No Country for Old Men Page #2

Close on Moss's eyes, one at the sight, the other closed.

He mutters:

MOSS:

Hold still.

He opens the free eye and rolls his head off the sight to

give himself stereo.

Close on the hatch-marked range dial on the sight. Moss

delicately thumbs it.

He eases the one eye back onto the sight.

Point-of-view through the sight: Moss adjusts to bring the

cross-hairs back down to the staring animal.

Moss's finger tightens on the trigger.

Shot:
gunbuck swishes the point-of-view upward.

Moss fights it back down.

The point-of-view through the sight finds the beast again,

still staring at us.

The sound of the gunshot rings out across the barial.

Short beat.

The bullet hits the antelope: not a kill. The animal recoils

and runs, packing one leg.

The other animals are off with it.

MOSS:

Sh*t.

He stands and jacks out the spent casing which jangles against

the rocks. He stoops for it and puts it in his shirt pocket.

EXT. ARID PLAIN - LATER

Moss is on foot, rifle again slung over his shoulder,

binoculars around his neck. He is looking at the ground.

An intermittent trail of blood.

Moss's pace is brisk. Distances are long.

He suddenly stops, staring.

On the ground is the fresh trail of blood, the glistening

drops already dry at the periphery. But this trail is crossed

by another trail of blood. Drier.

Moss looks one way along this older trail:

His point-of-view: flatlands. Scrub. No movement.

He looks the other way.

A distant range of mountains. No movement.

He stoops to examine the trail.

He paces it 'til he finds a print clear enough to give him

the animal's orientation.

He stands and looks again toward the distant mountains. He

brings up the binoculars.

His point-of-view: landscape, swimming into focus, heat waves

exaggerated by the compression of the lens.

Panning, looking for the animal.

Movement, very distant. The animal is brought into focus: a

black tailless dog, huge head, limping badly, phantasmal by

virtue of the rippling heat waves and the silence.

Moss lowers the glass. A moment of thought as he gazes off.

He turns and heads in the direction from which the dog came.

EXT. RISE NEAR BASIN - MINUTES LATER

Moss tops a rise. He scans the landscape below.

Not much to see except-distant glints, off something not

native to the environment.

Moss brings up the binoculars.

Parked vehicles:
three of them, squat, Broncos or other off-

road trucks with fat tires, winches in the bed and racks of

roof lights.

On the ground near the trucks dark shapes lie still.

EXT. BASIN - MINUTES LATER

Moss is walking cautiously up to the site, unslung rifle at

the ready.

Flies drone.

He circles two dead bodies lying in the grass, covered with

blood. A gut-shot dog of the same kind we saw limping toward

the mountains lies beside them. A sawed-off shotgun with a

pistol stock lies in the grass.

The tires and most of the window glass are shot out of the

first pickup Moss approaches.

He opens the door and looks inside.

The driver is dead, leaning over the wheel. Moss shuts the

door.

He opens the door of the second truck.

The driver, sitting upright, still in shoulder harness, is

staring at him.

Moss stumbles back, raising the rifle.

The man does not move. The front of his shirt is covered

with blood.

MAN:

Agua.

Moss stares at him

MAN:

...Agua. Por Dios.

MOSS:

Ain't got no water.

On the seat next to the man is an HK machine pistol. Moss

looks at it. He looks back at the man. The man is still

staring at him. Without lowering his eyes Moss reaches in

and takes the pistol.

Moss straightens up out of the truck and slings the rifle

back over his shoulder. He snaps the clip off the machine

pistol, checks it and snaps it back on.

Moss crosses to the back of the truck and lifts the tarp

that covers the truck bed.

A load of brick-sized brown parcels each wrapped in plastic.

He throws the tarp back over the load and crosses back to

the open cab door.

MAN:

Agua.

MOSS:

I told you I ain't got no agua. You

speak English?

A blank look.

MOSS:

...Where's the last guy?

The injured man stares, unresponsive. Moss persists:

MOSS:

Ultimo hombre. Last man standing,

must've been one. Where'd he go?

MAN:

...Agua.

Moss turns to scan the horizon. He looks at the tire tracks

extending back from the truck. He thinks for a beat.

MOSS:

(to himself)

I reckon I'd go out the way I came

in...

He starts off.

Through the truck's open door:

MAN:

La puerta... Hay lobos...

MOSS:

(walking off)

Ain't no lobos.

EXT. FLATLAND NEAR THE BASIN - LATER

Moss stops to look out at a new prospect. Flatland, no cover.

He raises the binoculars.

MOSS:

If you stopped... to watch your

backtrack... you're gonna shoot my

dumb ass.

He doesn't see anything. He lowers the glass, thinking.

He raises the glass again.

MOSS:

...But. If you stopped... you stopped

in shade.

He sets off.

EXT. NEAR THE ROCK SHELF - DAY

A POINT-OF-VIEW

Through the binoculars, some time later. One lone shelf of

rock throws shade toward us. Heat shimmers in between.

Hard sun makes the rock shadow impenetrable. But there is a

booted foot sticking into the sun toe-up like the nub on a

sundial.

Moss lowers the binoculars.

He looks at his watch.

11:
30.

He sits down.

FAST FADE:

EXT. NEAR THE ROCK SHELF - DAY

THE WATCH:

12:
30.

Moss lowers the wristwatch and raises the binoculars again.

The shadow has shifted. The foot hasn't moved.

Moss gets up and walks toward it.

EXT. ROCK SHELF - MINUTES LATER

Moss arrives at the rock shelf.

The man's body is tipped to one side. His nose is in the

dirt but his eyes are open, as if he is examining something

quite small on the ground.

One hand holds a .45 automatic.

Next to the body is a boxy leather document case.

Moss looks at the man. He takes the gun, looks at it, sticks

it in his belt.

He drags the document case away from the body and opens it.

Bank-wrapped hundreds fill it. Each packet is stamped

"$10,000."

Moss stares. He reaches in to rifle the stacks, either to

confirm that the bag is full or to estimate the amount.

He stands, looks around, looks back the way he came.

EXT. CATTLEGUARD ROAD - DAY

HIS TRUCK:

Moss's pickup is parked by a cattleguard off a paved but

little-used road.

Moss is just arriving. He throws in the document case, the

rifle and the machine pistol, climbs into the cab and slams

the door.

EXT. DESERT AIRE TRAILER PARK - TWILIGHT

Moss's truck pulls into a trailer park that sits alongside

the highway on the outskirts of Sanderson, Texas. An old

sign with a neon palm tree identifies the park as the Desert

Aire.

Moss gets out of the truck next to a double-wide. Lights

glow inside. He takes the case and machine pistol, gets down

on his back next to the trailer and scoots underneath it.

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