Even Cowgirls Get The Blues Page #15

JELLY:

Debbie says that if women are to

take charge again, they must do it

in the feminine way; they mustn't

resort to aggressive and violent

masculine methods. She says it is up

to women to show themselves better

than men, to love men, set good

examples for them and guide them

tenderly toward the New Age. She's a

real dreamer, that Debbie-dear.

SISSY:

You don't agree with Debbie, then?

JELLY:

I wouldn't say that. I expect she's

right, ultimately. But I'm with

Delores when it comes to fighting

for what's mine. I can't understand

why Delores is so uptight about the

Chink; he could probably teach her a

thing or two. Ee! That grass tickles,

doesn't it? God knows I love women,

but nothing can take the place of a

man that fits. Still this is cowgirl

territory and I'll stand with Delores

and fight any bastards who might

deny it. I guess I've always been a

scrapper. Look. This scar. Only twelve

years old and I was felled by a silver

bullet.

Jelly takes Sissy's hand, carefully avoiding the thumbs and

helps her feel the depression in her belly. The depression

is a dimple, like another navel.

AFTER A HUNGRY STILLNESS, like intermission at a wolf dance,

rhythms are established. Jelly and Sissy are socked into one

another now, and they arch and push and corkscrew and

jackknife softly but with pronounced cadence.

Everything becomes scrambled. They rock each other in cradles

of sweat and saliva, until we can see nothing.

Noisy breaths buck out of Sissy: "Jelly, Jelly" but she can't

hear Sissy because she is screaming. Hysterical from the

scalding hot softness of girl-love.

EXT. HILLTOP DAY

The Chink looks on from the hilltop above indifferently.

EXT. FIELD DAY

Sissy and Jelly are riding on the back of a horse.

A WHOOPING CRANE is spied by Sissy as she rides on the back

of Jellybean's horse back to the ranch. Delores and Big Red

hurry to meet them.

DELORES:

He's here.

Sure enough across the yard, in the midst of the low-cal

barbecue in progress, monocle reflecting sunlight, cigarette

holder stabbing the air, stands the Countess.

DELORES:

Look at him. Perverse as a pink

pickle.

BIG RED:

Sick as a vice squad.

DELORES:

He's in a snit. He wants to see you

right after the barbecue.

Jellybean chuckles sardonically and dismounts.

JELLY:

Get the girls. He's gonna see me

right now.

Sissy, confused, and loyalties torn in the face of an

impending revolution, leaves the corral and

SLIPS INSIDE THROUGH THE KITCHEN.

DOWN THE HALL:

ENTERING HER ROOM, SHE LOCKS HERSELF IN. As she locks the

latch she hears Jelly's voice.

INT RANCH OFFICE DAY

Jelly has taken over the ranch loudspeaker system and is

giving an ultimatum.

JELLY:

Any of you ladies who would like to

join us, you're welcome to stay on

as a full working podner at the Rubber

Rose. Rest of you get packed -- and

I mean now. You've got fifteen minutes

to move your lard asses off this

ranch.

INSIDE THE EXERCISE ROOM

Women are reacting to the demands.

INSIDE THE GREENHOUSE

Some women are taking up trowels and brooms as weapons.

INSIDE THE KITCHEN

The help is joining the revolt.

INSIDE THE HALLWAY

Other women are running for their lives.

INSIDE SISSY'S ROOM

She hears the screen door screech open and a chaos of

footsteps in the hall. She goes to her window. And she can

see, partially cut off by the corner of the building, Miss

Adrian screaming.

MISS ADRIAN:

You will all be rounded up and sent

to prison if you take this any

farther! This is not your ranch!!!!

EXT. THE FRONT YARD OF THE RUBBER ROSE

The Countess seems to be taking it slowly, and calmly smoking

a French cigarette. He observes the fighting among them with

amusement.

THE COUNTESS:

You pathetic little cutesy-poos. Do

you actually suppose this exhibition

of childlike melodrama is advancing

the cause of freedom?

JELLY:

You owe us this here ranch, as a

token payment for your disgusting

exploitations

THE COUNTESS:

(tranquilly)

Then take it.

JELLY:

Go for it, girls!

The hands, who carry axes, picks, pitchforks and shovels,

retreat. The Countess, still grinning, reaches for an hors

d'oeuvre and subjects his cigarette to a measured, self-

assured puff.

MISS ADRIAN:

(shaking her fist)

Go to your bunkhouse and remain there!

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