Klondike Page #26

SWIFTWATER BILL (CONT’D)

Come on London, get the face outta

the book-

JACK LONDON:

It's not a book, it's a journal-

16.

SWIFTWATER BILL (NO; BULLSHIT...)

It's got pages and a cover and it's

turning you into the guy missing

out on all the tickle-tail in here.

Said with a nod to various wenches.

SWIFTWATER BILL (CONT’D)

The proper function of a man ain't

to exist, it's to live. Don't waste

your days trying to prolong them.

Use your time.

The sentences land with London (and will in fact become one

of his most famous passages). Swiftwater pushes a decidedly

beautiful Courtesan toward him.

SWIFTWATER BILL (TO COURTESAN)

(CONT’D)

How ‘bout you help him use his

time, darling?

Courtesan nuzzles to London. London relents. She’s a piece of

work; in the good kind of way. Swiftwater take a pull from a

bottle of whiskey, hands it to London. Walks off with the

other Courtesan, happily irascible:

SWIFTWATER BILL (CONT’D)

Ain’t gonna waste a perfectly good

storm like this for you to do

homework...

Off London--taking a pull of whiskey, adding to his buzz,

pulling the Courtesan to him, surrendering to booze-addled

experience--the day outside strobing with lightning and rain-

EXT./INT. CONSTABLE’S OFFICE - DAY

--a leaf, rain beading on it. A gnarled hand deftly folds the

leaf in on itself--so that it holds the water like a cup-then

pulls it from its branch. And in through the bars of the

fledgling jail...

The hand’s owner: one of the 2 Tlingit “killers” ID’d as

Epstein’s murderers in 102 (OLD TLINGIT, 50s, and young

TLINGIT, 12). Old Tlingit considers his makeshift cup.

Reveal, Bill eyeing him through the bars.

BILL (TO STEELE)

You shoot my friend?

(no answer)

Why?

No answer.

17.

CONSTABLE STEELE

Likely territorial. Some sort of

unsaid line your claim was on the

wrong side of.

(beat)

He’ll see justice.

BILL:

Problematic word.

CONSTABLE STEELE

How so?

BILL:

Justice for us is hanging a killer.

Justice for them’s maybe fighting

off someone taking their land. All

we get is a couple of dead men and

who’s the wiser.

CONSTABLE STEELE

Pretty even-keeled response. Think

you’d be seeing red.

BILL (DARKENS, EYES TLINGIT)

Oh, I’m seeing plenty of red. Just

not sure if it’s here.

As Bill eyes him, Old Tlingit slowly reaches that leaf/cup

through the bars toward him. Mutters something in Tlingit.

CONSTABLE STEELE

He wants to know if you want some.

Says he prefers it to the White

Man's water.

Bill:
faintly impressed by the man’s largesse, despite being

jailed. But nevertheless demurs. He instead surveys the man’s

gnarled hand.

BILL:

Must’ve been a hell of a shot with

a dead trigger finger like that.

(beat)

Isn't exactly made for

marksmanship, is it?

CONSTABLE STEELE

Kid's hands might be.

Bill considers the downy-faced kid with some doubt.

BILL:

Pretty young.

18.

CONSTABLE STEELE

Like you said...maybe there’s not a

‘too young’ when it comes to

protecting your land.

Bill eyes the Tlingit.

CONSTABLE STEELE (NODS) (CONT’D)

One way or another, we're gonna

find out the truth.

Bill nods, preps to leave.

CONSTABLE STEELE (CONT’D)

If it's them, or someone else...you

tell me first.

Steele nods. Off course. Bill stops at the door, looks back.

BILL:

And Constable...I don’t know you’ve

got a ton of time. 'Cause the

Tlingit are out there. And I think

they got justice on their mind too.

As he exits--CUT TO-

EXT. BONANZA CREEK - DAY

Rain. Sagging hillsides. Swarms of Typhoid-carrying insects.

Men vainly fight back--tar their tents; create insect-free

interiors by sealing off their shelters with blankets,

filling them with campfire smoke (which of course just about

kills them; but anything in the name of survival).

Through all of this comes Soapy Smith. Shameless opportunist.

SOAPY SMITH:

Cash dollars! 50 bucks! Any man

wants to give up on his horrible

toil and get his claim off his back-

I’m offering 50 dollars!

A forlorn-looking Miner (GOODMAN), shakes his head.

GOODMAN:

Wouldn’t pay for the equipment,

Soap, you low-grade sonabitch.

SOAPY SMITH:

God’s own truth...but it’s better’n

bein dead now, isn’t it? Take a

look yonder. Whattaya see?

GOODMAN (LOOKS DOWNSTREAM)

Nothin’. Same as every day.

19.

SOAPY SMITH:

No, what you don’t see is what’s

slowly creepin’ up the creeks.

Nervous fever. Kill you like the

100 men they already put in the

ground in Dawson.

Goodman looks downstream once more. Unnerved. Still:

GOODMAN:

Take my chances.

SOAPY SMITH:

I did mention the Tlingit, too,

didn’t I?

Goodman gives him a look. Eat sh*t.

SOAPY SMITH (OKAY...) (CONT’D)

Guess you just gotta ask yerself

which is greater...chance you

hittin a paystreak in one of these

prospect holes...or chance nervous

fever gets you...or the Tlingit get

you...

He smiles, moves on--off Goodman--CUT TO-

--Soapy, joined a moment later by Bill, falling into step

with him as he returns from Steele’s.

Both men, headed the same way. Bill: faintly bemused, but

mostly nonplussed at the sight of Soapy:

BILL:

You.

SOAPY SMITH:

Yep, me. And I know the look:

shameless opportunist, right?

BILL:

That my look or your conscience?

SOAPY SMITH:

I see it a whole different way: I’m

savin’ lives.

They stop before Bill’s claim. Soapy waves a $50 at Bill.

SOAPY SMITH (RE CLAIM) (CONT’D)

What do you say? 50 U.S.

BILL:

Wouldn’t get me 100 miles. Which

out here, is just another part of

nowhere.

20.

SOAPY SMITH:

Au contraire. It’d get you out of

the radius of the Fever. And the

Tlingit. I’m offering you nothing

short of a ticket to life.

Meekor approaches from the claim with a gurgling cough and

hack. Soapy gives Bill a look. See? To Meekor:

SOAPY SMITH (CONT’D)

How bout you steppin back--putting

a few paces between us, friend?

MEEKOR:

How bout you growin a coupla feet.

So I can knock you sideways and not

feel guilty about it.

SOAPY SMITH:

No way to talk to a man trying to

liberate you.

Bill & Meekor eye him resolutely. Get lost.

SOAPY SMITH (CONT’D)

Fine by me. Just gonna be cheaper

for me when you all die.

(unctuous smile)

Do have a fine day though.

He exits, hawking to the next Claimants. Bill eyes the bench

mine. No new wood. The mud continuing to sag into the dig.

BILL:

No wood.

MEEKOR:

Hear Ms. Mulroney’s waitin’ on the

roads to get better ‘fore she

delivers it.

BILL:

Roads ain’t gonna get better.

Pretty soon they won’t even be

roads--

Meekor hacks again. Something nasty. Bill looks at him with

some concern.

BILL (CONT’D)

You gotta get that looked after.

MEEKOR:

Ah, I’m fine. Lungs just ain’t

agreein’ with me-

21.

BILL:

Uh-uh. If that’s typhoid you’re

wearing, they got to get to it

early. Before it gets into your

head. Soon as your brain stops

agreeing with you...you’re done,

got it?

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