NIGHT

The same SEPIA-TONED POV, the dark wigwam entrance at night. An Apache squaw’s figure appears in the moonlight: Carmen’s, the Spanish señora. A PLEASED MURMUR:

BOAG’S VOICEUh...yeah...that’s better...

Carmen draws close to us and peels off her Indian garb, revealing her curvy, naked body in silhouette. A wet dream, her skin like silk, her breasts hovering over us...

Seductively closer, covering us in darkness...to BOAG’S DEEP GROAN OF PLEASURE, DISSOLVING TO:

INT. HACIENDA BEDROOM - NIGHT

Two naked figures on a canopied bed, faint in the window moonlight, as if the dream is continuing...

Carmen mounts Boag, her raven hair flowing, hands wandering over his muscled torso. She touches scars all over his body...knife wounds, bullet scabs, marks from whippings.

Boag caresses her curves, in awe of this dream. Feverish with passion, but Carmen gentles the stallion. Then rides him at a slow, leisurely gait.

Crippled as he is, Boag responds in kind. Finding heaven.

SAME SCENE - SUNRISE

The pale rays of dawn filter in from a window.

Boag arouses from the deepest sleep of his life...reacts to the softness of the plush bed, its otherworldly feel. He must still be dreaming. Then looks over at:

The naked, sleeping señora beside him, half covered in satin sheets. He glances down at his bandaged leg, the bloodied swathe soiling the sheets. Scans the dark bedroom:

63.

A mirrored dresser. Family wall portraits. Delicately embroidered Spanish fans. A feminine decor.

BOAGGawdawmighty.

Carmen awakens, stretching drowsily.

CARMENSalud y amor.

Boag nods back, trying to make sense of all this.

BOAGMornin’. Is this your room?

(to her nod)Uh-huh. How’s your husband?

CARMENVery bad. He cannot leave his bed.

BOAGUh-huh. How am I?

CARMENBetter. You should have been dead.

BOAGUh-huh. How come I feel so good?

CARMENI have my ways.

BOAGIt ain’t that. I’m all busted up, but...there’s no pain. Nada.

Carmen nods at the violet vial on the dresser.

CARMENDon Pablo’s laudanum. It has made you more...

(a sexy smile)...available.

BOAGI’ll be damned. I could get to like that stuff...

(smiles back)And other things.

They kiss, teasingly at first, then deeply. Boag breaks it.

64.

BOAG (CONT’D)I don’t remember much. How was I?

CARMENFantastico. But...you also stink.

INT. CARMEN’S BATHROOM - DAY

Luxurious by Old West standards. Boag sits in a steaming tub, resting his bandaged leg over the rim. Carmen sponges his back, noticing more whipping scars. Boag shifts.

CARMENDo not let the wound get wet.

BOAGYes ma’am. A man could get used to this.

CARMENYour scars. You were a slave once?

BOAGOnce to the plantation. Twice to the United States Army.

CARMENMy family sold me to a whorehouse madam for twenty pesos, for food. Pablo saved me...but he doesn’t own me. I could run away if I wish.

BOAGWhy d’you stay?

CARMENHe needs looking after. But he has never forced me to do anything.

BOAGMebbe he cares about ya.

CARMENHe has never said it.

BOAGMen don’t like to. Neither do I.

CARMENYou are so tough, Señor. Like this body of yours.

65.

BOAGIt’s that black hide. The cavalry called us Buffalo Soldiers ‘cause we look like them big dumb beasts.

(a hard beat)I’m done soldierin’, takin’ orders, killin’ Injuns who just wanted to be free. I’m a free man now. Free to kill any sumbitch I want.

A wave of restlessness. He struggles to get out of the tub, with difficulty. The pain returns, anger with it.

BOAG (CONT’D)Apaches never did me no wrong. But Jed Pickett did...

Carmen helps him sit on the rim, the two face to face.

BOAG (CONT’D)He killed my only friend, Carmen. But he didn’t kill me. That was his biggest mistake.

Carmen towels him down, shaking her head ruefully.

CARMENBig bad black Boag. Making war on the whole world. It will not bring your friend back.

BOAGNo ma’am...but it’ll bring me back.

CARMENYour guns then, is that what keeps you a free man? Running free to stay ahead of the bullets?

BOAGI don’t get your meanin’.

CARMENYou are still a slave -- to your pride. For that you will only die.

Boag rises painfully and stands on two legs for the first time. Naked before her.

BOAGSome things are worth dyin’ for.

66.

CARMENIs there nothing else?

She draws close, her fiery eyes challenging him.

CARMEN (CONT’D)Nothing to live for? Something to dream for perhaps? Eh?

BOAGI reckon so. But that was a lot of miles ago.

CARMENLike what? Name one thing.

BOAGFindin’ some quiet place in the world...findin’ a home.

Their eyes meet, a natural intimacy between them that makes Boag uneasy. He look away.

BOAG (CONT’D)All that’s outta my reach now.


Propped up in bed before a window, Don Pablo gazes out over a green pasture. His face ashen, an aristocrat aged by the ravages of disease. Miguel holds a bedside vigil.

Boag approaches with a steady limp, dressed. He glances back at Carmen by the door. She retreats out of sight.

An awkward beat for Boag. Not for Don Pablo, who smiles.

DON PABLOThe robins have mated early this year, I see.

Boag reacts to that. The don nods at a nest outside the window, BIRDS CHIRPING.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)How I miss the sounds of my bulls in the pasture...

A retching cough seizes him, deep in the lungs. Miguel fetches a vial and feeds him a sip, settling him.

67.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)A ranch with no cattle is a sad affair, don’t you think?

Boag nods, uncomfortable.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)Your Capitan thinks highly of you. He left a horse for you.

BOAGHe’s a good man. So are you, sir. I don’t mean to be a burden. I had no other place to go.

DON PABLODe nada. I am glad you came back. So is Carmen. Now she can look after two sick men.

He laughs ironically over that, ending in a coughing jag.

BOAGYou won’t be glad if the ruralescome lookin’ for me.

DON PABLOThey will not look here. They are too busy terrorizing peasants.

BOAGJust the same, I oughta be goin’. I owe you a favor, Don Pablo. I’ll see about the money that sack o’ shit stole from ya.

DON PABLOToo late for that. Tell me, Señor: are you not afraid?

BOAGI was once...swimmin’ for my life, gettin’ shot at for sport. No man has a right to do that to another. No sir, I ain’t scared. I hate bein’ scared.

DON PABLOAh. So much that you have to keep proving that you are not scared?

Disturbed by that, Boag turns to leave -- Don Pablo grips his arm desperately.

68.

DON PABLO (CONT’D)Amigo. Take care of Carmen when I pass on. Then your favor to me is paid. Por favor.

BOAGI can’t promise you that.

DON PABLOYou must. She should not have to lose both her men.

A steady gaze in his sickly eyes. Boag stares intensely back. Confused and torn inside.

EXT. HACIENDA RANCH - DAY

Boag squats on raised ground before the ranch, a bridled horse nearby with a packed saddle. He gazes around:

Rich grazing land. But no cattle. Empty corrals.

His gaze falls on the casa grande: Carmen emerges onto a veranda, staring out. A beautiful, lonely vision.

They lock eyes from afar. Boag watches her a long time, deeply conflicted. Then...

He rises and limps to the horse. Struggles painfully onto the saddle. Then rides away. He doesn’t look back.

Carmen watches him all the way.

EXT. YAQUI RIVER - DAY

A railroad track borders a snaking river. Very far away, a CHUGGING locomotive belches black puffs. The train approaches a distant river bridge. WE PULL BACK ON:

Rebel pistoleros and peasant riflemen, lining a hill ridge along the tracks, hiding behind rocks. Waiting tensely.

McQuade watches the train through a spyglass. He’s startled by a presence behind him--

Boag on his horse, watching from a close, low ridge.

CAPT. MCQUADEJeezus, Boag! You’re like a ghost.

Boag tips his hat. McQuade steps over, glad to see him.

69.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)Get off that horse and join us.

BOAGI’ll stay in the saddle, if you don’t mind.

CAPT. MCQUADEHow’s that leg?

BOAGHurts some, but the scab’s tight.

(peers at train)Where are you gonna hit her? That bridge is too far.

CAPT. MCQUADEThey would be expecting the bridge. We’ll surprise ‘em right here.

He nods at the tracks: a load of concealed dynamite under a rail, threaded to a manned plunger on the hilltop.

Nearby, a mounted ten-barrel Gatling gun.

Boag eyes the Gatling with interest.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)If I had you, I wouldn’t need that blast plunger. Like our regiment motto, eh? ”Ready, fire, forward.”

Boag smiles, sharing the memory. Then shakes his head.

BOAGThis ain’t my fight. You hear of any rawhiders hereabouts?

CAPT. MCQUADEDammit all, Boag. You’re bitin’ off more than ten men can chew.

BOAGJust askin’, sir.

The distant train CHUGS across the bridge, drawing closer. Both men stare at it. McQuade turns to him.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou were the best demolition man I had. I don’t wanna see you dead, I want you alive -- in my army.

70.

Boag says nothing, unswerved by his words. Exasperated, McQuade marches over to a rebel peasant. A QUICK EXCHANGE IN SPANISH. He marches back.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)Tres Osos, due south, about a half day from here. You’ll find a couple of ‘em there.

BOAGMuch obliged.

He gigs his horse and rides south along the ridge.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou got no munitions to fight ‘em with, soldier. You got no army -- ya got nothing, ya dumb jackass!

Boag keeps riding. The pistoleros crowd toward McQuade, growing concerned. The train is coming in fast.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)I’m the only goddamn army you got!

He whips around and barks them back into position.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)Andale, muchachos! VAYATE!

EXT. HIGHER RIDGE - DAY

Climbing over a peak, Boag turns to a DISTANT EXPLOSION. He reins about, watching keenly from his saddle:

Far below, a mushroom of smoke over the pulverized tracks. The train SQUEALS to a halt. Federales atop armored cars FIRE at the hill -- greeted by an ONSLAUGHT of bullets.

The rebels’ spinning Gatling gun SPUTTERS -- RAT-TAT-TAT! Soldiers convulse in a dance of death. MATCH-CUT TO:

EXT. TRES OSOS - DAY

A spinning fireworks pinwheel SPUTTERS and spews sparks. PULL BACK TO REVEAL:

A NOISY Spanish wedding fiesta in an adobe-walled plaza. POPPING FIRECRACKERS, BLARING MARIACHI HORNS, villagers dancing around a mestizo bride and groom.

71.

EDGE OF TOWN

Boag rides in and circles a livery corral of horses and burros, FIESTA MUSIC in b.g. He pulls up before two horses by the fence, with a distinctive brand on their flanks:

Don Pablo’s “P” within a circle. One horse has a Mexican saddle, the same one from San Ignacio.

His jaw set, Boag trots toward the...

TOWN PLAZA

Amidst the festivities, two disreputable-looking cowboys:

Gutierrez and Jackson, the ex-Confederate’s arm bandaged from Boag’s bullet. The Sonoran celebrates, sucking on a jug. Jackson looks bored and restless. His eyes catch:

Boag beyond the fiesta crowd. Very still atop his horse, seemingly unarmed, watching them with cool eyes.

The rawhider nudges Gutierrez, who follows his look. He reacts, wide-eyed with amazement.

Boag calmly steers aside and disappears down an alley.

Gutierrez checks the chambers of his side Colts. Jackson picks up a Winchester. They wend through the dancing and fireworks, toward...

ADOBE-WALLED ALLEY

Narrow and muddy. The two rawhiders creep forward, their guns pointed ahead. Nothing ahead but a canteen distillery. A brewing shack’s door CREAKS, half open.

Gutierrez and Jackson edge closer to it, ready to fire...

Boag’s horse charges fast from behind -- knocking both down into the mud! Trampled under its hooves, the two scramble clear. Jackson struggles up, aiming his Winchester--

A Spanish percussion rifle ERUPTS from Boag’s saddle -- Jackson’s good arm shatters! He’s slammed against a wall, his rifle flying off.

Gutierrez draws a Colt -- a spurred boot kicks him in the face -- sends him sprawling, his gun falling away.

Jackson’s bad arm reaches for his holstered gun -- Boag FIRES into his bandages! Jackson SHRIEKS in agony.

72.

PLAZA

FIRECRACKERS POP, drowning out the gunfire.

ALLEY

Gutierrez squirms in the mud, too kicked-drunk to fight.

Against the wall, both his arms shot up, Jackson glowers spitefully at Boag towering from the saddle.

JACKSONG’won, nigger boy -- finish it!

BOAGBleed to death, ya dirty white gutter trash.

With trembling effort, Jackson’s bloodied hand inches toward his sidearm...

JACKSONYou ain’t got the guts! All yelluh under that black skin...

BOAGDon’t do it.

Crazed, Jackson wrenches out the gun -- BLAM! His head flattens against the wall, a BULLET HOLE between his eyes. He slides down and expires. Boag dismounts.

Gutierrez, lying on his back, yanks out his second Colt -- a boot crushes his arm into the mud.

Boag plucks up the Colt, admiring its pearl handle. Then he ties Gutierrez’ hands tight behind his back with rope.

GUTIERREZYou going to kill me too, gringo?

BOAGNot yet. We’re gonna have a little pow wow. Away from here.

GUTIERREZYou talk to me right here, hey?

Boag picks up the other Colt and Jackson’s Winchester and saddle-packs them. He hoists a bound Gutierrez to his feet and rips off the Sonoran’s bandanna.

73.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)Señor, por favor -- this is my sister’s wedding. You wish to ruin this fine occasion for me?

BOAGYou got a nasty habit of lyin’.

GUTIERREZYou want to talk, let’s talk--

BOAGWhen I tell you to.

GUTIERREZYou stinking pendejo--

Boag stuffs the bandanna into his mouth, gagging him. He hauls him up across the saddle and mounts up behind him, his every movement a stiff ordeal. Then rides down the alley, leaving behind a dead rawhider.

EXT. WOODED CREEK - DAY

An isolated alcove shrouded in pine trees, with a shallow running creek. Boag dismounts at the water’s edge. He drags a hogtied Gutierrez off the saddle. Plunks him down hard on the shore. Wrenches off his gunbelt and bandolier.

GUTIERREZWhat are you doing?...

Boag strips him down -- tearing the shirt off his back, yanking off his boots and trousers. Gutierrez struggles feebly, barefoot and wearing nothing but longjohns.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)You are a brave man, Señor Boag...

BOAGSergeant Boag to you.

GUTIERREZLeave an unarmed man to die with nothing, hey? So brave of you...

BOAGI’ll give ya a better chance ‘n you gave those Mexicans ya gunned down.

(grips him hard)Or my pardner ya shot to hell in that river.

74.

GUTIERREZThat was not me, El Sergento. I did not shoot your friend.

BOAGTime to start talkin’, Gutierrez. First, you’re gon’ tell me how to find Jed Pickett...

GUTIERREZChingue tu madre!

BOAGAfter that, you’re gon’ tell me how to find your stashed gold.

GUTIERREZWhat gold? I don’t have any gold.

BOAGI didn’t hear ya.

GUTIERREZ(spits at him)

Kiss my brown ass, fucking negro!

BOAGIs that a “no”?

GUTIERREZSi!

Boag drags him across the ground behind his horse...to a pile of fresh horse dung. He shoves Gutierrez’ face deep into a steaming patty. Yanks his head up.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)Mierda!...

BOAGNo shit. Talk to me.

Gutierrez gags and wretches, his face covered in excrement.

BOAG (CONT’D)No, wait. Lemme clean you up...

He drags him back with a surge of vengeful energy -- into the shallow creek. Shoves his face down into the water. Gutierrez wriggles. Boag holds him down. Yanks him up.

BOAG (CONT’D)Where’s Pickett?!

75.

Gutierrez gasps, heaving for breath. Boag doesn’t wait for an answer -- shoves him back underwater. For a long time...

Wrenches him up, Gutierrez snorting and spouting water.

GUTIERREZI can’t...he will kill me!...

BOAGThen I’ll kill you--

Down Gutierrez goes, Boag bracing him underwater, until bubbles stream up. He yanks him back up. Gutierrez gulps air -- Boag plunges his head down again. Yanks him up.

GUTIERREZBasta!...I tell you!...

Boag holds him poised over the water with his head skewed back. Gutierrez coughs and catches his breath. Boag waits. Gutierrez wheezes it out:

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)Santa Cruz, south of Coronado... old silver mine on a mountaintop... built like a fort...

BOAGWhere’s all them gold bricks?

GUTIERREZThere...in a vault. We bring up the rest...in separate hauls...

BOAGWhen?

GUTIERREZTwo days from now...

Boag releases him. The Sonoran collapses in the shallows, CURSING SPANISH, regretting his weakness.

BOAGI ain’t greedy, Gutierrez. I just want my share of the gold. Yourgold.

GUTIERREZConio carajo! I told you what I know! I told you everything--

76.

BOAGWhere is it?

GUTIERREZI don’t know! Only Jackson knows, but you killed him--

BOAGYou’re lyin’ again.

He shoves him underwater, all his weight on top of him. Gutierrez bucks and splashes. Drowning. Boag keeps him immersed, shaking his head over him.

BOAG (CONT’D)You ain’t even worth drownin’.

He jerks up a gagging Gutierrez, booming into his face:

BOAG (CONT’D)WHERE IS IT?! You want more? I can do this ALL DAY!

Gulping air, Gutierrez gapes up at him. He believes him.

EXT. DESERTED CAMPSITE - EVENING

Hidden in boulders, the ash remains of a campfire. Two pack mules graze nearby. Alone by his horse, Boag takes in the scene. Then spots an odd-shaped boulder in the thickets.

He crosses to a pile of stacked rocks at the base of it. Kneeling down despite an aching leg, he pulls them off and paws the soft ground. Digs a deep hole...

Until he unearths two buried gunny sacks. He drags one out, so heavy he can barely lift it. Opens it to find:

Six gold ingots, those shiny bars from Hardyville.

BOAGI’ll be damned...

JOHN’S VOICEHe didn’t lie to ya this time.

A faint figure in the dusk, John B. sits atop the boulder.

JOHN B.How much in the other one?

Boag hauls it out with pained effort and checks the contents.

77.

BOAGSix gold bars. That’s twelve total. Twenty-five hunnerd each.

JOHN B.About...thirty thousand. Well now. Ya satisfied with that?

Boag drags them to his horse. He starts to empty them, hefting ingots into the saddle bag.

JOHN B. (CONT’D)You got our share, plus a ton of interest. It’s time to quit.

Not answering, Boag transfers gold bars at a feverish pace.

JOHN B. (CONT’D)Don’t push your luck, Boag. Quit now, ya hear me?

Boag hears him. But he’s not listening.

EXT. WOODED CREEK - NIGHT

Gutierrez hangs miserably by his tied hands from a branch, bound and gagged. A knife cuts him down. Boag props him up on the ground, slashes his leg binds and removes his gag.

GUTIERREZQue puta! You black coward!

BOAGYeah, it’s easy to be a tough hombre when you’re in a big gang...

He hoists him to his feet and cuts his wrist lashings.

BOAG (CONT’D)But you don’t look so tough now.

He shoves him to the pack mule and gestures him to mount up. Gutierrez sees the bulging saddles on Boag’s horse and shoots him a rancorous glare. He swings up onto the mule.

Boag hard-eyes him with a deadly gaze.

BOAG (CONT’D)Go back to your boss, Gutierrez. Tell Jed Pickett that I’m comin’ for him. And tell him I’ll have company with me.

78.

He slaps the mule forward. Gutierrez jounces off, shouting back as he dwindles into the moonlight.

GUTIERREZHijo de puta! I will see you soon, gringo! Hey -- I enjoyed killing your BLACK AMIGO!

Boag stiffens, itching to go after him. He restrains the impulse, watching him recede into the night.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)But I’ll enjoy even more killing YOU!

EXT. YAQUI RIVER FALLS - DAY

A waterfall plunges down a deep gorge. Near the bottom, a cluster of giant boulders, obscured by roiling mists.

BOULDERS

Boag hunkers over a tide pool, wet from the spray of the ROARING falls. He piles rocks over his cache of gold bars at the bottom of the pool, burying them out of sight.

One gold ingot lies nearby. Boag picks it up and emerges from the mists toward his horse by the shore. He stashes the bar into his saddle bag.

EXT. YAQUI RIVER FOOTHILLS - DAY

Boag rides a ridge trail, wearing Gutierrez’ crossbelt of Colts and his bandolier, Jackson’s Winchester across his saddlebow. He tracks a heavy swath of hoofprints.

Far below, a vast Yaqui River valley. His eyes sweep the expanse in a steady arc. Stop on a rise of dust...

The flutter of distant movement, a long column of riders.

EXT. RIVERSIDE REBEL CAMP - EVENING

Boag sits on an outcrop, redressing his leg wound, eying:

A sizable encampment by the river, campfires aglow in the dwindling sunset. McQuade’s rebel army. A cluster of uncovered wagons at its perimeter.

Boag watches the sun go down. Waiting.

79.

EXT. CAMP WAGON OUTPOST - NIGHT

Boag creeps along the camp outskirts in darkness. In the distant campfire light, REBEL SOLDIERS cavort in drunken revelry. Boag makes his way toward...

The munitions wagons. TWO SENTRIES hog a jug at a guard post, BABBLING SPANISH, eying the party with envy.

Boag skirts around them and steals his way to an open wagon. He peers over at its crates of stacked carbines, its piles of ammunition boxes.

Drawn to a buckboard, he gazes long at the Gatling guninside, mounted on a swivel tripod. Beside it, a dozen kegs of blasting powder. Enough dynamite to blow up a city.

CAPTAIN’S VOICEYou again.

McQuade appears behind him, eying him with snide humor.

The Sentries spin around off guard, wielding their rifles.

CAPT. MCQUADESpying for the rurales, are ya now?

Easy smiles between them. He waves off the men, DISMISSING them in SPANISH. They hurry off to join the camp party.

The two are alone. Boag regards McQuade, his buckskins dusty and faded, the fringes worn off. A battle-weary mercenary.

BOAGSome bunch ya got there. They didn’t even see me comin’.

CAPT. MCQUADEI gotta kick their asses every hour. So, what are ya doin’ here?

BOAGJust lookin’ over your ordnance, Cap’n. Quite a load of trinkets.

CAPT. MCQUADESpoils of war. We’re gonna finish off Pesqueira and his thugs once and for all.

BOAGTakin’ on the whole Sonoran army?

80.

CAPT. MCQUADEWe’re outnumbered...just like you. But we got the peasants behind us.

Boag nods, fixed on the Gatling gun. McQuade steps over.

CAPT. MCQUADE (CONT’D)How ‘bout you, Sergeant? Still in a sweat to get yourself killed?

BOAGI know where Pickett’s holed up. I could sure as hell use your help.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou got your war, Boag, I got mine.

BOAGYa got a few things I could use.

CAPT. MCQUADELike what?

BOAGA dozen carbines, a shotgun, ammo. Some heavy wire. Some of them kegs of blastin’ powder...

(nods at Gatling gun)That.

The Captain chuckles, shaking his head.

CAPT. MCQUADEWe’re going into battle soon, boy. I can’t spare a bullet.

Boag draws close to him, his eyes intense.

BOAGJed Pickett is backin’ Pesqueira, sir, you know that. If he’s dead, that helps your cause. We could take down Pickett together.

CAPT. MCQUADENo, but we can take down the Governor, then Pickett’s out of business. That’s how you get rid of scum, Boag. The smart way.

BOAGMaybe so. But it ain’t my way.

81.

CAPT. MCQUADEThen you’re alone. Out there like Custer. It gravels me to see a good man die for nothing.

Boag levels dead eyes on him.

BOAGI’ll pay you in gold for the guns. Just a loan. You’ll get ‘em back and you can keep the gold.

CAPT. MCQUADECan’t do that. I’m sorry.

BOAGI’m sorry too, sir...

McQuade stiffens to a Colt barrel in his gut. Boag COCKS it.

BOAG (CONT’D)I’m gon’ have to borrow ‘em anyway.

The Captain edges back, amazed by him.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou’ve got some gall, trooper. You think you can just waltz out of here--

BOAGNo sir -- we will. After we load up that buckboard.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou’re surrounded by a hundred men.

BOAGThey won’t even know we’re gone.

He plucks out McQuade’s holster gun and tosses it, his Colt trained on him. McQuade narrows his eyes on him.

CAPT. MCQUADEBoag, I thought we were friends.

BOAGSome other time, I’ll apologize.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou won’t shoot me.

82.

BOAGIf you hear a loud noise, Cap’n, that’ll be you dyin’.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou’d betray my trust, Sergeant? Your own commander?

BOAGI got no commander. Sir. Just me. We’ll start with those rifles.

EXT. SIERRA MADRE ROAD - NIGHT

The buckboard trundles through the moonlight on a wooded road, the flicker of campfires far behind.

McQuade drives its horses. Boag sits beside him, the Colt in his lap.

In the wagon rear, the Gatling gun, powder kegs and a shitload of armory. Boag’s horse trails behind, tied to the tailboard.

The Captain glances aside with mild scorn, eying the Colt.

CAPT. MCQUADEPut away that peashooter.

Boag holsters it, coping with his nagging guilt. He glances back at the camp lights.

BOAGI’ll drop you off soon.

CAPT. MCQUADEHell of a bad trick to play on the man who saved your life.

BOAGI swear to ya, McQuade. If I had any other way, I’d do it.

CAPT. MCQUADEDon’t expect me to forgive you... but I sort of understand.

(beat)You remember Rattlesnake Springs?

BOAGThe Apache renegades?

83.

CAPT. MCQUADEWe had them running, ready to quit. But you wouldn’t let up on ‘em...

(looks at him)You’re a different breed, Boag. And I don’t mean your color.

BOAGYou’d best get off here.

McQuade reins the wagon to a halt and jumps off.

Boag pulls something heavy out of his pocket. He drops it onto the ground at McQuade’s feet, with a THUD...

The gold bar, casting the moon’s glint. McQuade gawks at it.

CAPT. MCQUADEIs that real?

BOAGThat’s for the artillery.

CAPT. MCQUADEIf I lose my war, Boag, it’ll be on your shoulders.

Boag nods, his guilt deepening. He takes the reins.

BOAGDon’t try to follow my tracks. You ain’t good enough.

CAPT. MCQUADEYou better sleep with both eyes open, boy. You’re not long for this world.

BOAGSo long, then.

He gigs the wagon horses and moves on, calling back:

BOAG (CONT’D)Good luck in your war, Cap’n!

McQuade watches him fade into the night. Under his breath:

CAPT. MCQUADEYou too, Boag. You too.

84.

EXT. SANTA CRUZ ROAD - DAWN

First light over a roadside village. PEASANTS emerge to the RATTLE of wagon wheels. They line the road to behold:

A big black man driving a wagon past, silhouetted against the dawn. An imposing figure, the Gatling gun behind him.

Villagers watch silently. A bold PEASANT GIRL steps out, her fiery eyes like Carmen’s. She raises a fist and shouts:

PEASANT GIRLViva el guerrero negro!

Boag glances back at her. A pretty sight. He rides on, his eyes groggy from all-night travel and no sleep.

EXT. SANTA CRUZ MINING MOUNTAIN - EARLY MORNING

VIEWED from below, a high tabletop mesa. WE PAN UP its sheer, pine-forested slopes. A steep road winds up to a silver mine at the top...

A cavalry-styled fortress of high logged walls, lined with gunports. No access to it but the road. Impregnable.

EXT. MINING ROAD - EARLY MORNING

Boag gazes up from a roadside on his horse, the low sun to his back. His eyes fix on the mountaintop, re-energized with hard purpose. He looks back at:

A long stretch of narrow road carved out of a dry creek bed, bordered by rain-washed limestone walls.

At the far end, a sharp bend in the road.

Boag rides back slow along the road, studying the vertical cliffs on each side:

Twenty feet straight up to the ridges above. Tangles of pine roots jut out from walls on both sides. A treacherous pass to travel through.

He turns into the road’s bend and stops, pondering:

Fifty feet of canyon road. A raised limestone bank commands a full view, high enough to be unseen from the road.

85.

A fallen tree slants up to it like a natural ladder, with branch footholds.

Across the road sits a patch of thick woods, the munitions wagon hidden in a tree clearing.

Boag scans the area, satisfied. He glances up at the grey, overcast sky and sniffs the air. A storm coming.

FAST MONTAGE

Boag climbs a limestone wall with a coil of wire, hanging onto pine roots. He ties one end of wire to a root...

On the opposite wall, he fastens the other end to a root and pulls the wire taut across the roadway...

A half-dozen wires stretch across the cliff road. One set at saddle level, another set at foot level. Barely seen, they crisscross the road like a spiderweb. Tripwires.

Boag tests a wire’s tightness, plucking it. TWANG!

Atop a cliff ridge. He plants a powderkeg by an overhang. Fixes a fulminated-mercury detonating cap onto it, then wedges a piece of red cloth on top of that...a target, just like on the Arizona bluff long ago.

Above the opposite cliff, he sets another dynamite charge. Stops to rest his hurting leg, gazing around:

Bits of red-flagged caps, strung along both clifftops.

On the canyon road. Boag buries a coffee-can explosive in the ground like a mine, at the bottom of the limestone bank. A tiny red flag juts above the gravel.

By the mountain road. He splashes kerosene over a tree trunk at the foot of the mesa. Sets the inflammable jug snug against the doused tree...with a red-flagged cap.

Canyon road woods. A dozen carbines tied high on trees, aimed at the cliff road. Each rifle wired from its trigger around a tree trunk and back across the road to...

LIMESTONE BANK

Atop the bank, Boag tightens the last wire, all of them draped high like telegraph lines.

The Gatling gun perches on its tripod, loaded and aimed out. Boag secures the trigger wires from the decoy tree rifles to its base.

86.

On a higher boulder, he tests the Winchester from a prone shooting position. Aims the barrel sight at the cliffs around the bend, panning between each red dot.

JOHN’S VOICEWhy are ya doin’ all this?

John B. squats on an outcrop, still in his bloodied attire. Boag stays focused on the cliffs.

BOAGNot thinkin’ about why. Just how.

JOHN B.Yeah, I reckon so.

He looks down at the artillery lying around Boag: handmade grenades crafted from gunpowder pouches...a carbine...two revolvers...a sawed-off shotgun. All primed and cocked.

JOHN B. (CONT’D)So if you can’t go up after him...

BOAGI’ll make him come down to me. The rest of ‘em should be due soon.

He glances back toward the next bend of the incoming road.

JOHN B.I never figured you’d get this far. I’m sorry I got ya into this mess, brothuh. I’m sorry I got shot.

Boag looks up and gives him a farewell nod.

BOAGGo rest in peace, John boy. I’ll be seein’ ya soon.

He stares high at the towering fortress, then glances back:

His old friend is gone.

EXT. SILVER MINE FORT - MORNING

High on log ramparts, RAWHIDER SENTRIES scan the wide vista. The cliff and canyon road unseen from here.

Below them, a guarded gateway. The fort compound surrounds a mine shaft converted into a rich man’s headquarters. Inside, the vault sits locked up.

87.

Armed men everywhere, vigilant, loaded for bear. Thirty in all. Ben Stryker sharpens his Bowie knife, watching:

Jed Pickett, whacking Gutierrez with his Stetson hat.

PICKETTQue estupido! You’d let some nigger make a goddamn fool of ya?! What’d you tell him?

GUTIERREZNothing, Señor! Nada!

PICKETTAnd you let ‘im steal my gold?

Gutierrez, wearing new gear, stews in humiliation. Pickett turns away in disgust and addresses Stryker.

PICKETT (CONT’D)What about the rest of the boys? Are they comin’ on time?

STRYKERLast I heard. But there’s rebels all over the dang place.

Pickett reacts, uneasy. He turns back on Gutierrez.

PICKETTWhat else did that nigger say?

GUTIERREZHe’s coming here, with company.

PICKETTWhat the fuck does that mean?

GUTIERREZHe didn’t say.

Pickett paces, on a slow rampage.

PICKETTFuckin’ Buffalo Soldiers. Fuckin’ Tenth Cavalry -- weren’t for them takin’ our Injun scalps, I wouldn’t been forced into a life of crime.

Stryker snickers at that. Pickett wheels around.

PICKETT (CONT’D)What’s so goddamned funny?

88.

STRYKERNuthin’, sir. Just that...you’re richer than the Gov’ner of Sonora.

PICKETTAnd where’s he? Where’s his backup troops? Acres of land for pennies on the peso -- a whole goddamned empire -- and I’m stuck up here!

STRYKERThen let’s move out.

PICKETTWe can’t move out with all this gold -- not without those troops!

STRYKERThey ain’t comin’, Jed. Pesqueira is using ‘em to fight them rebels.

(leans into him)That nigger soldier might even have some rebs on his side...mebbe a whole “company” of ‘em.

Pickett digests that, his paranoia in high gear.

PICKETTLike a rebel army? You think it’s that Yankee mercenary? McQuade?

STRYKERMebbe.

Pickett kicks the dirt, ready to bust a gut.

PICKETTWell, SHIT!

EXT. SIERRA MADRE ROAD - MORNING

TWO TEXAS RAWHIDERS ride hard down a road, pulling a pack horse laden with fat saddlebags. They stare warily at:

A few horse-mounted REBEL BANDITOS on a hillside, watching them...joined by a HUNDRED PISTOLEROS.

On the hilltop, McQuade joins his army and gazes down at the Texas riders hastening their gait. Beside him, Mexican faces eye the pack horse greedily.

89.

McQuade gauges the Rawhiders’ direction toward the Santa Cruz mountains. He shakes his head.

CAPT. MCQUADELet ‘em go. They belong to someone else.

(shouts to all)Let’s ride! Vayate!

His regiment gallops off in plumes of dust.

EXT. MINING ROAD, CANYON SIDE - DAY

High noon over Boag’s canyon trap. Cloudy skies, drifting thunderheads on the horizon.

Boag sits alone on the limestone bank beside the Gatling gun, sweltering in the humid heat. Exhausted, nodding off...

FAINT HOOFBEATS arouse him. He jerks up, alert.

The two Texas Rawhiders trot into view, dragging the pack horse down the canyon road.

Boag scoots low, his Winchester ready, watching them:

They pass under him, moving on through the cliff pass.

Boag waits a beat, then hastens down the fallen-tree ladder at a half limp.

CLIFF ROAD

The Texans see the mountain road, almost home. They pick up into a canter, riding faster...

Both hit the first tripwire across their chests -- topple backwards off the saddles.

Their freaked horses stumble over the low wires and fall.

The two dazed men start to stagger up, then freeze to--

A COCKED Winchester barrel, pointed close at their faces.

TEXAS RAWHIDERWhat the fuck?!

BOAGDon’t get no notions, boys.

90.

The Texan goes for his gun -- Boag WHACKS the rifle butt across his head, knocking him out cold. To the other one:

BOAG (CONT’D)You want some, too?

Barrel aimed between him eyes. The man shakes his head vehemently.

BOAG (CONT’D)Lose that gunbelt and drag your buddy back to that yonder road.

The man disarms himself and hauls his unconscious partner toward the canyon road, Boag’s rifle tight on his back.

EXT. CABORCA HACIENDA - DAY

Miles away, the casa grande towers over its empty grazing land. Quiet as a cemetery.


Don Pablo Ortiz lies inert in his bed, a pale skeleton of a man. Carmen and Miguel hold a silent bedside vigil, praying for his soul. The end is near.

EXT. CANYON ROAD - DAY

The second bunch arrives. FOUR ALABAMA RAWHIDERS, two pack mules in tow with bulging saddlebags. They ride in at a spirited pace, one of them SINGING DIXIE.

High on his perch, Boag curls a disgusted lip at the SONG.

Below, the foursome rounds the bend onto the...

CLIFF ROAD

They lay eyes on the mountain fort. YAHOOING, they break forward into a gallop...

Right into the chest-high tripwires -- TWANG, SNAP! One set of wires breaks under the force.

A chaos of tumbling bodies, slamming into the dirt. Horses prance in panic, trampling their riders. The men scramble clear and rise, only to face:

Boag’s Winchester, drawing a bead on them from the bend.

91.

BOAGFreeze those butts!

The four Alabamans blink at him in bafflement.

ALABAMA RAWHIDER 1Sheeeeit! It’s him!

ALABAMA RAWHIDER 2Who?

ALABAMA RAWHIDER 1That nigger!

He reaches toward his holster -- Boag tightens his aim.

BOAGDon’t fight the drop, boy. You know better than that. Hands up.

ALABAMA RAWHIDER 1Hell you say...

He fast-draws his gun. KABLAM -- Boag’s bullet flies him back off his feet! Dead before he hits the ground.

The others shoot their hands high.

EXT. SILVER MINE FORT - DAY

The DISTANT GUNSHOT ECHOES up the mountain. Sentries peer down at the sound, their view blocked by pine trees.

Pickett and Stryker bolt up the rampart steps and stare down over the parapet.

PICKETTWhat the hell was that?

The Sentries shrug. Pickett’s nerves jangle with anxiety.

STRYKERWe better go down there and see.

PICKETTWe stay put. Wait for our boys.

Stryker hard-eyes the boss, smelling his fear.

STRYKERThat might be our boys, in trouble with some rebs. We gotta go--

92.

PICKETTI said we STAY PUT!

Bellowing, his tough voice hiding his mortal dread.

EXT. CANYON ROAD WOODS - DAY

Five riders, the Texans and Alabamans, dangle from tree branches, lashed up by their wrists. Wriggling furiously, MUFFLING CURSES through their mouth gags.

Nearby are their pack horses and mules, bridled by the wagon. Twelve saddle bags on the ground.

Boag digs out gold bars from the last bag, adding them to a loose stack. A rich booty. He whistles low over them.

A sudden RUMBLE OF HOOVES spins him around to--

Six horses streaking past his hideout, riding fast toward the mountain.

In trouble, Boag shoulders his rifle and hobbles out fast.


WE TRACK WITH SIX MISSOURI RAWHIDERS, the worst kind of animals. Mean, unshaven faces. They head straight for the cliff road at a hard clip, hauling three pack horses...

And disappear around the bend. Boag half-runs-half-limps after them, hearing:

The SNAP of wires, NEIGHING of horses, THUMPS of fallen men, SHOUTING and CURSING. He turns the corner toward...

CLIFF ROAD

A scattered pile of downed Missourians and tripped horses, all the high wires lying slack. They rise in confusion.

MISSOURI RAWHIDER 1Sumbitch! What happened?...

MISSOURI RAWHIDER 2I dunno...

MISSOURI RAWHIDER 3Hey, lookee thar! Bunch o’ wires -- they’re all over the place!

93.

Boag stops at the bend, winded, drawing his two Colts.

BOAGFreeze!

The six men freeze instinctively, for about two seconds...

BOAG (CONT’D)I got twenty guns aimed at ya!

Not buying that, the Missourians quick-draw their weapons--

Boag’s Colts BLAZE -- BLASTING one, WINGING another.

The Rawhiders duck behind the fallen horses, FIRING BACK.

Boag retreats around the bend, BULLETS KICKING UP gravel behind him.

CANYON ROAD

He runs for the tree ladder, his bad leg pumping hard. He can’t make the climb in time. Ducks behind the tree.

The five men run around the bend and OPEN FIRE...

BULLETS SLAM INTO the slanted tree, bark chips flying. From his cover, Boag RAPID-FIRES both his Colts--

The wounded Rawhider flops dead. Another takes a BULLET in the throat and falls, his jugular spurting.

The last three bolt into the woods across the road.

Boag tosses his empty Colts and scampers up the tree ladder. SNIPER FIRE follows him up -- branch footholds SPLINTER.

LIMESTONE BANK

Boag reaches the Gatling perch, SHOTS PINGING around him. He lies low, catching his breath, his wounded hip inflamed.

The firing ceases. VOICES from the woods:

MISSOURI VOICESHey! Sumbitch hogtied some of our boys. Cut ‘em down, Sweeney!

Boag swivels the Gatling at the woods, trying to target any movement in the forest shadows. He can’t see a thing.

RUSTLING, a CHORUS OF YELLS from ungagged prisoners.

94.

TEXAN/ALABAMA VOICESHurry up!... Turn me loose!... I’m gon’ get that coon!

MISSOURI VOICELookit that! He’s got our GOLD!

Reacting to that, Boag cranks the Gatling’s rotating barrels and FIRES WILD into the woods! RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!...

HIGH-CALIBER BULLETS STRAFE the trees and CHOP foliage into salad! VOICES SCREAM in death.


On the rampart, Pickett reacts to MACHINE-GUN FIRE and the DISTANT OUTCRIES. Everyone tense around him.

PICKETTHoly Mother of God...

Gutierrez grimaces to the SOUNDS. Stryker bolts downstairs to the compound. Pickett turns.

PICKETT (CONT’D)What’re you doin’?!

Ignoring him, Stryker rounds up the whole crew.

STRYKERLet’s go, boys! Mount up!

Rawhiders rush to their horses. Sentries and guards join them, deserting Pickett. He ROARS at everyone:

PICKETTNobody goes down there! That’s an ORDER!

STRYKERThose rebels are killin’ our men. You comin’ or what?

PICKETTI won’t leave my gold unprotected.

STRYKERHell with you then.

Gutierrez turns for the stairs -- Pickett yanks him back.

95.

PICKETTNot you. You stay here -- I ain’t guardin’ that gold alone.

The Mexican fumes, itching for blood. Pickett grips his holstered pistol and glares him down. Gutierrez hangs back, frustrated, watching Stryker’s posse mount up.


WE PAN the fighting ground, smoke clearing: two corpses on the road, a third crawling, bleeding to death...riderless horses fleeing away...the wooded hideout shot to hell.

LIMESTONE BANK

Boag scans the shattered trees across the road with his Gatling gun, watching for survivors. Not a sound, not a movement in sight. A dead lull.

DISTANT THUNDER RUMBLES from above. Black thunderheads loom closer.

Boag regards them with a CURSE, his time running out. He grabs his Winchester and climbs to the higher boulder...

A SHOT RINGS OUT -- PUNCTURES his rear thigh! In the same leg. He collapses across the bouldertop, crying out...

BOAGAW SHIT!

Down below, a lone Missourian leaps from the woods with a .44-40 and scampers across the road toward him.

Boag plants his rifle onto flat rock, aiming downward...

The gunman FIRES as he runs, bearing down. A single SHOT stops him -- his skull RUPTURES! He’s down.

Boag jacks more cartridges into the rifle chamber. He strips off his shirt and wraps it tight around his bleeding thigh, gritting his teeth. A ritual we’ve seen before.

He can’t walk at all now. Trapped in his own trap.

A RUMBLING THUNDER, this time from the mountain road...

THIRTY RIDERS pour down in a cavalry charge, HOOVES shaking the earth -- Pickett’s entire army, Stryker in the lead.

96.

Boag crawls to the boulder’s edge, staring at their numbers. He lies prone on his good side and braces the Winchester. Aims with eerie deliberateness...

THROUGH RIFLE SIGHT

A steady bead on: the kerosene jug against the pine tree, close to the bottom of the mountain road. An INTAKE OF BREATH -- the sight jerks from the SHOT.

The jug EXPLODES INTO FLAMES, setting the tree on fire.

FAST INTERCUTS

The mounted army barrels onto the cliff road, unfazed by...

The burning pine igniting other trees behind them, flames spreading up the mountainside toward the fort.

The rawhiders spread out into three formidable ranks.

Boag shifts his aim to the far red flag on the left clifftop. He sucks in a breath. Squeezes the trigger--

KABOOM, the first powderkeg DETONATES! The cliffside erupts.

Boag pans fast to the right side. Aim, breath, squeeze--

A blasting charge EXPLODES, taking out the far right cliff!

An AVALANCHE of limestone THUNDERS DOWN from both sides...

OVER the gang’s rear rank -- BURYING a dozen horsemen!

The middle and front ranks steer clear, galloping faster, too swift for any low tripwires. None catch their hooves.

Boag zips his aim from flag to flag. FIRES, COCKS, FIRES--

KABOOM, KABOOM -- cliff sections TUMBLE DOWN in tandem!

Panicking riders burst forward to outrun TONS OF FALLING ROCKS, chased by multiple AVALANCHES...

KABOOM, KABOOM! Limestone walls DISINTEGRATE like the Red Sea flooding over chariots -- catching the center rank!

Ten men and horses disappear under MOUNTAINS OF DEBRIS!

Cumulous dust billows forward, obscuring the front rank in boiling clouds.

97.


The mountain fire creeps up as RUMBLES ECHO BELOW, reaching the fort’s log walls.

Alone at the gate, Gutierrez reacts to the fire closing in. He rushes across the compound to the mine shaft.

INT. MINE SHAFT - DAY

A desperate Pickett unloads gold bars from his vault safe into a wheelbarrow. Gutierrez hurries over.

GUTIERREZThe fort is burning! We must go down! We must fight!

PICKETTTo hell with that.

Gutierrez glares, seeing through him.

GUTIERREZYou talk big, Señor -- but without us, you are not so tough.

He unholsters his pistol and brandishes it at him.

GUTIERREZ (CONT’D)You are nothing! No cojones!

Pickett reacts to the pistol, in an appeasing tone:

PICKETTOkay, Gutierrez...we’ll go down. But you don’t want them rebels to get our gold, do ya?

Gutierrez wavers, considering that. He holsters his gun and helps him unload the gold.


Boag stops firing from his boulder perch, out of cliff targets. He peers down through the tumult of dust:

Stryker and seven rawhiders emerge out of the clouds, unscathed and riding hard.

98.

BOAGSonsabitches...

They spot Boag above and gallop around the bend, FIRING from their mounts.

BULLETS RICOCHET OFF the boulder! Boag cringes back.

Directly below him, Stryker’s men leap off their saddles. They BLAST AWAY, using their horses as shields, edging them toward Boag’s bank side.

Boag aims his Winchester. CLICK -- it’s empty. He tosses it, snatches up the carbine and aims down. It MISFIRES.

BOAG (CONT’D)Fuck!

Three firearms left. He grabs the revolvers and unleashes a two-handed VOLLEY.

Shot horses WHINNY and fall, exposing Stryker and his men. They race across the road toward the woods.

Boag slides down the boulder and thunks onto the limestone bank. Winces, the pain unbearable.

The eight rawhiders almost reach the treeline...

LIMESTONE BANK

Boag yanks the trigger wires, one after another -- tree rifles FIRE WILD from the thickets!

The gunmen drop to the roadside from the fake ambush. They FIRE BACK into the woods, trying to spot the snipers.

RAWHIDERWhere are they?! I can’t see ‘em!

Stryker’s keen eye glances toward the cliff road:

BULLETS SPOUT UP dirt, the “snipers” shooting in the wrong direction.

STRYKERHold your fire! Ain’t no rebels here -- that nigger’s alone.

He dashes back across toward Boag’s bank. His men follow, POPPING their six-shooters at the high boulder...

But Boag isn’t there.

99.

He’s down below, behind the Gatling gun. He wields the firing crank -- RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! -- RAKING the road with fiery vengeance.

An ONSLAUGHT of FIFTY-CALIBER FIRE STITCHES across the dirt, hitting five men at once -- RIPPING their bodies apart!

Stryker and the last two bolt out of sight below...

Blind with bloodlust, Boag keeps FIRING DOWN, tearing up gravel, forgetting the tiny red flag...

A bullet strikes the buried coffee-can charge -- BOOM!

FLYING ROCK SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the bank, just missing Boag.

The force of the explosion unearths his foundation, limestone crumbling under his feet. He jumps for the boulder above -- his hands clutching holes in its rockface.

Below, the Gatling gun tumbles down into a mushroom of dust.

Hanging over space by his fingers, Boag hoists himself up with a mighty groan. He crab-crawls onto the bouldertop, gasping with agony. A deathly stillness around him.

It starts to drizzle. Raindrops smack his weary face.

The sky darkens, THUNDER CRACKS EVILLY...

STRYKER’S VOICEBoag!! You’re one dead nigger!

Boag’s face tightens. He peers down, the dust clearing to reveal strewn corpses all around. But no Stryker.

Boag checks his last weapons: one sawed-off shotgun and his gunpowder-pouch grenades. He lays the shotgun in his lap and picks one up. Blinking away rain, he fumbles for a match. Strikes it desperately to light the fuse...

A cloudburst of POUNDING RAIN douses both match and fuse. Boag raises his soaked face skyward, as if God is mocking him...and chuckles back. He laughs aloud without care, leaning back, too close to the boulder’s edge--

A long bullwhip WRAPS FAST around his naked chest -- lashes around him like a lasso! Wrenches him off the boulder...

CANYON ROAD

Boag lands hard with a YELP! He rolls sideways onto his good side, but there is no good side. His whole body aches.

100.

In the downpour, a pair of boots CLUMP toward him.

Ben Stryker hovers over him...his left arm blown off at the shoulder, gushing blood. He drops the bullwhip from his good right hand. Wild-eyed with outrage.

STRYKERYou killed us all, ya black fucker!

His good hand yanks the Bowie knife out of its sheath.

STRYKER (CONT’D)I’m gonna carve you up and send you to hell in li’l pieces...

He leans over and wields down the knife...

Boag rolls back -- the sawed-off shotgun in his good hand.

BLAM-BLAM! Both barrels at close range -- Stryker jolts backward into the mud! And dies.

Boag drags himself weakly toward the pellet-riddled body, unable even to sit up. He slides out Stryker’s Colt from his holster and checks its chamber: one bullet left.

Then he crawls through mud and blood, gripping the Colt. Making slow, agonizing progress toward the...

CLIFF ROAD

A strip of devastation in the rain, littered with cliff debris and broken limestone boulders. The sky CRACKLES. A full-on thundershower. Rainwater cascades down ruptured walls in streaming waterfalls, flooding the road.

Gutierrez and Pickett ride precariously down the mountain road, two loaded pack mules behind them. Pickett’s horse moves slowly, its saddle bags heavily weighted.

The two halt before the flooded cliff road. Pickett gapes around him, scared out of his mind. Gutierrez scans the killing field of corpses...

One body moves twenty feet away, inching slowly toward them.

INTERCUT THREE MEN

Boag, drenched in a half-foot of mudwater, stops his crawl, lifts his head and recognizes:

Jed Pickett, frozen in the saddle.

101.

Gutierrez whips out his firearm with a savage grin.

GUTIERREZBOAG!

He gallops forward, pistol poised high, HOLLERING SPANISH INVECTIVES. Riding hard for the kill...

Boag raises his Colt out of the water and aims unsteadily, his gun hand weaving, too weak to see straight...

The Mexican’s steed sloshes through the avalanche obstacle course, laboring hard...

Gutierrez spurs faster, YELLING insanely, almost upon him...

A forgotten tripwire catches his horse’s legs -- it tumbles over with a big SPLASH, pitching its rider forward!

Gutierrez sails airborne -- smacks head first into a solid limestone boulder. CRUNCH!

He crumples dead into the shallows, his shattered mess of a skull sinking in the mud.

Pickett is completely alone. He reins around toward the mountain road, his overloaded horse barely able to run...

Prostrate Boag draws a bead, suddenly focused. Only one bullet in the chamber. Blinking away rain, he steadies the Colt with both hands...

...and FIRES!

The BULLET PIERCES Pickett’s spine! He arches stiffly, gripping the saddle horn to break his fall. Then tumbles sideways, taking the saddle down with him...

He splashes to the mud, flat on his back. The saddlebags spill open, scattering gold ingots.

WIDE ON SCENE

Two bodies yards apart in the storm...one crawling toward the other. THUNDER ROLLS. Lightning sizzles.

Boag agonizes closer to Pickett, inch by inch. Sapped of energy, pelted by rain...but driven. He crawls through a field of half-submerged gold bars. Finally reaches him.

Pickett stares at him, paralyzed, convulsing, coughing up blood, the whites of his eyes showing. In sheer terror.

102.

Boag grips him crazedly. Into his face:

BOAGI won, Jed Pickett! I’m a better man than you! Ya hear me?!

(shouts fiercely)I’M THE BETTER MAN!

Jed Pickett stares blankly. He’s gone.

Boag stares back, his expression changing. His vengeance gone...only remorse left.

He lifts his head to the stormy heavens. BELLOWS at the sky with anguish! At God and His merciless universe.

Then collapses beside his enemy, losing consciousness.

WE PULL BACK SLOWLY FROM the two still figures in the mud...

TAKING IN human shadows around them...

Lightning flashes on the faces of MEXICAN PEASANTS, holding vigil in the downpour. Staring at a myth of a man.

Behind them, Captain McQuade. Alone. He gazes around at this awesome war zone, his eyes falling on Boag.

Boag’s war is over.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. CABORCA HACIENDA - DAY

Sunny skies, a welcome serenity. Servant Miguel stands over a family plot. He mouthes a silent prayer over Don Pablo Ortiz’ tombstone, crossing himself.

Glancing off at someone, he crosses himself twice.

HIS POV - CARMEN ORTIZ

Plowing a garden plot with a hoe, sweating lustily in the sun. She looks up at a curious sight:

A large herd of cattle swarms down the road, led by MEXICAN VAQUEROS. They drive them onto the grazing pasture.

Carmen marches out before her hacienda, her arms at her hips in a baffled pose.

103.

A stagecoach follows in the cattle’s wake, escorted by a band of ornery-looking rebel pistoleros.

It halts before the casa grande. A figure in buckskin passes by on horseback...

Captain McQuade, tipping his hat to the señora. He rides on without stopping, his rebels trotting after him.

Carmen stares at the stagecoach:

Out hobbles...Boag. In a tailored suit, with a gold-headed cane and a practiced limp.

Carmen smiles, her amazement turning to relief.

Boag grins back. He nods apologetically at his bad leg, lifting one side of his trousers:

An artificial wood stump. His bad leg is history.

Carmen gazes at it with a judgmental eye, as if trying to decide. She shrugs. A small loss for a bigger gain.

HIGH ANGLE

Their bold, proud figures move across the hacienda front, merging together in wordless reunion.

Grazing land fills with cattle. The ranch comes to life.

FADE OUT.

104.

tripwire by anton diether based on a novel by … · twenty or so indistinguishable figures on...

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