No Country for Old Men Page #3

His point-of-view: plywood and plastic pipes. He pulls some

insulation aside and crams the machine pistol up under the

pipes.

INT. TRAILER - NIGHT

Moss enters carrying the document case. A twentysomething

woman in cutoff jeans and a halter top watches TV. This is

Carla Jean.

CARLA JEAN:

What's in the satchel?

MOSS:

It's full a money.

CARLA JEAN:

That'll be the day.

Moss is crossing to a back bedroom. Before he disappears

inside Carla Jean sees the pistol stuck in the back of his

waistband.

CARLA JEAN:

...Where'd you get the pistol?

MOSS:

At the gettin' place.

He emerges without the case or the gun and crosses to the

refrigerator. He takes a beer from the refrigerator and peels

its pulltab.

CARLA JEAN:

Did you buy that gun?

MOSS:

No. I found it.

CARLA JEAN:

Llewelyn!

MOSS:

What? Quit hollerin'.

He walks back sipping the beer and sprawls on the couch.

CARLA JEAN:

What'd you give for that thing?

MOSS:

You don't need to know everthing,

Carla Jean.

CARLA JEAN:

I need to know that.

MOSS:

You keep running that mouth I'm gonna

take you in the back and screw you.

CARLA JEAN:

Big talk.

MOSS:

Just keep it up.

CARLA JEAN:

Fine. I don't wanna know. I don't

even wanna know where you been all

day.

MOSS:

That'll work.

INT. TRAILER BEDROOM - NIGHT

We are drifting down toward Moss as he lies in bed next to

Carla Jean. He lies still, eyes closed, but he is shaking

his head. As the camera stops he opens his eyes, grimacing.

MOSS:

All right.

He looks at the bedside clock.

Its LED display:
1:06.

He swings his legs off the bed, looks back at Carla Jean,

and pulls the blanket up over her shoulder.

INT. TRAILER KITCHEN - NIGHT

Close on a gallon jug as Moss hold it under the tap, filling

it with water.

Carla Jean appears in the doorway, looking sleepy.

CARLA JEAN:

Llewelyn.

MOSS:

Yeah.

CARLA JEAN:

What're you doin', baby?

MOSS:

Goin' out.

CARLA JEAN:

Goin' where?

MOSS:

Somethin' I forgot to do. I'll be

back.

CARLA JEAN:

What're you goin' to do?

Moss turns from the sink, screwing the top onto the jug.

MOSS:

I'm fixin' to do somethin' dumbern

hell but I'm goin' anyways.

He starts toward the front door.

MOSS:

...If I don't come back tell Mother

I love her.

CARLA JEAN:

Your mother's dead, Llewelyn.

MOSS:

Well then I'll tell her myself.

INT. TRUCK/EXT. CATTLEGUARD ROAD - NIGHT

A MAP:

A detailed topographical survey map, illuminated by a

flashlight.

Moss is studying it in the cab of his truck.

After a beat he folds the map.

He checks the .45 taken off the corpse with the money.

Wider:
the pickup truck parked outside the cattle guard.

After a beat, the truck drives over the grate onto the unpaved

part of the road, jogging up the uneven terrain.

Through the windshield, the view is pitch black except for

the boulders and scrub picked out by the crazily bouncing

headlights.

EXT. BASIN - NIGHT

DOOR SLAM:

We are close on the water jug slapping against Moss's leg as

we pull him through the darkness. The shape of his parked

truck is just visible behind him, silhouetted on the crest

by the glow of the moon already set.

Walking across the basin to the near truck Moss freezes,

noticing:

Its driver's-side door: closed.

Moss scans the horizon. Its only blemish remains his own

pickup.

He jogs the few remaining paces to the pickup. He sets down

the gallon jug. Softly:

MOSS:

Hello?...

No answer.

He opens the door.

The man's body is still held upright by the shoulder harness

but his head, flayed by buckshot, is tipped away.

Moss glances at the bed of the truck.

Empty.

He again looks at the horizon.

Now another pickup stands in silhouette next to his own.

Two men are there.

Moss covers behind the dead man's truck. He eases his head

out for another look.

Only one man visible now.

Sounds hard to identify. Something airy. Up on the crest his

pickup rocks and settles. Its tires are being slashed.

The other pickup's engine coughs to life. Headlights and

roof lights go on.

Moss again covers behind the vehicle.

A search-spot sweeps back and forth across the basin tableau

of bodies and trucks. After a few trips back and forth

something happens to the spot: its weaving light begins to

bounce. We can hear the jouncing suspension of the pickup as

it trundles down the incline.

But the light tells the perspective of the slowly approaching

truck. Moss stays in the lee of his sheltering vehicle as he

runs, doubled over, directly away from the light, keeping to

the shadow that wipes on and off.

A gunshot. Its impact kicks up dirt just ahead of Moss to

his right.

Moss turns to see:

Two jogging men flanking the truck like infantry escorting a

tank. One has just halted to fire; the other is now raising

his gun.

Moss tacks and sprints and rolls under a second abandoned

pickup to his left. Another shot sounds and misses.

Bullets plunk into the metal of the truck body. One bullet

skips off the dirt in front of the truck and pings up into

the undercarriage.

Moss is elbowing out the far side, next to a body lying by

the truck's passenger door.

The firing has stopped: Moss steals a look over the hood:

The pursuing pickup is slowing so that the two gunmen can

swing onto the running boards.

The truck accelerates and as it veers around the first

abandoned pickup its lights swing off Moss's cover truck.

Moss sprints off, doubled over, at a perpendicular to his

previous path. He hits the ground, pressing himself into the

earth, head between his forearms.

He elbows away as the truck bears on his former cover.

EXT. RIVER GORGE - DAWN

He tops the small rise and straightens and flat-out runs.

We hear the pickup's engine racing and see, behind Moss, its

spot sweeping backlight across the crest.

Moss is running towards the declivity of a river gorge. Sky

there is pink from unrisen sun.

Moss bears on the gorge, panting.

The pickup bounces up into view on the crest behind him,

roof lights blazing. It is pointed off at an angle. Its

spotlight sweeps the river plain.

It finds Moss. The truck reorients as it bounces down in

pursuit. A muzzle flash precedes the dull whump of the

shotgun.

Moss races on toward the river. Another shotgun whump.

Moss stumbles, turns to look behind him.

The truck, gaining ground. A man stands up out of the sunroof,

one hand on top of the cab, the other holding a shotgun.

Moss is almost to the steep riverbank. Another whump of the

shotgun.

Shot catches Moss on the right shoulder. It tears the back

of his shirt away and sends him over the crest of the river

bank.

Moss airborne, ass over elbows, hits near the bottom of the

sandy slope with a loud fhump.

He rolls to a stop and looks up.

We hear a skidding squeal and see dirt and dust float over

the lip of the ridge, thrown by the truck's hard stop.

As Moss pulls off his boots we hear voices from the men in

the truck.

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote