Unforgiven Page #7

EXT. TRAIN STOP - DAY

Bawling cattle milling in the pens south of Big Whiskey, and

the train hissing and steaming at a standstill.

CLOSE VIEW:

Two leather valises and a leather rifle case as MUDDY CHANDLER

tosses them on his mud wagon, a sort of open stagecoach. The

scene is one of chaos as the train steams and hisses and

baggage is tossed off and more is tossed on.

CHANDLER:

It's a nickel up to Big Whiskey,

gentlemen.

WW hands Chandler the money and, as he and English Bob climb

into the mud wagon, they are accosted by GERMANY JOE SCHULTZ

who runs the livery stable and does horse business with

railway passengers on the side.

GERMANY JOE:

I godd nize horzes I zell you, boyce.

Nize prizes for Independence Day,

boyce.

EXT. MUD WAGON - DAY

English Bob and WW riding in the mud wagon, bouncing

uncomfortably in spite of the slow pace, and eating dust and

sweating profusely.

ENGLISH BOB:

(irritably)

It's the climate does it. That and

the infernal distances.

WW:

Does what?

ENGLISH BOB:

Induces people to shoot persons in

high places.

(mopping his brow

with his handkerchief)

It's a savage country. That's the

second one shot in twenty years.

It's uncivilized shooting people of

substance.

The mud wagon rattles past the South Road sign. It is similar

to the one of the North Road and says:

NO FIREARMS IN BIG WHISKEY. ORDINANCE 14. DEPOSIT PISTOLS

AND RIFLES COUNTY OFFICE.

EXT. BIG WHISKY INN - DAY

Deputy ANDY RUSSELL stepping out of the County Office as the

mud wagon clatters to a stop in front of the Big Whisky Inn.

Andy is just twenty, a good looking kid with a badge on his

vest and a holstered pistol. He watches the passengers climb

out of the mud wagon and, as English Bob alights, his frock

coat parts and gives ANDY just the quickest glimpse of a

holstered pistol under the coat.

ANDY:

Pardon me, gentlemen, but local

ordinance obliges you to surrender

your sidearms to proper authority

for the duration of your visit.

WW looks at English Bob and English Bob turns and looks Andy

up and down very coolly.

ENGLISH BOB:

Proper authority eh?

(breezily)

Well, sir... neither my companion

nor I carry firearms on our persons.

Rather, we trust in the goodwill of

our fellow man and the forbearance

of reptiles.

And English Bob gives a smart bow, turns with a swirl of

coat-tails that allows a brief glimpse of not one, but two

holstered pistols, and marches off. As WW follows English

Bob, he glances nervously back to see what young Andy will

do but Andy just stares nonplussed. In that quick glimpse,

Andy saw how the weapons were tied down with thongs, meaning

the owner wanted a quick pull... and this sh*t is out of his

league.

INT. COUNTY OFFICE - DAY

KER-CHICK, CLACK, A HENRY RIFLE COCKED and the action checked.

Andy is cleaning the weapon in the County Office.

ANDY:

Unarmed, my ass.

SHUCK, KA-CHAK. CHARLEY HECKER breaks open a single barreled

shotgun and moves a shell in.

CHARLEY:

(wiping his brow

nervously)

Christ, it's hot.

FATTY:

(cheerfully)

If I'm gonna get shot, I druther it

was hot then cold. Everythin' hurts

more in the cold.

Fatty is sitting in a chair in front of the empty jail cell

cleaning a revolver, oblivious to the tension.

FATTY:

You know how if you hit your thumb

in the cold, how it...?

CHARLEY:

Shut up, Fatty.

FATTY:

I only said...

Outside a horse clatters up fast and Andy jumps nervously to

the window.

ANDY:

Clyde's back.

CHARLEY:

Little Bill with him?

ANDY:

No.

CHARLEY:

(worried)

Sh*t.

Clyde bursts in the door. He is wearing two gun-belts crossed,

with a holster on each side. Since he has only one arm, he

carries one pistol butt forward and the other butt back.

CLYDE:

You boys clean my Remington?

FATTY:

(holding it up)

Cleaned an' loaded.

CHARLEY:

Where's Little Bill for Christ sake?

CLYDE:

(inspecting the pistol)

Ha. He was building his f***ing porch.

CHARLEY:

Building his porch!

FATTY:

If you was to get shot, Andy, would

you like it better to be a hot day

or...?

ANDY:

(sharply)

I ain't gonna get shot.

CHARLEY:

(to Clyde)

He's coming ain't he?

CLYDE:

(ejecting shells)

'Course he's coming.

FATTY:

Hey, I just loaded her. Watcha doin?

CLYDE:

I don't trust nobody to load my guns,

not for a shootin'.

CHARLEY:

What'd he say?

CLYDE:

Little Bill? He didn't say nothing.

Like I said, he was buildin' his

porch. Have you seen that thing?

FATTY:

(sulking)

It was all loaded. Jesus, Clyde, you

got three pistols an' only one arm

for Christ sake.

CLYDE:

(to Fatty)

I just don't wanna get killed for

lack of shootin' back.

(to Charley)

You know there ain't a straight angle

in that whole goddamn porch... or in

the whole house for that matter.

He's the worst f***ing carpenter.

CHARLEY:

(worried)

He didn't say nothin', huh?

CLYDE:

(putting the 3rd pistol

in his belt)

Asked what they looked like, that's

all. Christ, maybe he's tough but he

sure ain't no carpenter.

CHARLEY:

Maybe he ain't so tough.

Clyde looks up, surprised. There is a sudden silence.

ANDY:

(blurting it)

He seem like... like he was... scared?

CLYDE:

(amazed)

Little Bill? Him scared?

CHARLEY:

We never seen him up against any...

like these ones... killers.

CLYDE:

(looking at the

frightened faces of

Charley and Andy)

Little Bill come out of Kansas an'

Texas, boys. He worked them tough

towns.

CHARLEY:

(ashamed)

Just wondered. Anybody could be

scared.

Andy drops his eyes and looks away from Clyde.

CLYDE:

(with meaning)

No. He wasn't scared, boys. He just

ain't a good carpenter.

INT. BARBERSHOP - DAY

English Bob, delighting in the smooth feel of his freshly

shaved pink cheeks, climbs cheerfully out of the barber chair,

still chattering at the poor BARBER.

ENGLISH BOB:

...can see that there's a dignity in

royalty... a majesty... that precludes

the likelihood of assassination.

The Barber is applying his little whisk broom to Bob's

waistcoat while WW pulls out his purse to make payment.

ENGLISH BOB:

Why, if you were to point a pistol

at a King or a Queen, sir, I can

assure you your hand would shake as

though palsied...

BARBER:

(looking at Bob's

pistols)

I wouldn't point no pistol at nobody,

sir.

ENGLISH BOB:

(putting on his frock

coat over his guns)

A wise policy. But if you did, I can

assure you, the sight of royalty

would cause you to dismiss all

thoughts of bloodshed and stand...

in awe.

(pause)

Whereas, a president... I mean, why

not shoot a president?

The Barber doesn't know how to take this guy, and just ogles

him.

ENGLISH BOB:

Now this Strawberry Alice person,

tell me again.

BARBER:

Down the street and across. Greely's

Beer Garden and Billiard parlor.

Just ask for Alice and say you want

a game of billiards.

ENGLISH BOB:

(about to exit)

Billiards, eh? Even though I don't

really wish to play?

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