The Petrified Forest Page #2

Duke Mantee and his gang

are around here someplace.

- There's his picture.

- Well, if he heads this way...

we Black Horse Vigilantes

will handle that gent.

- You would?

- Of course. That's what we're for.

If you'd take my advice, I wouldn't

start any shooting in that getup.

- Why not?

- I never see'd a better target.

Yeah? Well, you needn't

be afraid about me.

Afraid? I ain't afraid.

But I would be if I was you.

- I took 5 bucks, Gabby.

- Why'd you need all that for?

Just in case of emergency.

Say, between the two of you...

you'd think I wasn't fit to be

trusted with money, ideas or anything.

Well, let me tell you, the

both of you, that I've...

Oh, well.

- Gramp?

- Yes?

Gramp, what are you

doing back there?

Can't you let your old grandpappy

have a little snifter now?

No. You can have one

before you go to bed.

Well, I'm sleepy now.

Gramp.

- Your soup is ready, my friend.

- Oh, thanks.

- It looks good too.

- Thank you.

Look out, look out. That's

The Denver Post. Here you are.

- Thanks.

- Yeah.

Oh, say, look. Look, look.

There's a picture of Duke Mantee.

"Six killed."

- Did he do all that?

- Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.

- He doesn't look very vicious, does he?

- I tell you here.

You can't tell a killer except by his

chin. There's a funny thing about that.

A killer always holds his

chin in. You ever notice that?

- I don't think I've ever seen a killer.

- Oh, I have. Plenty of them.

- You ever hear tell of Billy the Kid?

- Yes. My soup's getting cold.

I knowed him down in the Pecos Country.

He took a couple of shots at me once.

Well, congratulations.

I mean, on still being with us.

Hey!

But I don't think you understand.

You see, it was kind of dark...

and the Kid had had a few, and I think he

was just trying to scare the pants off of me.

- Did he do it?

- No. No, no.

I see'd he was just a-funning,

and so I said to him, I said:

"Kid, you're drunk."

And he said to me:

"Well, what makes you think that?"

And I said, "Because you missed me."

Well, you ought to heard him laugh.

- Say, you're kind of hungry, ain't you?

- Well, you can go just so long without food.

What line of work you in?

None at the moment.

I had been a writer.

- A writer?

- Yes.

- Well, that's a funny thing.

- Yes, it is.

- I knew the greatest writer ever.

- Really?

Sam Clemens. Ever hear of him?

Well, now, let me see. Sam...

- Did you ever hear of Mark Twain?

- Yes.

- Well, that's the same feller.

- Oh, that's right.

I knowed him well when I was

a boy back in Virginia City.

Yeah, he used to write funny things

for the paper there, the Enterprise.

Yes, sir. He was the darnedest

feller I ever see'd...

and I've see'd plenty. Yes, he used

to write, he said, on the principle...

that people that read his

writings didn't want the truth...

so that's what he's

gonna give them.

- Are you a famous writer?

- No, no. I'm... No.

Oh, you're just modest

about it? What's your name?

Alan Squier.

- Your supper's ready, Gramp.

- And I'm ready for it too.

Watching this feller eat has made me hungry.

Well, I'm glad to know you, Mr. Squier.

- Glad to have met you, sir.

- Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

- Like the soup?

- Oh, it was glorious.

Did I hear you say

that you were a writer?

Yes. In a way.

I've never known any writers.

- Please don't go.

- Do you want something else?

No, I just wanted to talk to you.

Won't you please sit down?

All right.

- I suppose you want to go into the movies.

- Not on your life.

I want to go to Bourges.

- Where?

- Bourges, in France.

You might never guess it,

but that's where I came from.

- Really? You're not French, are you?

- Partly. I was born in Bourges.

I left there before I

was hardly able to walk...

so all I know about it is from

postcards my mother sends me.

They got a cathedral there.

- Your mother still lives there?

- Yes.

Dad brought us here after the war.

Mother stuck it out for years...

then packed and went back to

Bourges. We've never seen her since.

Some people think it was cruel of her

to leave me, but what could she do?

She had no money, and

she couldn't live here.

You can't blame her for that.

Do you think it was cruel of her?

- No, not if you don't, Miss Maple.

- Look.

Look, here's a picture of Mother

just before she married Dad.

She's lovely, isn't she?

- You know, I can see the resemblance.

- Can you really?

It's hard to imagine

her being married to Dad.

Still, I suppose, he looked all

right in his American uniform.

Mother always gives me a book on

my birthday. She sent me this one.

It's the poems of Franois Villon.

- Ever read them?

- Yes, I have.

It's swell poetry.

Mother's written on the flyleaf.

- That means, "To my dear little Gabrielle."

- Oh, it does?

Gabrielle, that's a beautiful name.

Wouldn't you know it'd

get changed into "Gabby"...

by these sunbaked,

ignorant desert rats.

I see you share your mother's

opinion of the desert.

But you can find solace in

the poems of Franois Villon.

Yes, it takes the stink of the gasoline

and the hamburger out of my system.

Gabrielle, would you like to

read me one of those poems?

- Right now?

- Yes. While I'm finishing today's special.

Okay, I'll read you

the one I like the best.

Such good I wish you

Yea, and heartily I'm fired with

hope of true love's meed to get

Knowing love writes it in his book

For why, this is the end

for which we twain are met

Go on, Gabrielle.

Seeing reason wills

not that I cast love by

Nor here with reason

shall I chide and fret

Nor cease to serve but

serve more constantly

This is the end for

which we twain are met

You know...

You know, that guy

writes wonderful stuff.

How did you pronounce his name?

Franois Villon.

The French seem to

understand everything.

That's why you want

to go to France?

- For understanding?

- I will go there. When Gramp dies...

we're gonna sell this place, and I'll

take my money and go to Bourges...

and find something, well,

something beautiful to look at...

and wine and dancing

in the streets and...

Well, if I were you, Gabrielle, I'd

stay here and avoid disappointment.

I've been to France.

- What were you doing, writing books?

- No, planning to write books.

You see, I married

a lady of wealth.

She was very liberal to me.

Don't think ill of me because of

that. I actually did write a book.

What kind of a book? Fiction?

In a sense, yes. It was a novel. I was

22 at the time. It was very, very stark.

It sold slightly over 600 copies.

It cost the publisher a great deal of money,

and incidentally, it cost him his wife.

You see, she divorced

him and married me.

She saw in me a major artist.

Profound but inarticulate.

She thought I needed background, so she

gave it to me with southern exposure...

and a fine view of

the Mediterranean.

Well, for eight years I reclined there,

on the Riviera, on my background...

and I waited for the major artist to emerge

and say something of enduring importance.

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote