Dirty Pool
A Three-Act Screenplay for Iron Writer Summer 2004
By Jay 2K Winger

Dramatis Personae
in order of appearance
FASTHAND, the Biker: a motorcycle-riding gunslinger nomad, seeking revenge for the death of his family.
LINCOLN: An old bus driver.
Eagle SHARPE: The "best crackshot this side of Walkerton," and the nominal leader of the Dead-Eye Society.
CHARLIE Callis: An Esperian ex-patriate, former mob gunman, now a high-ranking member of the Dead-Eye Society.
A group of bandits: Dead-Eye Society members keeping people from leaving Dirty Pool. Thirteen in number, not counting Charlie or Sharpe.
Lucius BLACKMOOR: Founder and senior partner of Blackmoor Realty, owner of most of the land northwest of Walkerton to the mountains, and controller of the Dead-Eye Society.
Jonas BRINKS: A cocky gunslinger with a penchant for flipping a coin, and a knack for shooting his mouth off. In Dirty Pool for the quick-draw contest.
A trio of gunslingers: Brinks` buddies.
RIPLEY: A crumudgeonly old bartender, owner of the Dirty Pool Saloon.
A FATHER: Seen in flashbacks, a crackshot who defended his family to the death.
A mother: Seen in flashbacks, helping defend her family to the death.
Nathaniel VICTORY: A suave, dapperly-dressed member of the Dead-Eye Society.
Jack RIGGER: A mechanic in Dirty Pool.
Marshal Travis TOOMS: Aka "the One-Eyed Jack." A renowned lawman from Walkerton. Also a crackshot.
Sheriff Jame COWELL: Dirty Pool`s old, overweight, and incompetent sheriff.
Steve ROLAND: A gunslinger in Dirty Pool for the quick-draw contest.
A JUDGE: A member of the Dead-Eye Society, presiding over the quick-draw contest.
Dave Carson: A gunslinger in Dirty Pool for the quick-draw contest.
Joseph Hecks: A scarred gunslinger in Dirty Pool for the quick-draw contest.
A SNIPER: A rifleman in the Dead-Eye Society.
Andrew Pole: A gunslinger in Dirty Pool for the quick-draw contest.
Carl Carter: A gunslinger in Dirty Pool for the quick-draw contest.
An UNDERTAKER: The propreitor of Dirty Pool`s funeral parlor.
And various townsfolk, Dead-Eye Society members, and gunslingers: extras.

Setting
The small town of Dirty Pool, a town out in the sticks of the Republic of West, some three hundred kilometers northwest of the city of Walkerton. Near an old magilyte mine. The home of Blackmoor Realty.

ACT ONE: ENTER THE BIKER

FADE IN:

EXT. WEST DESERT -- DAY

The sun blisters overhead on dry, caked soil. Pan upwards to show the horizon more clearly. A cloud of dust is moving leftward across the horizon.

Cut closer. The dust proves to be originating from an old, beat-up motorcycle. Its engine roars and the bike is vibrating from its age. A man, a BIKER, sits on it, face protected against the dust and sand by dark-tinted goggles and a red scarf faded by the sun and dust. His clothing is likewise old-looking, second-hand, patched in places, faded to the color of the dust. He has hair of pretty regular length, but it`s been blown by wind and dust so much its color has also faded to that of the dust.

We cut closer still, and to the other side of the bike (so it travels to the right), and now we can see that he`s got a scoped rifle strapped to the motorcycle`s body, and a sawed-off shotgun stuck in a holster on the fork of the bike. As the man`s duster flaps in the wind, we can also see he`s got a gun strapped to his hip, a six-shooter by the looks of it.

We cut now to look at the motorcyclist`s hidden face. The goggles are dark-tinted, so we can`t even see his eyes. (Not that we could -- they`re caked with dust as well.) Not much of his face is exposed at all, so it`s difficult to tell how old the biker is.

Suddenly, over the wind and the roar of the engine, we hear a distant CRACKING noise. The Biker`s head whips around, and he all of a sudden slams on the brakes and cocks his head to listen.

For a moment, all we hear is the gentle rustling of the dust on the hard-baked ground and the wind. Then, there`s another CRACKING noise. A gunshot. The Biker turns his head again, looking off into the distance.

The Biker reaches up and wipes dust off his goggles with gloved fingers, then unstraps his rifle from the bike. He lifts it up and peers through the scope into the distance.

P.O.V.: SCOPE -- An old-fashioned `T`-shaped crosshair overlays the circle of horizon we can see. The ground blurs as the Biker moves the rifle around, until he sees a vague shape in the haze of heat, with smoke and dust kicking up from something.

We cut back to the Biker`s hidden face as he lowers the rifle, looking in that direction. Ê Then he straps the rifle back to the bike, guns the motor, and turns the bike around, heading off toward the distant column of black smoke.

CUT TO:

EXT. BUS -- DAY

We`re now in a slight valley, left by some long-dried up river. A large bus -- like the biker`s motorcycle, old-looking and beat-up -- is on three wheels, its back left wheel flat. The hood is also up and smoking from within. A small handful of people inside the bus are huddled in center of it, while an overweight older man, a BUS DRIVER, is down on his knees beside the luggage compartment. Standing behind the old bus driver is a burly man in dark clothing, lower part of his face hidden by a BLACK BANDANA. His hair is trimmed down, detailing the widow`s peak on his forehead. He`s pointing a gun at the back of the bus driver`s head. Beside both is the dead body of a young man, shot in the head.

In a circle around the bus are typically old-looking and beat-up small vehicles: open-top two-person cars, motorcycles with a side seat for a second person, and more one-man bikes. Most of these are occupied by more bandit-types, like Black Bandana.

The old bus driver is crying, staring at the dead body.

BUS DRIVER
OH MY GODS, YOU SHOT HIM! HE`S DEAD, YOU BLACK-HEARTED BASTARD!

BLACK BANDANA
I shot him, yeah. Now shut up.

BUS DRIVER
WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!

BLACK BANDANA
You know as well as I do, Lincoln. The folks on your bus, there: they know too much. Can`t rightly let you all traipse on back to the government and tell them what Mr. Blackmoor`s up to, can I?

LINCOLN (OLD BUS DRIVER)
(crying)
I swear, on my mother`s grave, we aren`t going to tell anyone! We just want to leave in peace!

BLACK BANDANA
Yeah, right. Ê Well, if you don`t mind, we just wanna make double-sure you ain`t gonna tell no one. Ê Best way to do that is to make sure you DON`T talk to anyone.

Black Bandana draws back the hammer on his gun, while Lincoln cries, hands folded in front of him. Around the bus, the other bandits start to smirk and nod in anticipation.

Then they notice the approaching sound of a motorcycle engine. The bandits turn their heads, and Black Bandana turns to look, lifting his gun.

BLACK BANDANA
What?

From over the rise of the valley comes Our Biker Friend, motorcycle roaring as he comes into view. He wheels around the ring of bandits, who start to scramble for their own weapons. The Biker pulls his sawed-off shotgun from its holster and points it at the nearest bandits in their two-man car. BOOM. One bandit sprawls across the dashboard. He spin-cocks the action, points, BOOM. The other goes toppling into the windshield.

BLACK BANDANA
(at the other bandits)
Don`t just sit there, you idiots! Shoot the bastard!

The Biker circles around the group, stuffing his shotgun back into its holster. One of the bandit bikers starts to turn his ride around, but the Biker gets to him first, smacking the barrel of the bandit`s shotgun down, spinning the stock up into his jaw before it smacks into the Biker`s hand. Without turning it right-side up, he fires it. BOOM. The shotgun`s former owner goes flying backward. The Biker cuts into the circle of vehicles, pointing the bandit`s shotgun over his left arm. BOOM, a motorcycle bandit flies back off his ride. Steering one-handed, the Biker swings back outward, passing a two-man motorcycle, the side seat empty. As he passes, the Biker swings the shotgun like a club, catching the bandit straddling the hog in the face with the side of the barrel. WHAM. He disposes of the empty double-barrel shotgun and keeps driving.

Then the Biker is up the hill and roaring out of view. Black Bandana starts pointing and yelling.

BLACK BANDANA
Go, go, go! Get `im! Shoot `im!

He goes to haul the injured bandit to his feet, shoving him toward the bike as he steps into the side seat.

CUT TO:

EXT. WEST DESERT, BANDIT CHASE -- DAY

The Biker glances back over his shoulder at the approaching bandits. His bike isn`t as fast as theirs, and they`re fast catching up. As the nearest motorcycle bandit nears, the Biker draws the sawed-off, half-turning in his seat and firing the shottie one-handed. BOOM. Ê The blast destroys the bandit`s front wheel, causing the bike to flip, flattening him.

The Biker turns forward again, while a pair of two-man cars come up on either side of him. The bandits grin and point their pistols. Ê The Biker glances to one side, to the other, then turns back forward and leans forward. The bandits cock their weapons--

All at once, the Biker slams on the brakes, and disappears from between the bandits, just as they start firing. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. The two bandits firing both fall out of the cars, the one in the left-hand car toppling and falling under the back wheel. The Biker kicks his engine on again and spin-cocks his sawed-off again.

The two cars are both pulling U-turns and barreling toward him, with the intention of running him down. The Biker points his sawed-off ahead of him. BOOM, the right-hand car`s front right tire explodes, sending it careening into the left-hand car. The two cars grind to a halt as the Biker swings by, spin-cocking and firing as he passes. BOOM. He catches the gas-tank on the right-hand car, which sets off the magilyte oil.

As the Biker starts to turn back toward the wrecked bus, the two cars both explode. The remaining bandits are another two-man car, a motorcyclist, and Black Bandana and his driver. The Biker returns his sawed-off to its holster, and draws the six-shooter from his hip. He aims, swings his pistol from side to side, then locks his handle-bars with a switch. With both hands free, he fans the hammer as he fires all six shots.

BLAM. Shot number one blows out the windshield on the car. BLAM. Shot number two takes out the driver, causing the car to stall and the shooter to almost lacerate his stomach on the broken glass. BLAM. Shot number three takes out the motorcyclist, causing his hog to spin out on the dusty ground. BLAM. Shot number four detonates the motorcycle`s gas-tank. BLAM. Shot number five takes out Black Bandana`s pistol as he aims. BLAM. Shot number six takes out Black Bandana`s driver.

The Biker roars back toward the wrecked bus, while Black Bandana hurriedly grabs the handles of his bike and hops out of the side seat. He runs for the two-man car, hauling the dead driver out of the seat. The bandit in `shotgun` looks at his dead comrade. This bandit looks to be a bit older, world-weary, and still surprised.

BANDIT #1
(amazed)
Holy shit, he hit `im straight in the head like THAT.
(snaps fingers)
I ain`t never seen that before.

BLACK BANDANA
(grimly)
I have. Ê C`mon, let`s get back to town. Tell Mr. Blackmoor what happened.

Black Bandana sits in the driver`s seat, turns the car around and drives toward a series of squat, dark shapes in the hazy distance.

CUT TO:

EXT. BUS -- DAY

Lincoln is standing up now, looking at the approaching cloud of dust with worry, holding a shotgun he took from a dead bandit. The Biker emerges and slows his ride next to the bus. He kills the motor, and wipes dust from his goggles. He nods at the bus driver.

LINCOLN
Well, bless my soul, stranger, you saved our lives!

BIKER
(flat)
No problem.

LINCOLN
Whereabouts you from?

BIKER
(flat)
Nowhere.

The Biker`s brusque, flat tone takes the bus driver aback. He tucks the shotgun under his arm and mops his sparsely-haired head.

LINCOLN
Well, where you headed?

BIKER
(flat)
Dirty Pool.

This startles the old man, who jumps back and trips over the dead body he and Black Bandana had been talking over before. Lincoln falls on his wide rear end and grunts, gasping up at the stranger on the bike.

LINCOLN
(strained)
You don`t wanna go anywhere near that place, stranger! Place is overrun with heartless killers!

The Biker looks off in the direction the bus would have been coming from. His expression is unreadable behind his goggles and bandanas.

BIKER
(flat)
I know. Ê
(pause)
You gonna be all right?

The old bus driver blinks at him, then nods, getting up.

LINCOLN
Yes, sir. We`ll just take these snakes` weapons. Oughta come in handy if we run into trouble again.

BIKER
(flat)
Know who those men worked for?

LINCOLN
Them?
(spits)
They don`t WORK. They`re just guns for their leader, fella by the name of Eagle Sharpe. But everyone hereabouts knows HE works for Blackmoor.

The Biker whips his head back around, looking at Lincoln. This startles the old man again, bumping back against the bus. A pause, and then the Biker turns to look at the distant shapes of the town. As he does so, the Biker takes out his six-shooter, dumping out the empty shells and slotting in six fresh ones. Lincoln watches this apprehensively.

BIKER
(flat)
That a fact?

LINCOLN
Yes, sir.

The Biker grunts slightly, holstering his six-shooter and then pulling up his sawed-off, removing fresh shells from his belt and slotting them in before returning it to the holster on the bike. He sits back and starts to warm up the engine. Lincoln covers his ears (well, one of them, since he`s still holding the shotgun) at the roar.

BIKER
(over the roar)
Good to know.

Then he`s gone and out of sight, disappearing down the dried-up river valley. Lincoln watches him go.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, BLACKMOOR`S OFFICE -- DAY

This room is only lit by the daylight coming through the blinds on the windows lining the wall behind the desk. Seated at the desk is a MAN, silhouetted by the light. Ê We can just make out that he`s bald on the top of his head, the hair on the sides and in back styled out into a `flare` of sorts, apart from the few strands across the top of his head. Ê The hair is still dark, we can tell that, as well. The man at the desk is also dressed dapperly, we can tell that as well.

The man at the desk looks up as Black Bandana and the lone surviving "bandit" walk into the room. Black Bandana has pulled his "nicknamesake" down, revealing his long dark mustache, which reaches all the way to his jaw.

MAN AT DESK
What is it?

BLACK BANDANA
Ole Lincoln and his passengers got away, Mr. Blackmoor. Some guy on a motorbike stopped us.
(indicates his comrade)
Killed everyone but me and him.

LUCIUS BLACKMOOR, the man at the desk, leans back in his chair.

BLACKMOOR
(sighs)
This is a problem, Mr. Sharpe.

As the audience knows now, Black Bandana is EAGLE SHARPE.

SHARPE (BLACK BANDANA)
Yes, sir.

BLACKMOOR
You think this stranger`s coming to town, do you?

SHARPE
Why else would someone be way out here, a hundred klicks from nowhere? Gotta be coming to town for the contest.

Blackmoor is silent for a moment.

BLACKMOOR
Inform me when he gets into town. Ê And see to it that whoever this man is, he receives an invitation.

This takes Sharpe and his buddy by surprise.

SHARPE
You`re gonna let him JOIN?

BLACKMOOR
If he`s as good as you say he is, then we could use him.
(off Sharpe`s look)
We need all the top shooters we can get, Mr. Sharpe. Don`t argue with me.

Sharpe scowls, but nods.

SHARPE
Yes, sir.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL -- DAY

Now we get to see the town of Dirty Pool for the first time. It has a generically-titled `SALOON,` a funeral parlor (manned by a black, top hat-wearing undertaker), livery stables, a general store, a brothel near the outskirts, and even an old magilyte-oil gas station. There`s a sheriff`s office as well. There`s a few of the standard beat-up cars and motorcycles but most vehicles are buses or vans.

The Biker`s rattling motorcycle drifts in through the main avenue, drawing some notice from people on the street and in the windows. There`s more than a few men wearing guns in plain sight. They all watch him warily, especially as some of them spy his shotgun and scoped rifle. The Biker regards them with dust-encrusted goggles.

Finally the Biker drives up to the Saloon, parking it and unstrapping his rifle, which he slings across his back. He removes the shotgun and tucks it into a holster on his left hip, the six-shooter on the right. As he swings a big duffel bag over his shoulder, he glances around at the town, and more than one of the other GUNSLINGERS are moving toward him. The nearest one is flipping a geld coin in the air repeatedly. He`s got a ratty mop of hair, a soul-patch beard and two lines of facial hair running from the corners of his mouth down to his chin.

GUNSLINGER #1
Y`ain`t from `round here, are ya?

The Biker regards him coolly, but doesn`t reply.

GUNSLINGER #1
Y`in town for the contest?

BIKER
(cocks head)
"Contest?"

GUNSLINGER #1
(laughs derisively)
Y`ain`t too bright, are ya? Guess y`ain`t got no business in Dirty Pool, then.
(leans forward)
If I was you, boy, I`d hop back on yer little bike and haul ass on outta here.

The Biker`s goggled gaze now seems to be focused on the gunslinger`s coin. The braggart hasn`t noticed yet.

GUNSLINGER #1
See all these guns we`re carryin`, and such? You`re outgunned and outclassed, boy. You should go on back to wherever it is you came from. Y`ain`t wanted here.

The Biker suddenly snatches the coin out of mid-air, flips it high, and draws his six-shooter, pointing upwards. BLAM.

The Biker holsters his gun, bends down, picks up the coin, and flips it back to the gunslinger. The man looks down.

CLOSE-UP ON: THE COIN. It has a hole blown neatly through the middle of it.

The gunslinger and his buddies are all agog at this. They`re so busy gaping that they don`t notice the Biker waltzing straight past them and into the saloon, holstering his gun as he passes.

CUT TO:

INT. SALOON -- DAY

The inside of the saloon is quiet as the Biker steps in, wiping off his goggles. There`s only a few men in the back playing cards. The BARTENDER, a crumudgeonly old man, squints at him.

BARTENDER
What was all the ruckus about?

BIKER
(flat)
Nothing. You have any rooms to spare?

BARTENDER
Yeah. Got one left. Price is a hundred geld a day.

The Biker reaches into a pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. He peels a few off, tosses them to the bartender, who catches them and counts.

BIKER
Two days` worth there.

The bartender slips the bills into a lockbox and plucks a key from the wall, tossing it to the Biker, who snatches it out of the air.

BARTENDER
Fourth room on your left. Welcome to Dirty Pool.

The bartender looks at the weaponry the man is carrying.

BARTENDER
In town for the contest?

BIKER
Could be.

BARTENDER
(grunts)
Don`t go startin` any trouble in my bar, and I got no problem with that. You just tell that son of a bitch Blackmoor I don`t care how many guns he`s got, I ain`t sellin` out.

The Biker looks at him from the stairs.

BIKER
I don`t work for Blackmoor.

The bartender turns back to his cleaning.

BARTENDER
(bitterly)
You say that now.

CUT TO:

INT. BIKER`S ROOM -- DAY

The Biker drops his bag in the corner, unstraps his rifle and lays it on the bed, followed by the shotgun. He removes his duster and hangs it on a coatrack by the door. His clothing is covered with as much dust as the duster was. He`s got needle rounds on his belt and shotgun shells on a bandolier across his chest. He removes the bandolier and tosses it on the bed with the rifle and shotgun. He leaves the six-shooter on, however.

The Biker drops his bag in the corner, unstraps his rifle and lays it on the bed, followed by the shotgun. He removes his duster and hangs it on a coatrack by the door. His clothing is covered with as much dust as the duster was. He`s got needle rounds on his belt and shotgun shells on a bandolier across his chest. He removes the bandolier and tosses it on the bed with the rifle and shotgun. He leaves the six-shooter on, however.

His movements are slow, deliberate, and exhausted. He sighs, unstrapping his six-shooter, then collapses in the arm-chair by the window. He still has not taken off his goggles or the scarf over the lower part of his face. He lays his gun across his lap, ready to draw it, but obviously just wanting to get off his feet.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BIKER`S HOME (FLASHBACK) -- NIGHT

The scene is chaotic, full of screaming and gunfire, walls perforated by needle rounds. A young boy, 13, is huddled under a table, while a bearded man fires a rifle out a window. Ê Underneath all the screaming and shooting, we can hear derisive laughter. Ê A woman is shoving needle rounds inexpertly into a pistol.

The door to the hallway bursts open, and the man with the rifle spins around, clobbering the first bandit in with the stock of his rifle. His wife tosses him the pistol. The man drops the rifle and (with the same fanning motion of the hammer we saw the Biker do earlier) fires off six shots in rapid succession. Ê BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. The bandit who got hit with the rifle stock and the five men behind him all go down, several with gunshot wounds in their heads.

In the smoke-filled hallway, one man stoops and checks his fallen comrades, gaping at the precision aiming. Then he draws a pistol and aims.

From the smoke-filled door behind the fallen bandits comes a series of gunshots. BLAM, BLAM. The man crumples as two crimson points blossom on his shirt, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, and then his wife falls, wounds opening on her shoulders and chest. The boy gasps in horror, staring at his fallen parents. His FATHER stretches out his arm, sliding the six-shooter to him.

FATHER
(weakly)
Eric... go... out the back...

Young Eric, the boy, shakes his head frantically. Father grimaces from the pain in the wounds, then gestures desperately.

FATHER
GO!

Eric hurriedly scampers out the back door, peering around the doorframe as the person who shot his parents emerges through the other door. We should recognize him: it`s Eagle Sharpe. He stands over Father, pointing his gun down at him.

SHARPE
Mr. Blackmoor told you to sell your land. You didn`t listen.
(tsks)
Brought this on yourself.

And he pulls the trigger. BLAM. Young Eric jerks as though he were shot himself, then grips the six-shooter Father had passed him and runs off into the desert night. Sharpe looks up and rushes to the back door.

SHARPE
Hey! I see you, kid!
(laughs)
How`d you like all that, kid? Huh? Hahaha!

Sharpe`s derisive laughter echoes into the night. Then he raises his gun again, pointing it at the retreating Eric. He shoots. BLAM. We see the fleeing shape of the young boy fall.

CUT TO:

INT. BIKER`S ROOM -- DAY

The Biker jerks in his chair as there`s a loud banging at his door. Drawing his six-shooter -- which we now recognize as the same one from the flashback, the Biker approaches the door. He`s still got his goggles and scarf on.

BIKER
Who is it?

MAN`S VOICE (O.S.)
Not an enemy. I come with an invitation.

There is a pause, and the Biker lowers his gun and cautiously opens the door. Standing on the other side is a DAPPER MAN, blond hair slicked back, goatee trimmed to a point. He offers one white-gloved hand.

DAPPER MAN
Nathaniel Victory, sir. Pleased to meet you.

The Biker looks at NATHANIEL VICTORY`s hand, then back up at him, expression as blank as man wearing goggles and a scarf can be.

BIKER
What do you want?

VICTORY (DAPPER MAN)
You`re new to the town of Dirty Pool, I take it. So you probably don`t know about the... event we`re holding in two days.

BIKER
A contest, right?

VICTORY
(smiling)
You`ve heard of it?

BIKER
Precious little.

VICTORY
We`re holding a dueling tournament. A quick-draw contest, if you will.

BIKER
(flat)
Uh-huh. What`s the winner get?

VICTORY
(smiles)
Have you ever heard of the Dead-Eye Society, sir?

The Biker stares at him blankly.

VICTORY
You haven`t, then. Not surprising. We don`t like to attract attention from the riff-raff. The Society is an elite group of gunslingers like yourself, sir. We help keep the peace way out here. Ê The Republic of West would stretch itself too thin to get the law all the way out in the sticks like this.

BIKER
So your Society is just a bunch of... "public-spirited" citizens, right?

VICTORY
(chuckling)
Not "my" Society, sir, but yes, you have the general idea. Would you care to enter?

The Biker regards him coolly.

BIKER
Maybe. Two days, you say?

VICTORY
That`s right.

BIKER
I`ll let you know.

He shuts the door. The Biker turns to the bureau, with the mirror set above it, then pulls his scarf down. His lower face is a dusty pale color, and his heat-chapped lips turn up at the corner with a smirk.

BIKER
(to himself)
In time, Eric, in time.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, MEETING ROOM -- DAY

We`re inside a meeting room, with a long table surrounded by high-backed chairs, the walls lined with shelves of books on real estate law and other shelf-filling books. A library there to look impressive, if not to actually read. A small table holds liquor, and Sharpe is there, wearing a dark gray suit, pouring himself some whiskey. With him, in another dark gray suit, is the older man we knew previously as Bandit #1. Ê Speaking to both of them is the coin-flipping gunslinger that the Biker shut up earlier. The bandit is examining the holed coin.

GUNSLINGER #1
--I mean this guy is FAST! I swear, he flipped it in the air and shot it before I knew he`d snatched it!

BANDIT #1
`Said he came in on an old motorcycle?

GUNSLINGER #1
Yeah, wearin` goggles and an old scarf.

BANDIT #1
(to Sharpe)
It`s the guy we saw at the bus, gotta be.

SHARPE
(not looking up)
`Said he`s a good shot, right, Brinks?

BRINKS (GUNSLINGER #1)
Yeah. Hell, I couldn`t pull off a shot like that on my BEST DAY!

Sharpe grunts and sips his whiskey. He turns to Brinks.

SHARPE
That ain`t sayin` much, Brinks.

He looks to the bandit and holds out his hand. The bandit drops the coin in it.

CLOSE-UP ON: THE COIN. Once more we can see the remarkable precision in the shot.

ANGLE ON: SHARPE. He frowns a bit, rolling the coin in his palm, then tossing it back to BRINKS.

SHARPE
Okay, don`t let this news get `round. We`re on a recruiting drive, after all.

BANDIT #1
Yeah. Word got out there was some crackshot in town besides you, people might get to thinking he`s a ringer.

SHARPE
Right, Charlie. Y`ever seen anybody shoot like this?

CHARLIE (BANDIT #1)
What, me? Not since I got run outta Zozo by the Maughlin Family.

SHARPE
Right.

He turns back and blinks as he sees Brinks still standing there.

SHARPE
What`re you still doin` here?

BRINKS
Ain`t I gonna get somethin` for this kinda information?

SHARPE
Yeah, I`ll give ya a black eye. Shoo, ya bother me.

He shoves Brinks off, and the gunslinger stumbles out of the Ê room. Sharpe glances at CHARLIE.

SHARPE
So he`s definitely come to town. Guess that means he`s stayin` at Ripley`s Saloon. Ê Ain`t nowhere else left to stay in town, `cept for Madam Ramsera`s, and they charge by the hour.

CHARLIE
I`ll get some of the boys to stop in, test the waters a bit.

SHARPE
And if old man Ripley gives you any trouble, just shoot the bastard. Wills and paperwork be damned, I hate the old fart. Let Mr. Blackmoor sort it all out later.

CHARLIE
(with a grin)
Right.

CUT TO:

INT. SALOON -- NIGHT

The Biker, scarf back on, emerges from the upstairs hallway and regards the Saloon nightlife. It`s much busier now, with almost every table filled with boisterous drinkers, card-players, and barflies. The old bartender is busy filling glasses and taking orders. The Biker surveys the crowd, some of which look toward him when they note his shotgun and six-shooter, but more than one of them has their own weapon.

Clustered at a table, apparently playing cards, is Brinks, along with his fellow gunslingers from earlier. They`re all watching him, going through the motions.

At another table is Charlie, wearing quite different clothing than he wore as a bandit. He looks like an ordinary townsperson.

The Biker moves over to the bar and sits down at an empty stool. He glances up when the bartender shuffles over. He just holds up a finger, then glances back over his shoulder.

Over at their table, Brinks and his gunslingers turn back to their cards.

The Biker stares at them for a moment longer, then takes the whiskey the bartender puts down in front of him. The bartender looks from the Biker to Brinks, then back. The Biker lowers his scarf and takes a sip of his booze, noting the look.

BIKER
`Know those guys?

BARTENDER
Ah, just the snake with the coin fixation. Goes by the name of Jonas Brinks. Rolled into town a few months back. Fancies himself a crackshot.

BIKER
`Magine that.

BARTENDER
You seem to`ve attracted his notice.

BIKER
Prob`ly `cuz I blew a hole through that coin he loves to flip around.

The bartender looks surprised.

BARTENDER
That was YOU what done that?

BIKER
I don`t care to brag.

BARTENDER
`Been askin` `bout`cha, Brinks has. Reckon you pissed `im off when you did that to his coin.

BIKER
(sipping his whiskey)
Whatever.

Over at his table, Brinks knocks back the last of whatever booze he`s been drinking, then pushes his chair back. His fellows do the same thing. The sound of their chairs scraping the floor makes the saloon fall silent. Brinks, a sneer on his face, marches up behind the Biker. He`s got his holed-coin in his hand, and is flipping it again.

BRINKS
Hey. You. Bug-eye.

The goggled gaze looks up at the mirror behind the bar, looking at Brinks. He says nothing, but his demeanor says "What the hell do you want?"

BRINKS
Real nice trick you did earlier. Shootin` my coin like that. Guess you think you`re hotstuff or somethin`, don`cha?

BIKER
Compared to a shitkicker like you? I`d say yes.

The response startles Brinks, who drops his coin. The Biker sips his whiskey, while Brinks` buddies shuffle forward a few steps with bad intentions. The nearest one draws a boot knife.

As he jabs forward with it, the Biker lunges off of his barstool and slams his fist down into the knife-man`s wrist as he misses with his jab. CA-CRACK, there go the forearm bones. The man falls, screaming.

BRINKS
What the f--

Before Brinks can finish that sentence, the Biker throws his whiskey in the gunslinger`s face. It stings, and Brinks cuts himself off with a scream of his own. The next gunslinger that moves forward misses as the Biker sidesteps again and lifts his knee into the man`s stomach. He doubles over with a loud OOOOF, then gets an elbow in the spine, putting him on the floor.

The third and last gunslinger grabs a bottle off the bar, inverts it, and smashes it on the bar with the intention of making a jagged weapon. What happens, however, is the man winds up with a fistful of broken glass. Blood drips on the floor, and the gunslinger`s mouth drops open. The Biker reaches down, grabs the man`s fist, and SQUEEZES. The gunslinger SCREAMS.

Brinks clears his eyes, sputtering, and fumbles for his sidearm.

BRINKS
You son of--

CLICK. The Biker`s sawed-off is under his jaw.

BRINKS
Uhhh.

The Biker, without moving his shotgun, bends down, plucks the coin off the floor and stands up. He holds the coin up, then reaches forward and tucks it in Brinks` front pocket.

BIKER
Reckon you wanna leave me in peace tonight, Jonas Brinks. I ain`t in the mood to deal with a slack-jawed shitwad like you.

Brinks` jaw clenches at the new insult, but he doesn`t say anything, probably because the Biker`s sawed-off is still pushed pretty firmly into his chin.

BRINKS
(teeth clenched)
Yeah...

BIKER
So. Here`s what you do: gather up your shitkicker friends, find the town doctor, and leave me be. If you still got a problem with me, save it.

Now the Biker`s goggled gaze swings across the saloon to look at Nathaniel Victory, who has been watching the whole spectacle with a blank expression.

BIKER
I`ll see you in the contest.

Victory`s lips turn up in the barest smile, and he nods at this. The Biker nods back to him, then turns his gaze back to Brinks. The three gunslingers are picking themselves up, one man cradling his broken wrist, one cradling his bleeding hand, and the other helping them out the door, staring wide-eyed at the Biker.

Slowly, the Biker finally pulls his sawed-off back, and Brinks backs up a step, sneer returning to his face as he heads for the door, never turning his back on the Biker.

BRINKS
(pointing a finger)
S`ain`t over, Bug-eye.

The Biker holsters his sawed-off, and sits back down on his barstool.

BIKER
(flat)
Whatever.

Brinks scowls, but walks out of the saloon with his buddies. After a moment, the Biker reaches into a pocket and pulls out a ten-geld coin. He flips it to the bartender, who catches it.

BIKER
Sorry `bout the mess.

In the back of the saloon, Charlie gets up from his seat and sidles out the back. Victory gets up from his own seat and stops by the Biker`s stool.

VICTORY
So, my friend, you will enter our little contest?

BIKER
S`right.

VICTORY
And what name shall I put on your entry card?

The Biker pulls his scarf back up and rises, goggled eyes meeting Victory`s.

BIKER
Fasthand.

He turns and starts to leave.

FASTHAND (BIKER)
They call me Fasthand.

And he disappears back up the stairs to the rooms above.

FADE OUT.

END ACT ONE.

ACT TWO: THE CONTEST OF THE QUICKEST

FADE IN.

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, BLACKMOOR`S OFFICE -- DAY

The early morning light is not lighting up Blackmoor`s office like before. So this time he`s got a few lamps lit. We now have a better look at Blackmoor. He`s got a round face, a bit fleshy, with a goatee and mustache to go with his thinning dark hair. He leans back in his seat as Sharpe and Charlie stand there, both wearing suits similar to the ones from before.

CHARLIE
--did to Brinks last night. Guy actually talked some serious trash, and he can back it up.

SHARPE
No way around it, Mr. Blackmoor. This guy is going to cause us some serious trouble if we let him enter the contest.

Blackmoor steeples his fingers and just smiles.

BLACKMOOR
Patience, Mr. Sharpe. Patience, Mr. Callis. I`m perfectly aware of what potential threats there are in town.

He stands up and walks to his window. The camera follows, and we look out from the third floor. Blackmoor`s building is set atop a hill from which he can see almost all of Dirty Pool. He folds his hands behind his back, the picture of a scheming businessman or despot. Both of which pretty well describe him.

BLACKMOOR
Are you aware, perhaps, that Travis Tooms is in town?

This draws a major reaction from Sharpe, who jerks as if struck.

SHARPE
The marshal?

Now Charlie jerks, realizing who they mean.

CHARLIE
Marshal Tooms? The One-Eyed Jack?

BLACKMOOR
Indeed. Dispatched to our little town in response to our local constabulary`s work. Or lack thereof, rather.

CHARLIE
He`s comin` to boot old Sheriff Cowell out, right?

BLACKMOOR
In a manner. However, I`ve procured a copy of Marshal Tooms` orders, and he`s not authorized to do anything to Sheriff Cowell until the 15th, and that`s not for another three days.

SHARPE
(grunts)
He`s gonna see whether Cowell shapes up before doin` anything.

BLACKMOOR
Exactly. I say it`s time we made overtures to Sheriff Cowell.

The two men frown. Sharpe looks decidedly not pleased.

SHARPE
You want to let Cowell into the Dead-Eyes?

Blackmoor turns back from the window and gives a mirthless little smile as he picks up a telephone from his desk. He dials a number.

BLACKMOOR
Relax, gentlemen. Welcome to the machine.
(to phone)
Mr. Victory? Proceed as planned. Ê Stack the deck.

CUT TO:

INT. RIGGER`S GARAGE -- DAY

Welcome to the inside of an old, rundown garage. Tools are strewn about, old car and motorcycle parts, plus an engine hangs from the ceiling. A lone man, a MECHANIC, in a gray jumpsuit with a baseball cap sits at a desk, feet up and cap down over his eyes, sleeping. He snores.

Then FASTHAND THE BIKER appears in the doorway, pushing his motorcycle. His goggles and scarf are both in position. He wheels it into the middle of the floor and puts out the kickstand. Then he walks over and looks down at the sleeping mechanic. Without a word, he kicks the back legs of his chair, sending the man toppling backwards with a tremendous CRASH.

The mechanic gets up, muttering, rubbing his tailbone.

MECHANIC
Ow, son of a BITCH!

He looks up at Fasthand and jumps back a bit.

MECHANIC
Gyah. Uh, Jack Rigger.

He offers his hand. Fasthand doesn`t take it.

FASTHAND
Name`s Fasthand.

JACK RIGGER pushes his cap back and scratches his scalp.

RIGGER (MECHANIC)
Fasthand, huh? You must be that slick son of a bitch Old Man Ripley told me about.

FASTHAND
Ripley. The barkeep?

RIGGER
That`s the guy. What can I do for ya?

Fasthand jerks his thumb at his bike.

FASTHAND
`Need an overhaul.

Rigger gapes and walks over to look it over.

RIGGER
This is an old Kuat Motors TS-4 Series. I haven`t seen one of these in years.

FASTHAND
Can you fix `er up for me?

The mechanic walks around the bike a few times, whistling as he regards this, that, and t`other thing. Then he tugs his cap back down and turns it around.

RIGGER
I won`t lie to ya. S`gonna take a lotta work. I take it you`re only in town for the contest that`s being hosted by Lucius Blackmoor?

Fasthand looks up sharply from the table of tools he`d been looking at. He takes a quick step forward.

FASTHAND
Who`d ya say`s hostin` it?

RIGGER
(glances up, blinking)
Lucius Blackmoor. The realtor. Everyone knows he owns just about all the land from the mountains to Walkerton about three hundred klicks southeast.

Fasthand looks at him with his goggled gaze, then nods.

FASTHAND
Right. Yeah. I`m in town for the contest.

RIGGER
Then I can get `er running smoothly for you by the time the contest`s done. Can`t promise a sweet job, but I`ll keep `er from fallin` apart between here and the next town. I`d recommend you get `er a proper overhaul once you get where you`re going.

Fasthand grunts, then looks outside.

CUT TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL STREET -- DAY

A tall man in an indigo suit and gray hat is walking slowly through the streets, a gun (a Kuat N2) on his hip. On the side of his jacket is a gleaming copper badge. Ê Then he lifts his head and we can see the patch over his left eye, a knife scar tracing down from his forehead and onto his cheek. He sports a Vandyke beard and a thin mustache.

ANGLE ON: THE BADGE. It`s circular, has a star in the middle, and reads `REPUBLIC OF WEST - MARSHAL`

This is, of course, MARSHAL TRAVIS TOOMS, the One-Eyed Jack, that we heard Blackmoor, Sharpe, and Charlie talking about earlier. He glances around at the townsfolk, particularly at those carrying weapons. Then he stops, looking back at Fasthand, who stands in the door of Rigger`s Garage. The marshal then nods briefly to the biker, who nods back.

We follow Tooms as he strides through town, walking up to the sad-looking building with the Sheriff`s star in the window. Around the star are the words `DIRTY POOL SHERIFF`S OFFICE` and along the bottom, `SHERIFF JAME COWELL.`

CUT TO:

INT. SHERIFF`S OFFICE -- DAY

Sitting behind the desk and the slowly turning fan atop it is a fat man with thin gray hair teased across his scalp and filthy stubble on his jowls. He wears the khaki uniform and the tin star on his chest. SHERIFF JAME COWELL sits up, blinking as Tooms walks in. The marshal removes his hat and smooths his hair down.

TOOMS
G`day, Sheriff.

COWELL
(nervous smile)
Ma-Marshal Tooms! I-I wuh-wasn`t `spectin` you to come by--

TOOMS
Save it, Sheriff. You know damn well I was comin` to town.

COWELL
(stammering)
Wuh-well, I-I, uh, I, uh--

TOOMS
I said, save it.
(shakes his head)
Shit. You`re one sorry son of a bitch, Cowell. You`re supposed to be the law in this town, it`s not a bunch of stuck-up gun nuts.

COWELL
Wuh-well, it`s all kinda complicated, Ma-Marshal--

Tooms just shakes his head.

TOOMS
You`re not gonna convince me, Sheriff. I`m givin` you three days, and then you`re comin` back to Walkerton, with me.

He puts his hat on.

TOOMS
Settle up whatever you have to, but pack up for good. Republic`s heard about the mess you made out here by sittin` around with your thumb up your ass, and they ain`t happy `bout it.

He heads back out.

TOOMS
Three days, Sheriff.

And he`s gone. Cowell slumps at his desk, looking like a man who has just been given a death sentence. Then another figure slips up to the door and sidles inside. It`s Nathaniel Victory, dressed dapper and wearing his white gloves. He glances out the door, then closes it with a muted CLICK and draws the shades.

VICTORY
You know who I am, correct, Sheriff?

Cowell nods.

VICTORY
And you know who I represent?

Again, a nod, a suspicious one.

VICTORY
Fair enough, Sheriff. We can protect you, sir. And Marshal Tooms won`t be able to touch you.

Cowell leans forward, eyes narrowing.

COWELL
What`s in it for you?

VICTORY
Well, you have to enter.
(smiles)
We`ll make certain you face... suitable competition.

Cowell frowns a bit, then slowly starts to smile, like a man who sees salvation.

CUT TO:

INT. SALOON -- DAY

The saloon is empty apart from RIPLEY, the bartender, the poker-players, and Fasthand, who sits at a table, cleaning his rifle, shotgun, and six-shooter. Ê Tooms steps inside, removing his hat, and looking at Fasthand. He slowly walks over to him.

TOOMS
(to Fasthand)
I know you. Saw you in Walkerton a couple weeks back.

FASTHAND
(without looking up)
I know you, too. One-Eyed Jack. Marshal Tooms.

TOOMS
Well, you got an advantage on me, stranger. Didn`t catch your name.

FASTHAND
(still not looking up)
They call me Fasthand.

Tooms grunts, looks at the biker`s equipment.

TOOMS
I hear tell there`s some quick-draw contest in town tomorrow.

FASTHAND
(still not looking up)
I hear tell that`s true.

TOOMS
Reckon I should put a stop to that sort of thing. Can`t have people getting killed needlessly.

Fasthand finishes cleaning out the barrel of his rifle, peers down the tube, then closes it, setting it aside. He looks up.

FASTHAND
"Can`t have people getting killed needlessly." Right. In case you haven`t noticed, Marshal Tooms, that`s the way it happens out here in the sticks.

He slowly rises, goggles staring into Tooms`s face.

FASTHAND
Out on farmsteads and ranches away from the cities, there ain`t no sheriffs or marshals or lawmen to keep bandits at bay. So people die. And then the people that didn`t get killed kill the ones who murdered their loved ones. Needless deaths, all of them.

He points a finger into Tooms` chest.

FASTHAND
Maybe the men that round up posses ain`t always the most trustworthy snakes in the grass, but they defend their land and their people, which is a lot more than I can say about the law sometimes.

He shakes his head.

FASTHAND
Sometimes the only choice we have is to take the law into our own hands, Marshal Tooms. Whether we do it by ourselves or in a group, we at least see that the right thing gets done.

He shoulders the rifle, scoops up his shotgun and six-shooter and heads for the stairs. Tooms watches him quietly.

CUT TO:

INT. BIKER`S (FASTHAND`S) ROOM -- DAY

Fasthand storms in and puts his rifle down by the chair, then sits on the bed and starts to clean the sawed-off. After a moment, we hear footsteps in the hallway, and Tooms appears in the door, looking down at his hat as he runs his fingers over the brim. Fasthand ignores him. The angle is such that Fasthand and his motions are in the f.g., while Tooms is calmly standing in the b.g.

TOOMS
Roundabout... oh... musta been seven years ago, maybe much as ten, we started gettin` notice of how land was bein` grabbed up like no one`s business out in the northwestern territories.

Fasthand pauses a moment as Tooms mentions this, then goes on cleaning.

TOOMS
See, this didn`t bother us too much, since most of those transactions were entirely on the up-and-up, people sellin` their land, movin` to the cities and towns, not really our business.
(pause)
But then we start hearin` that some of these folks had been forced into signing over their land, sellin` it severely undervalued, and bein` run out of the area. That`s when we started to take notice. There weren`t any proof, however, so we couldn`t do anything.

Fasthand pauses again, staring at the floor, while Tooms continues.

TOOMS
Then we started hearin` that these same people that were grabbin` up all this land had gotten their hands on more parcels of land, with no proof of sale. Just new deeds that indicated they owned the land. And there was no sign of the original owners. Just... bulletholes, blood stains, and a lot of unanswered questions.

Fasthand continues to stare at the floor. Tooms straightens up and sighs a bit.

TOOMS
Now, suppose someone survived one of those ... incidents, and ran off, made it to a nearby town. He knew who the men responsible were, but he didn`t have any trust in the law. So he bides his time and decides to take the law into his own hands.

The marshal looks at the biker with his one good eye.

TOOMS
Suppose that man found himself in a shoot-out contest with the man who murdered his kin. You honestly think the murderer`ll play fair?

There`s a long pause, during which we focus on Fasthand`s unreadable expression. Then, he sits up and goes back to cleaning his gun.

FASTHAND
Doesn`t matter, does it, Marshal? S`one of those rhetorical questions, ain`t it?

Tooms sighs and turns to leave.

TOOMS
Guess so, Mr. Fasthand. Guess so.

And he walks off down the hall.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL TOWN SQUARE -- DAY

A wooden platform and a large wooden billboard have been erected in the center of town. Dozens of men are gathered, all carrying guns. Standing on the platform, at a podium, speaking into a microphone and being broadcast via old speakers, is Nathaniel Victory. In the crowd, we can see Fasthand, Brinks, and Charlie. Near the edges of the crowd are Sheriff Cowell and, on the other side, Marshal Tooms.

Briefly, we look behind the platform, and can see Sharpe lurking there.

VICTORY
(into microphone)
Welcome, my friends! Welcome to the Dead-Eye Society`s Contest of the Quickest! As some of you are no doubt aware, the Dead-Eye Society is an association of gunslingers like yourselves, but we only take the absolute best!

Pan over the crowd, focusing on those gunslingers that we know, and perhaps a few we don`t.

VICTORY
The champion of the contest will take home a 50,000 geld prize, and will be given the opportunity to join the Dead-Eye Society, if he is not already a member. For yes, there are a few members of our illustrious society who will participate. None of our senior members, of course, but ones to provide healthy competition.

Cut to show some reactions to this news. Victory continues.

VICTORY
Out of a crop of dozens, a mere thirty-two have been selected as worthy to compete. To those who have not been chosen, take heart, for there may be a spot for you in the Dead-Eye Society, so please, don`t leave yet. For those who have been selected, congratulations, you`ve passed a major first step. Duels will take place north of town, in the old magilyte quarry in the hills.

He gestures to the board beside the platform.

VICTORY
If you will look here, you will see the current standings of the contenders. Our first duel will take place in one hour. Thank you, and good luck!

Cut to show the tournament brackets. First on the list is a bracket showing "FASTHAND v. C. CALLIS" and under it "J. BRINKS v. R. BURKE" and then "N. VICTORY v. P. SEVERN." Further down we see "J. COWELL v. B. NORD" and still further "T. TOOMS v. W. DUNLOP." At the very bottom is a bracket showing "T. WALLIS v. E. SHARPE."

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND, looking up at the board.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND`S NAME, in the first bracket.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND, lowering his gaze to the bottom.

ANGLE ON: SHARPE`S NAME, in the last bracket.

LINCOLN (V.O.)
(memory)
They`re just guns for their leader, fella by the name of Eagle Sharpe. But everyone hereabouts knows HE works for Blackmoor.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: FASTHAND`S GOGGLES. Sharpe`s name can be seen in it backwards.

SHARPE (V.O.)
(memory)
Mr. Blackmoor told you to sell your land. You didn`t listen.
(tsks)
Brought this on yourself.
(gunshot)

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND, pivoting and marching off toward Rigger`s Garage. Tooms steps up to the board from behind him, watching him, then turning to look at the board. He also lingers on Sharpe`s name.

ANGLE ON: SHARPE, lurking behind the platform still. Charlie and Victory join him. Sharpe does not look happy.

SHARPE
That`s Tooms. Godsdammit, I knew this was a bad idea.

VICTORY
Mr. Blackmoor has a plan, Sharpe. Just have faith.

SHARPE
HAH! "Faith." Ê The only thing I have faith in, you little piss-ant, is the stopping power of a .44 caliber slug. That damn badge is gonna ruin the whole damn contest.

VICTORY
Only if he makes it to face you. If he happens to get shot before then--
(spreads hands)
Oh, well. But if he faces you--
(smiles)
Well, we have ways of making sure he doesn`t win, yes?

CHARLIE
Fine for you two to talk about this. I gotta go face that crazy-ass biker. Damn son-of-a-bitch`s gonna aerate my brain.

SHARPE
So don`t get shot. Ya moron.

The three men watch as the marshal strolls off. Then Sharpe grunts and stands up straight.

SHARPE
C`mon. We gotta get up to the dueling field.

CUT TO:

EXT. HILLS OUTSIDE DIRTY POOL -- DAY

The hills to the north of town are pretty big ones, and there`s a few old buildings atop some of them. One of them is a large three-story building. A large sign on the front proclaims it to be BLACKMOOR REALTY. There are a number of small clouds of dust moving through the hills -- motorcycles and cars transporting the gunslingers to the dueling grounds.

One old jeep has Fasthand and Tooms in it, riding in the back. Sitting in the front is a weathered-looking gunslinger, who turns to look back at the marshal and biker.

GUNSLINGER #2
You`re Marshal Tooms, ain`t`cha? Name`s Roland. Steve Roland.

TOOMS
Best of luck to ya, Mr. Roland.

ROLAND smirks and turns back in his seat. Fasthand`s goggled gaze turns from straight ahead to looking up at Blackmoor Realty as they pass.

ANGLE ON: THE BLACKMOOR REALTY SIGN, as the jeep passes.

Fasthand`s gaze lingers a moment, then he turns back in his seat. Without looking at him, Fasthand speaks to Tooms.

FASTHAND
So, d`you know who this `C. Callis` person is?

TOOMS
Charlie Callis. Formerly of the Esper Union. Worked for the Maughlin Family, one of the biggest crime families in Esper. Way I hear it, he hauled ass outta Esper after Rob Maughlin was killed by some guy he and Callis were s`posed to whack.

FASTHAND
He a good shot?

TOOMS
Decent enough.

Fasthand nods silently and returns to his brooding.

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

The cars and bikes and vehicles are all parked on one side of a hill, and the gunslingers are filing up to the top. The hills here are a bit shorter. As the camera swings around the hills to view it from the other side, we can see a couple of wooden towers erected so men in suits can watch what`s going on. A large rectangular area has been roped off.

We can also see, not too far off, the bulk of Blackmoor Realty.

Fasthand and Charlie are both showing their weapons to a dry-looking man in a black suit. He nods, and then they both load six needle rounds into them, so they have equal amounts of ammo. They then holster their guns and step over the rope into the dueling ground itself.

They both walk toward the center of the dueling ground.

FASTHAND
I know you.

CHARLIE
Yeah?

FASTHAND
You`re one of those men that attacked that bus.

Charlie glances briefly at Fasthand, who doesn`t even look around.

FASTHAND
Reckon the marshal might be interested to hear about that sort of thing. Wonder why you and your buddy in the black bandana are so keen to keep people from leaving Dirty Pool.

Charlie looks a tad worried for a moment, then just shrugs and looks ahead again.

CHARLIE
It is a quandry.

Now Fasthand glances briefly at Charlie, who doesn`t look around. Then Fasthand turns his gaze forward again.

FASTHAND
Indeed.

They reach the center of the dueling grounds, then turn back-to-back and walk toward two chalk lines drawn on the ground. As they do, the man in the black suit, a JUDGE for the contest, speaks into a megaphone.

JUDGE
Round One, Match One: Fasthand versus Charlie Callis. Defeat occurs when your opponent lies dead or surrenders his weapon and raises his hands over his head. Disqualification occurs if you shoot a surrendering opponent or by using an unsanctioned weapon. Do both of you understand this?

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. He inclines his head in a nod.

ANGLE ON: CHARLIE. He nods as well, never taking his eyes of Fasthand.

JUDGE
When the tone sounds, draw your guns and fire. Neither man may move until both first shots have been fired.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. He brushes his duster back, hand poised over his six-shooter.

ANGLE ON: CHARLIE. He leans forward, hand poised to draw his own gun.

WIDE ANGLE: BOTH MEN, on the dueling ground.

ANGLE ON: THE SPECTATORS. Tooms folds his arms, watching critically. Brinks stands there with his three buddies, one of whom has his arm in a sling, one with his hand bandaged. Roland is watching as well.

ANGLE ON: DUELING GROUND. A loud electronic TONE sounds. FAST CUTS between Fasthand and Charlie as both men draw their guns, shooting from the hip. BLAM-BLAM! Fasthand`s shot gets off first, as Charlie crumples, his right knee bleeding heavily. Charlie`s shot catches the edge of the left arm of Fasthand`s duster. Before Charlie can straighten or move, Fasthand fans his hammer and gets off another shot. BLAM! Charlie reels back as a shot catches him in the left shoulder, arm flailing limply. Charlie braces himself with his bad arm, SHOUTING in pain, and pushes himself up, sinking to both knees. Fasthand fans and fires again. BLAM! A shot to the other shoulder. Blood runs down both of Charlie`s arms, while he SCREAMS in agony.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND, staring at him impassively.

Charlie raises his gun, teeth bared in a grimace of pain and anger, holding his weapon above his shoulder, like he`s about to level it and fire.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: FASTHAND`S GOGGLES. Charlie can be seen in them, reflected.

Charlie flinches, then tosses the gun on the ground in front of him. He spits at Fasthand, then raises his hands in surrender, painfully raising them to his head.

ANGLE ON: THE JUDGE. He raises his megaphone.

JUDGE
Winner: Fasthand, by surrender!

Fasthand looks at Charlie again for a moment, then holsters his six-shooter, turns and walks off the dueling ground. A couple of men carrying medical kits rush out onto the field with a stretcher to help Charlie, who grimaces and slumps from his injuries.

ANGLE ON: SPECTATORS. They all look a bit impressed and stunned at the speed and skill with which Fasthand dispatched Charlie. Tooms purses his lips a bit, looking impressed. Brinks sneers, clenching his fist on his coin. His injured buddy sneers as well.

GUNSLINGER #3
Huh! Don`t see what everyone`s so impressed by. Son of a bitch didn`t score a kill-shot.

BRINKS
Nah, he didn`t. But if he meant to kill `im, trust me, Bug-eye would`ve killed him.

HIGH ANGLE ON: The whole dueling ground area. Fasthand continues to stride away from the defeated Charlie.

MONTAGE SEQUENCE: THE FIRST ROUND OF THE CONTEST. Shots of gunslingers drawing and firing. Shots of men collapsing to the ground with gunshot wounds and shots of men tossing their guns down. Glimpses of those that we know: Brinks, Roland, Tooms, Sharpe.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL TOWN SQUARE -- DAY

The daylight is fading. One of the contest judges is just updating the big board of brackets. Under the heading of "ROUND TWO" are brackets with "FASTHAND v. J. BRINKS" "N. VICTORY v. M. INVAR" "J. COWELL v. D. CARSON" "A. POLE v. B. JENSEN" "T. TOOMS v. J. HECKS" "C. CARTER v. J. LEE" "S. ROLAND v. B. KENDAL" and "D. MCCORD v. E. SHARPE."

Pull back to show Tooms looking at the board. Fasthand is nearby, polishing his six-shooter.

TOOMS
(sighing)
Sixteen matches. And ten deaths. Only three surrenders.

FASTHAND
It`s the way out here, Marshal. The law don`t always hold away from the big cities.
(holstering his gun)
You been in the cities too long, Marshal Tooms. You`ve forgotten how we do it in the sticks.

TOOMS
Maybe so. Doesn`t mean I have to approve of how you do it.

They both start walking for the saloon, even if they aren`t necessarily walking together.

FASTHAND
So. Eagle Sharpe`s in the contest.

TOOMS
(gruffly)
I noticed. Bastard`s one of the slickest sons of bitches I`ve ever dealt with. Never been able to catch up with him until now, and he`s out of my reach.

Fasthand looks sharply at him.

FASTHAND
How?

TOOMS
(sighing)
You heard of Lucius Blackmoor?

FASTHAND
(flat)
Some. Big-shot realtor out here. Heard tell that he owns most of the land `tween the mountains and Walkerton.

TOOMS
Yeah. Well, because of all that, Blackmoor`s got a lot of influence in Walkerton, the nearest city where I could put Sharpe on trial. And last time I caught up with Sharpe, Blackmoor`s lawyers turned up and dumped paperwork and briefs on me. By the time I dug myself out, Sharpe was untouchable, `cuz he and Blackmoor are pals.

Tooms spits to the side.

TOOMS
Makes me sick.

FASTHAND
(amused)
And that`s why you entered the contest, isn`t it? You can kill Sharpe, and there`s nothing Blackmoor can do, since he`s the one who authorized this contest in the first place.

Tooms just gives a smirk. Fasthand chuckles and shakes his head.

FASTHAND
I think you`re getting the hang of sticks justice, Marshal Tooms.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, BLACKMOOR`S OFFICE -- NIGHT

Blackmoor is at his desk, the room lit by lamps. Sharpe leans against a wall, Victory sitting in the chair, leg folded, puffing on a cigar. Charlie is sitting in the other chair, leg in a cast, left arm in a sling, the other arm heavily bandaged.

BLACKMOOR
I see Fasthand and Tooms both advanced.

VICTORY
That might have been predicted. Fasthand is indeed as fast as we`ve heard, and Marshal Tooms is still a very good shot despite missing an eye.

CHARLIE
Damn right Fasthand`s fast! Look what the son of a bitch did to me!

BLACKMOOR
Mr. Brinks faces him in the next round, doesn`t he?

SHARPE
Brinks won`t beat him. He has too high an opinion of himself. Half of a duel is the mental duel. It`s psyching the other guy out. It`s what Fasthand did to Charlie. And Fasthand`s already in Brinks` head.

Victory looks up, blowing out smoke from his cigar.

VICTORY
Indeed. He`s gotten in twice. First, when he shot that hole in Brinks` lucky coin, and then when he single-handedly fought off Brinks AND his three friends.

BLACKMOOR
(to Victory)
Is it still possible we could recruit this Fasthand person?

SHARPE
I doubt it. There`s something about the guy that tells me he won`t sign on. He`s been talkin` with Tooms a lot, too.

Blackmoor drums his fingers on the table, then nods to Victory.

BLACKMOOR
Arrange to have the deck... stacked further. If indeed this Fasthand won`t join the Society, then he is our enemy.
(pause)
Who is Marshal Tooms facing next round?

VICTORY
Joseph Hecks.

BLACKMOOR
Ah, yes. He was a definite potential inductee, wasn`t he? Hmm.

VICTORY
Should I stack the deck against the marshal as well?

BLACKMOOR
(nods)
Yes. He`s going to find out what we`re planning if he keeps nosing around.

Sharpe sneers.

SHARPE
We could always just shoot them in their bedrooms. Less fuss.

At this, Blackmoor looks from Sharpe, to Charlie, to Victory. He frowns a bit.

BLACKMOOR
No. I think Fasthand would be suspecting that. So would Marshal Tooms. And we`ll attract too many questions if they are killed outside the contest. No, we`ll leave them be.
(mirthless smile)
For now.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

The crowd of spectators is a bit larger, some wearing the dark gray suits we`ve seen Sharpe and Charlie wearing. These are DEAD-EYE SOCIETY MEMBERS. Tooms is looking at the crowd suspiciously, as well as the judges` towers.

Down on the field, loading their needle rounds, are Fasthand and Brinks. They holster them and step over the ropes and begin the walk to the center.

BRINKS
You and me, Bug-eye.

FASTHAND
Me and you, shitkicker.

BRINKS
You ain`t that hard.

FASTHAND
You ain`t that smart.

Brinks sneers as they reach the center and start to walk for their lines.

JUDGE
(through megaphone)
Round Two, Match One: Fasthand versus Jonas Brinks.

ANGLE ON: BRINKS. He glances back over his shoulder with an evil sneer. He turns and draws, cocking back the hammer. The CLICK is loud.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. His head turns, and then he dives to the ground.

ANGLE ON: BRINKS. He fires. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. He rolls to one side, the first two rounds going over his head, the third striking the ground.

ANGLE ON: BRINKS. Still firing. BLAM! BLAM!

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. He rolls to his feet in a kneeling position, the fourth shot from Brinks striking the ground. Fasthand turns his body, swiveling his left shoulder out of the path of the fifth shot. His six-shooter clears the holster, and his hand is positioned and fanning the hammer. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

ANGLE ON: BRINKS. His triumphant sneer is replaced by a slack-jawed look of stunned surprise. His chest erupts in blossoms of crimson, five of them, clustered around his heart. Then his head whips back, as the sixth and final shot from Fasthand catches him straight in the forehead.

ANGLE: BEHIND BRINKS, Fasthand visible in the not-so-far distance, still kneeling, gun smoking. Then Brinks falls to his knees and collapses face-down on the ground.

Nobody moves. The judge looks disturbed. Up on the hill, Tooms smirks to himself at Fasthand`s skill. Sharpe scowls and turns around, stomping off.

Fasthand passes the judge as he steps out of the field.

FASTHAND
Technically, that was a DQ, wasn`t it?

JUDGE
(after a pause)
I think we`ll call that a decisive victory, however.

FASTHAND
You do that.

And he leaves.

DISSOLVE TO:

LATER. Standing behind the chalk lines on the field are Sheriff Cowell and a lean bald man called DAVE CARSON. Cowell`s using a nickel-plated Kuat N1, while Carson`s using an old Truppenamt piece, about ten seconds from falling apart.

The TONE sounds, and Carson draws first, well before the old sheriff can clear his gun from its holster. But when he pulls the trigger, Carson`s gun EXPLODES in his hand. The man falls over, screaming and clutching his bloody stump. Cowell blinks in surprise.

JUDGE
(through megaphone)
Winner: Sheriff Cowell, by default!

Tooms, watching from the hill, frowns at that. Roland is nearby and shrugs.

ROLAND
I`m not too surprised. It`s a miracle Carson made it past Round One with that old gun. It was only a matter of time before something went wrong.

TOOMS
(skeptical)
Yeah.

DISSOLVE TO:

LATER. On one side of the dueling ground is Tooms. On the other side, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a faded brown leather cape, is a man whose face is a mass of scars, JOSEPH HECKS. The TONE sounds, and Hecks draws his gun, firing twice in rapid succession. BLA-BLAM! The first shot goes wide, the second just catches the ground by Tooms` boot.

Now Tooms fires. BLAM! BLAM! The first shot blows the hat off Hecks` head. The second sends Hecks` gun flying from his hand.

JUDGE
(via megaphone)
Winner: Marshal--

But now Hecks draws a second gun from under his cape, firing it. BLA-BLAM! Two quick shots. Tooms dives to one side, firing again. BLAM! Hecks` shots go over him, but Tooms` shot catches the scarred gunslinger in the stomach. Hecks staggers, but fires again. BLAM! The shot hits the ground in front of Tooms` face as he lands on his side. Tooms fires. BLAM! The second gun goes flying. Hecks, grimacing from his wound, reaches behind him under his cape for a THIRD gun. But before he can fire it, Tooms fires again. BLAM! Now Hecks falls backwards, croaking as he clutches a neck wound. He lands in a seated position, but Tooms fires one more time. BLAM! Hecks flops back from the final head wound.

Pause. Tooms gets to his feet. Hecks makes a gurgling noise as the blood pools under him. He glances toward the judge, who clears his throat.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Er. Yes. Winner: Marshal Travis Tooms, by kill!

Tooms sighs, holstering his gun and walking off the field, while the medics rush out with a stretcher to cart off the dead gunslinger. Up on the hill, Sharpe scowls again.

MONTAGE SEQUENCE: THE REMAINDER OF THE SECOND ROUND OF THE CONTEST. Similar to the first montage. Shots of gunslingers drawing and firing. Shots of men falling and screaming. We glimpse Roland and Sharpe both walking away from a victorious duel.

CUT TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL TOWN SQUARE -- NIGHT

Shot of the contest board. The Quarterfinal brackets have been posted. "FASTHAND v. N. VICTORY" "J. COWELL v. A. POLE" "T. TOOMS v. C. CARTER" "S. ROLAND v. E. SHARPE"

Sharpe and Victory stand in front of it. Sharpe scowls.

SHARPE
This is not going the way it`s supposed to.

VICTORY
Relax, Sharpe. Mr. Blackmoor has said he`s got a plan for all this.

SHARPE
The plan was to have both Fasthand and Tooms out of the way by now. Ê We told Brinks to cheat, we told Hecks to carry some extra guns. Still didn`t work.

VICTORY
Regardless of how quick and skilled Fasthand is, when he faces me tomorrow, he`ll lose.
(raises a hand)
I guarantee it.

SHARPE
Stuff your guarantees. Just get me results.

He turns and sulks off. Victory smiles a bit and vanishes into the gloom as well.

Linger on the board for a moment, then Jack Rigger, the mechanic, steps into view and looks off first after Sharpe, then after Victory. He frowns, then tugs his cap down and leaves.

CUT TO:

INT. RIGGER`S GARAGE -- DAY

Rigger is working on Fasthand`s motorcycle, and listening to some loud Tasnican rock music when Fasthand appears in the door. He walks over and presses the button on Rigger`s radio, turning it off. The mechanic looks up.

RIGGER
Oh, hey.
(stands)
Almost done on your bike. Should be done by tomorrow.

FASTHAND
That`s good.

RIGGER
How`s the contest goin`?

FASTHAND
(shrugs)
Made it to the quarterfinals.

RIGGER
Cool. How`s the competition?

FASTHAND
Weak buncha shitkickers.

Rigger glances up, then peers out the door. He stands, wipes his hands off on his jumpsuit, then walks over to the door. He pulls it shut.

RIGGER
You should know something.

Fasthand looks at him, expression as unreadable as ever.

FASTHAND
And that is...?

RIGGER
Blackmoor`s tryin` to rig the contest.

FASTHAND
(flat)
Is he?

RIGGER
I overheard that slick snake Nat Victory and that guy Sharpe talkin` last night. They let Jonas Brinks try to cheat, and some guy named Hecks--

FASTHAND
(interrupting)
Yeah, I know. I had a feeling. They`ll probably do something like that today, too.

RIGGER
(after a pause)
`Cuz you`re dueling with Nat Victory, and he`s the biggest cheater among them.

FASTHAND
Exactly.

There`s a long pause. Then Fasthand reaches into a pocket and produces a wad of geld bills. He tucks them in Rigger`s lunchbox.

FASTHAND
(of the money)
To cover the overhaul. If things go south, keep the bike. They likely won`t, but just in case.

Before Rigger can answer, Fasthand is gone, raising the door and leaving. Rigger just stares after him.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. HILLS OUTSIDE DIRTY POOL -- DAY

Once again, we`re following the unofficial convoy of vehicles trekking out to the dueling ground. The angle is such that we`re looking over the bulk of Blackmoor Realty.

CUT TO:

EXT. BLACKMOOR REALTY -- DAY

From an open third-floor window, we can see a thin man with round sunglasses, chewing some tobacco in his mouth as he watches the cars. Nestled in the crook of his arm is a SNIPER RIFLE. It has a long barrel and a large scope. The SNIPER spits tobacco juice out the window.

CUT TO:

EXT. THE "CONVOY" -- DAY

We`re in the same jeep as before, with Roland, Tooms, and Fasthand. Roland`s driving this time. Fasthand once again turns his gaze to look up at Blackmoor Realty. His gaze lingers on it for a moment, and there`s the hint of movement on the third floor. Then Fasthand turns back to the front.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

Fasthand and Victory both approach the judge, holding out their guns for inspection. Neither man takes their eyes off the other. Victory`s gun is a Passet .44, and is shaped more or less like a Luger would to those from another frame of reference. The judge examines them both, then nods. The two men slot in six needle rounds each. Then both men step over the rope and walk toward the center.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Quarterfinal Round, Match One: Fasthand versus Nathaniel Victory.

FASTHAND
(without looking around)
Reckon you probably got a hook.

VICTORY
(furrows brow)
"Hook?"

FASTHAND
You`re planning to cheat, like Brinks and Hecks did. I bet you people even set up Carson`s gun to explode on him yesterday.

VICTORY
(shrugs)
I don`t know what you`re talking about.

As they walk, Fasthand turns his goggles to look at Victory, as if weighing his words. Then he looks forward again. They reach the center, then walk to the lines. Turn and face each other.

Long pause. Staredown.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. Goggled and scarfed face revealing nothing.

ANGLE ON: VICTORY. Wearing his usual confident poker face.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: FASTHAND`S GOGGLES. Victory reflected in them.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: VICTORY`S EYES. Slightly narrowed, showing no fear.

WIDE ANGLE ON: BOTH. The TONE sounds. Both men move fast, so we move into SLOW-MOTION CUTS BACK AND FORTH.

Fasthand FIRES almost the exact moment Victory FIRES. There`s a PING sound, of a ricochet, and something falls to the ground.

ANGLE ON: TWO BULLETS, smashed together.

Both men look down, see this, then MOVE. Victory raises his Passet and fires, moving to the side. Fasthand moves the same direction, tracking, firing. Victory`s shot, aimed for Fasthand`s knees, hits dirt. Fasthand`s shot, aimed for Victory`s shoulder, skims the dapper jacket.

Victory looks over, surprised that it came that close. Then he fires again. Fasthand abruptly stops, and the shot which would have struck his chest misses, narrowly catching the duster. Fasthand fires from the hip. But Victory is dropping into a forward roll, and the shot goes high.

Fasthand moves forward, firing again. The shot parts Victory`s hair, while the dapper man comes up and fires, just barely grazing Fasthand`s temple. The biker drops and rolls himself, a sideways roll on his shoulders, ending up to Victory`s right. The dapper man fires once as Fasthand drops, and puts a hole through the duster. He raises his gun to the side, but he`s too slow and he knows it.

Fasthand fires once into his right ankle. BLAM! With that shot and hit, we SNAP back into FULL SPEED.

Victory screams in pain. Fasthand points his gun at Victory`s temple.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, SNIPER`S NEST -- DAY

The sniper is set up pointing out the window at the dueling ground. We look over his shoulder and can see he has an unobstructed view. He squints through the scope, sunglasses up on his forehead, finger tightening.

P.O.V.: SNIPER`S SCOPE. He`s got a more typical crosshair, and is lining it up with Fasthand`s chest.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: SNIPER`S EYE, behind the scope. It narrows as he chooses his target.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: SNIPER`S TRIGGER FINGER. It pulls the trigger.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUND -- DAY

Fasthand glances up as he hears a distant CRACK. But before he can dodge, Victory jerks, mouth falling open as he makes WEAK GASPING NOISES. A red wound blooms on his dapper shirt, and he falls back, shot in the heart. Fasthand looks down at him, then back up at Blackmoor Realty.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Winner: Fasthand, by kill!

Fasthand slowly rises to his feet, blood trickling from the glancing shot to his head, slowly glancing back down at Victory, suspicion evident.

Up on the hill, Tooms glances over his shoulder at the realty building. His eye narrows.

On the other side of the crowd, Sharpe scowls, not pleased one bit at seeing a member of the Dead-Eye Society get killed by the sniper.

CUT TO:

LATER. Sheriff Cowell sweats bullets as he faces down ANDREW POLE, a wiry gunslinger sporting a Saeder-Krupp piece. At the TONE, Cowell manages to beat the younger and faster man to the draw and gets off a shot. BLAM! Pole falls to one knee, but raises his gun again.

Again, the distant CRACK of the sniper rifle. But this time it coincides with both the sheriff`s and Pole`s shots. Pole falls back, with a heart-shot. Cowell wipes sweat off his face, left arm bleeding slightly from a near-miss.

CUT TO:

LATER. Tooms stands across from CARL CARTER, who uses a nickel-plated gun. He doesn`t have anywhere he could be concealing extra guns. Tooms glances to one side.

ANGLE: PAST TOOMS, with Blackmoor Realty in the distance. Tooms knows there`s a sniper up there, or he suspects it.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Quarterfinal Round, Match Three: Marshal Travis Tooms versus Carl Carter.

The TONE sounds. Carter draws, but Tooms is faster. BLAM! Carter`s gun flies out of his hand. Tooms holsters his gun and folds his arms.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, SNIPER`S NEST -- DAY

The sniper lifts his head from the scope, frowning. As he does so, the sniper`s sunglasses fall down to cover his eyes again. Tooms is daring the sniper to make a move. He`s shot the gun out of Carter`s hand, and he`s lowered his own gun. No way to make a shot without attracting attention. When the sniper speaks, it`s a dry whisper, like from someone who`s unaccustomed to speaking on a regular basis.

SNIPER
Clever boy.

He turns his head slightly and spits a wad of tobacco into a spitoon.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

Carter looks at Tooms, then back at his gun. Tooms has fired, but Carter hasn`t, so he`s not allowed to move. Slowly, Carter raises his hands in surrender.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Winner: Marshal Travis Tooms, via surrender!

Tooms slowly starts to walk toward the ropes, keeping his eyes first on Carter, then he looks up at Blackmoor Realty as he leaves the field.

CUT TO:

LATER. Now Roland and Sharpe are walking out into the field.

Up on the hill, both Fasthand and Tooms watch him critically. The biker has a bandage wrapped around his head above his goggles.

FASTHAND
What d`you reckon Roland`s chances are?

TOOMS
Slim. But Sharpe`s the only one who hasn`t obviously cheated, s`far as I can tell.

FASTHAND
Maybe so, but Sharpe`s still a bastard.

TOOMS
Yeah, but he`s the type of bastard who`d prefer to kill you in your sleep, not by a sniper. He`s honorable like that. Sort of.

Fasthand just grunts.

Down on the field, Roland and Sharpe have taken their positions. TONE. Both men are fast, and we once again go into SLOW-MOTION.

Both men drop into stoops, firing from the hip. BLAM, BLAM! Sharpe`s shot wings Roland`s left arm, but Roland`s shot ruffles the hair on Sharpe`s head. Now both men start moving. Roland to his right, Sharpe moving forward, both men raising their guns higher. BLAM, BLAM! Roland`s shot grazes Sharpe`s right arm, but Sharpe`s shot is truer and hits Roland in the knee.

Roland starts to topple, and his third shot (BLAM!) goes wide. Sharpe continues to close the distance, firing again twice. BLA-BLAM! Roland, as he hits the ground, rolls in pain as the two shots go into his belly.

Sharpe stands over Roland and levels his gun, a Desert Wyvern, at the gunslinger`s head. BLAM!

We go back to NORMAL-SPEED. Sharpe works the slide back by hand, catches the unspent round that flies out and clenches it in his fist.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Winner: Eagle Sharpe, via kill!

Sharpe leaves the field and walks up the hill toward the spectators. He continues until he`s face to face with Tooms. Ex-bandit and marshal stare at each other. Ê Sharpe holds up the unspent round.

SHARPE
This one, I`m savin` for you, lawman.

Then he lowers it, and walks away. Tooms` jaw clenches as he glares after him.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL TOWN SQUARE -- NIGHT

Once again, we look at the contest board. It`s been updated for the next round, "SEMIFINALS" with the brackets of "FASTHAND v. J. COWELL" and "T. TOOMS v. E. SHARPE."

Tooms and Fasthand consider the brackets.

TOOMS
Damn shame what happened to Roland. He was a fine man.

FASTHAND
(flat)
Yeah.

Pause.

FASTHAND
You and Sharpe tomorrow. Reckon you got a nice dose of sticks justice for `im?

TOOMS
That`s the plan.

FASTHAND
Yeah. If they play fair.

TOOMS
Hey, I told you. Sharpe`s not the sort to cheat that way.

FASTHAND
Yeah, Sharpe might not be, but I dunno `bout them up on the big hill.

Fasthand turns and walks back to the saloon, leaving Tooms to mull that over.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, BLACKMOOR`S OFFICE -- NIGHT

Blackmoor is pacing behind his desk. Charlie leans on a crutch to support his bad leg, while Sharpe sits at a table and is doing something with a knife. Ê Sitting across from Sharpe at the table is the sniper, sunglasses still in place despite the fact that it`s night. He`s still chewing some tobacco.

BLACKMOOR
This is... unfortunate. Mr. Victory was one of our best.

CHARLIE
Sharpe and I told you not to underestimate Fasthand or Marshal Tooms, Mr. Blackmoor. We TOLD you!

BLACKMOOR
We need to take Tooms out, it NEEDS to be done. It MUST be done. He`ll find out about the secession plan.

The sniper lifts his head, looking toward Blackmoor, then spits a wad into a spitoon. Sharpe doesn`t look up from his work.

SHARPE
Yeah, Tooms needs killin`. But I tell you RIGHT NOW, Mr. Blackmoor, I`ll do it MYSELF.

BLACKMOOR
I would prefer a definite solution--

SHARPE
(cutting him off)
And I`d prefer if you kept your piehole SHUT, Mr. Blackmoor. You have my vow, on my Momma`s grave, that Marshal Tooms won`t be goin` back to Walkerton anyway but in a pine box.

His lips twist in a sneer as he sits up and sticks his knife in the table. (Blackmoor winces at that.) Sharpe then holds up the unspent round.

TIGHT CLOSE-UP ON: THE NEEDLE ROUND. Carved into the side of the round is the name `TOOMS.`

SHARPE
I got a round right here, with his name on it.

He gives a malicious cackle.

FADE OUT.

END ACT TWO.

ACT THREE: STICKS JUSTICE

FADE IN:

INT. RIGGER`S GARAGE -- DAY

Fasthand is examining his bike. Rigger is wiping his hands off with a rag.

FASTHAND
You did a good job, Jack.

RIGGER
Thanks. Even cleaned the intake manifold and boosted the air and oil filters. Get you an extra fifty percent fuel efficiency.

FASTHAND
(nodding appreciatively)
Nice.

Fasthand stands up and sits astride the bike. He turns the key and gives the motor an experimental rev. Instead of the roar, it now makes a loud thrumming sound, but with the dangerous-sounding growl of a motorcycle engine underneath it. Fasthand, despite the fact that his scarf is up, is plainly grinning underneath his `mask.` Rigger smirks and nods.

RIGGER
Yeah. Tweaked the muffler too.

Fasthand nods and gets off the bike. He peels a few geld bills out of a wad from a pocket. He tosses them to Rigger.

FASTHAND
Little extra for you.

RIGGER
Thanks! Saw the board. You`re duelin` Sheriff Cowell?

FASTHAND
S`right.

RIGGER
Good. Nobody likes the old coot. He was a worthless lump of lard if there ever was one.

FASTHAND
Ain`t gonna kill `im.
(off Rigger`s expression)
S`a capital offense, killin` an agent of the Republic.

RIGGER
Yeah, but he entered the contest of his own free will. Sorta nullifies it, don`t it?

FASTHAND
Risky thinkin`, that. We`ll see what happens.

He guns his motor, turns the bike around, and it snarls on out of the garage and out into town.

CUT TO:

EXT. HILLS OUTSIDE DIRTY POOL -- DAY

We`re following the convoy of cars and vehicles trekking out to the dueling ground again. Fasthand rides out in front, astride his motorcycle again. He turns his head and looks up at Blackmoor Realty again as he passes.

CUT TO:

EXT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, THIRD FLOOR -- DAY

Blackmoor stands looking at the convoy now. Beside him, just visible because of the long rifle cradled in his arm, is the sniper.

CUT TO:

EXT. THE "CONVOY" -- DAY

Fasthand`s gaze lingers again, and then turns back to the front. Motorcycle making its new growling noise.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

Fasthand drives his bike up and parks it behind the hill, out of sight of the Realty building. Jame Cowell is heaving his rotund body up to the judge by the edge of the field. He`s pulled a long white coat around himself. Despite his obvious nervousness at facing such a skilled gunslinger, the sheriff tries to look smug and confident. He half-succeeds as Fasthand strolls up.

COWELL
Huh! I`m not skeered of you, little piss-ant. I`m still sheriff, I am. You can`t hurt me, or I`ll tie you up in all sortsa lawsuits. Hurtin` an agent of the gov`mint, that`s a capital crime!

Fasthand says nothing, just stares at him impassively through his goggles. Cowell tries to sneer, but fails. They both hold out their guns and then slot in six rounds. They step over the ropes and walk toward the center.

FASTHAND
(abruptly)
Somethin` you should know, Cowell.

COWELL
What`s that?

Fasthand turns and starts to walk for the chalk line.

FASTHAND
S`been three days. You ain`t sheriff no more.

Cowell flinches, lip quivering with fear as he too turns and walks for the chalk line.

Up on the hill, Sharpe and Charlie watch critically. Tooms pushes his hat back and folds his arms. Without meaning to do it at the same time, all three men turn and glance up at the Blackmoor Realty building.

On the field, Fasthand and Cowell stand across from each other. Cowell reaches up and flicks a bit of sweat off his brow. Fasthand just pulls his duster back to keep his six-shooter out.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Semifinal Round, Match One: Fasthand versus Jame Cowell.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. Typically calm, unreadable.

ANGLE ON: COWELL. Sweating a lake, and scared shitless.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: FASTHAND`S GOGGLES. Cowell`s face reflected in them.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: COWELL`S FACE. Jowled and unshaven, lip quivering.

The TONE sounds. Cowell throws off his coat -- revealing he`s got mirrors tied to his suit. Light blindingly reflects off of it.

On the hill, the spectators all shout and shield their eyes.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, SNIPER`S NEST -- DAY

The sniper, peering through his scope, winces and pulls back, his sunglasses plopping back down over his eyes.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

Cowell grins as Fasthand seems to flinch as well. Indeed, the gunslinging biker is completely awashed with the reflected light. The EX-sheriff draws his gun and fires. BLAM!

Fasthand... leans aside.

Cowell gapes. He lowers his gun, disbelieving.

Fasthand calmly draws his six-shooter, aims, and fires. BLAM! Cowell grunts, falling backward, one of his mirrors on his chest shattering. With both first shots fired, Fasthand walks over and shoots the gun out of the former sheriff`s hand. BLAM! He stands over Cowell, who wheezes as he tries to draw a breath through a punctured lung. Cowell stares up at him.

COWELL
(wheezing)
Huh-- huh-- hhhow?

Fasthand raises his free hand and taps his goggles.

FASTHAND
These ain`t just for show, you know. You fool.

Cowell wheezes and raises his hands up to his head.

COWELL
(wheezing)
Suh-- suh-- sp-spare me...

Fasthand glances toward the judge. The man frowns a bit, but nods.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Winner: Fasthand, by surrender.

The biker holsters his gun and walks away. Cowell slumps back, bleeding from the chest and wheezing.

Up on the hill, Sharpe rubs his eyes and growls to himself.

SHARPE
Stupid son of a bitch.

CHARLIE
Clever idea, though.

SHARPE
Yeah, but he used it on the wrong person, you jackass.
(checking his gun)
Now I gotta deal with him after I get rid of the damn marshal.

And down on the field, the medics finally reach Cowell`s quivering mass.

CUT TO:

LATER. Tooms and Sharpe glare at each other as they present their guns for inspect. Tooms, his Kuat N2. Sharpe, his Desert Wyvern. Then, Sharpe holds up a needle round.

TIGHT CLOSE-UP ON: THE ROUND. It`s the `TOOMS` round.

Tooms meets Sharpe`s daring look, then holds up his own first round.

TIGHT CLOSE-UP ON: THE ROUND. It`s got `SHARPE` carved into it.

Sharpe`s eyes narrow and he bares his teeth in a snarl. They wordlessly slot in the remainder of their weapons. Both men step over the ropes and walk toward the center of the field, never taking their eyes off each other. They reach the center and begrudgingly break their staredown and walk toward the chalk lines.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Semifinal Round, Match Two: Marshal Travis Tooms versus Eagle Sharpe.

The marshal and the outlaw stand across from each other. Both men poised to draw.

ANGLE ON: TOOMS. Glaring with his good eye.

ANGLE ON: SHARPE. Sneering his usual angry sneer.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: TOOMS` GOOD EYE. It narrows.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: SHARPE`S LIPS. They peel back in a snarl.

WIDE ANGLE ON: BOTH MEN. They wait for it.

TONE. FAST SHOTS of both men drawing, aiming from the hip, firing. BLA-BLAM! Sharpe`s shot blasts Tooms` hat off his head. Tooms` shot skims the temple, drawing blood. First shots fired, the two men move, diving to the side, Sharpe to his right, Tooms to his left. BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM! Ê Four shots soar past each other as both men miss with their next two shots. Sharpe and Tooms both roll to their feet and fire again. BLA-BLAM! Both shots go high over the shoulder.

Pause. They scramble upright and now they start running for each other, ducking, weaving back and forth. Tooms fires his fifth shot. BLAM! It completely misses as Sharpe ducks and rolls to one side. Sharpe fires. BLAM! But Tooms jumps to the side. Tooms fires. BLAM BLAM! He misses as Sharpe throws himself flat on his back, firing up as well. BLAM! It tears into Tooms` left shoulder, staggering him.

Sharpe surges to his feet and puts his Desert Wyvern right against Tooms` skull. He smirks.

SHARPE
Empty, lawman. You`re empty. I`m not.

He draws back the hammer.

SHARPE
Told ya I was savin` this one for you.

CUT TO:

THE HILL. The final gunshot ECHOES over it. Fasthand flinches slightly, but his expression is still as unreadable as ever. Charlie smirks with satisfaction. So do some of the other men wearing the Dead-Eye Society clothes.

Down in the field, Sharpe takes his black bandana out of his back pocket and wipes the blood splatter off his face, then dabs at the glancing wound to his temple. He cleans off his gun, then glances up at the hill.

From the hill, Fasthand stares down at him.

In the field, Sharpe smirks, and points a finger at him. Then mimes a gunshot. Even mouths "bang."

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Winner: Eagle Sharpe, by kill!

On the hill, Fasthand`s scarf twists. He`s clenching his jaw.

FASTHAND
Sorry, Marshal. Guess `sticks justice` won`t work for you.

He walks away toward his bike. Hops on and starts her up. Then it growls off into the hills.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. DIRTY POOL FUNERAL PARLOR -- NIGHT

There is a pine box here. Fasthand lays the marshal`s hat on top of it. The hat still has the hole in it from Sharpe`s shot. Rigger`s there, as well as Ripley. Standing in the back corner is the black-clothed, top hat-wearing UNDERTAKER we briefly glimpsed when Fasthand first arrived in Dirty Pool. The undertaker is reading from a little black leather-bound book of scripture of some kind. The whole scene should be done in SLOW-MOTION, no dialogue, just some appropriately solemn music.

After placing the hat on the coffin, Fasthand turns and walks out the door.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DIRTY POOL TOWN SQUARE -- NIGHT

Fasthand stares at the contest board. It`s now been updated for the "FINAL MATCH: FASTHAND v. E. SHARPE." Colored dots have even been put next to the names of the people who lost. Red dots next to names of people who died. (Brinks, Tooms, Roland, Hecks, et. al.) White dots next to names of people who surrendered. (Charlie, Cowell, et. al.) Fasthand stares hard at Sharpe`s name again.

There`s a shuffle behind him. Fasthand whirls, drawing his sawed-off shotgun. The undertaker raises his hands meekly. Fasthand slowly lowers his weapon. When he speaks, the undertaker`s voice is solemn and deep.

UNDERTAKER
I do beg your pardon. If you would prefer to be left in peace, I shall go.

FASTHAND
Don`t mind me.

The undertaker inclines his head slowly in a nod, then looks up at the board as well. Silence for a moment or two.

UNDERTAKER
Blackmoor Realty sponsors this, doesn`t it?

FASTHAND
S`what I keep hearing.

UNDERTAKER
And have you heard that Lucius Blackmoor owns almost all the land between the mountains and Walkerton?

FASTHAND
Yeah, heard that, too.

UNDERTAKER
And do you not wonder what Lucius Blackmoor wants to do with all that land?

Fasthand does not answer. The undertaker glances at him.

UNDERTAKER
He plans to secede from the Republic of West. That is why he`s been recruiting so many gunfighters. He needs an elite group to control the territory he controls. The Dead-Eye Society is his own personal army.

Fasthand still does not answer. The undertaker looks back at the board.

UNDERTAKER
The only problem is, Blackmoor`s plan will never work. He doesn`t have enough arable land to sustain his territory, and West will never allow him to secede. Not when he`d take away a good 2027777712760f their magilyte deposits.

Pause. Fasthand`s impenetrable gaze seems to slip from the board.

UNDERTAKER
If Blackmoor tries to secede, West will march in and take their land back, and we won`t have city justice, we won`t have sticks justice, we`ll have army justice.

Fasthand looks away. The undertaker tips his hat a bit.

UNDERTAKER
I can see I`ve disturbed you. Good evening, Mr. Freed.

And the undertaker disappears into the night. Fasthand looks up sharply.

FASTHAND
"Freed?" How did you--?

He looks around for the undertaker, but he is gone.

UNDERTAKER (O.S.)
The dead hold few secrets from me, sir. Good luck.

Fasthand pauses, then glances at the board. A heavy weight is on his mind.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, BLACKMOOR`S OFFICE -- NIGHT

Blackmoor is pouring a large glass of bourbon. He`s smiling and gesturing about. Sharpe is there, as well as Charlie, the sniper, and about half a dozen other Dead-Eye Society members.

BLACKMOOR
My friends, we are on the brink of success! We`ve swelled our ranks even with those we lost in the contest, and after tomorrow, a potential monkey wrench is removed from the plan completely. And thanks to our esteemed comrade, Eagle Sharpe!

The Dead-Eye Society members all raise their glasses.

ALL
To Eagle Sharpe!

Sharpe, however, doesn`t look so cheery. Charlie notices this.

CHARLIE
What`re you so worried about, Sharpe? You beat Tooms, you`ll beat Fasthand! No problem!

SHARPE
Fasthand`s not like Tooms. He`s faster, for one thing. He`s also a better shot.

CHARLIE
Hey, we got a sure-fire win between you and him.
(indicates the sniper)
We`ll beat him.

Sharpe snarls and throws his drink against the wall, standing up.

SHARPE
Dammit, Charlie, I don`t want anyone`s help! I didn`t need his help--
(indicates the sniper)
--to beat Tooms, and I sure as hell don`t need it to beat Fasthand! And I will beat Fasthand! I`m Eagle Sharpe, dammit! Ê I`m the best crackshot this side of Walkerton! I ain`t gonna let no goggle-eyed, scarf-wearin` son-of-a-bitch beat me!

He glares at Blackmoor.

SHARPE
And so help me, Blackmoor, if I find out he--
(sniper again)
--or anyone else helped me, I`ll come back here and Dead-Eye Society and your plans be damned, I`ll shoot you myself.

And he storms out of the room, leaving the Dead-Eye Society stunned. Blackmoor blinks a bit, then clears his throat, a tad nervously.

DISSOLVE TO:

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. FASTHAND`S ROOM -- NIGHT

MONTAGE SEQUENCE: Fasthand is loading up for bear. DURING THIS MONTAGE, WHATEVER ELSE WE SEE OF FASTHAND, WE STILL DON`T SEE HIS FACE. Slotting extra needle rounds into his belt, both for his six-shooter and his rifle. Checking the scope on the rifle, as well as the bolt action. Sighting experimentally. Slotting shotgun shells into the bandolier on his chest. Test-cocking and aiming the sawed-off. Slotting rounds into the shotgun. Loading rounds into the rifle, and finally picking up the trusty six-shooter. He spins the clip, then slaps it into place and holsters it. Finally, he steps in front of the mirror, pulling his goggles down JUST before we could see his face completely. That done, he pulls his scarf up and secures it, face once again obscured.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUND -- DAY

Sharpe is standing by the ropes, Desert Wyvern on his hip. The judge with the megaphone is there as well. Spectators on the hill stand waiting. Sharpe taps his foot, then looks at the judge, who checks a pocket-watch. The judge shrugs.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, SNIPER`S NEST -- DAY

The sniper is moving his rifle around, scanning the crowd and dueling field.

P.O.V.: SNIPER`S SCOPE. Scanning towers, hills, dueling field, sandy ground-- and pauses.

The sniper blinks a bit and zooms closer.

P.O.V.: SCOPE. Just barely visible in the dusty sandy ground is Fasthand, his clothing blending in. And his own scoped rifle is pointed at the sniper`s scope.

The sniper`s eye widens.

SNIPER
Clever boy.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUND -- DAY

Sharpe, the judge, and everyone`s heads turn at the not-so-distant CRACK of a rifle.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, SNIPER`S NEST -- DAY

The sniper`s chair has tipped back, and he lies sprawled on the floor, dead. Blood pools. We don`t actually see his head, but the rifle is still propped up. The scope is a wreck, and smoking from the round`s passage.

CUT TO:

EXT. HILLS OUTSIDE DIRTY POOL -- DAY

Fasthand stands up from where he lay, dust and sand sliding off his duster. He brushes himself off, then works the bolt-action on the rifle. The spent shell lands in the dust. He turns and walks off to an apparent lump of dusty ground. He reaches down and pulls. A dust-colored tarp comes off the motorcycle, which Fasthand rights. He folds the tarp shut and puts it in one of the luggage bags on the side of the bike, then sits astride it, gunning the motor.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

Now Sharpe and everyone look up at the sound of the revving motor. Fasthand finally appears around the hill at speed. He slows to a stop, parks his bike, then strides over to the judge.

JUDGE
You`re late, Mr. Fasthand.

FASTHAND
(after a pause)
Scorpion. In my room. There was a scorpion in my room. Had to kill it.

Sharpe peers at him. Fasthand returns the look with usual blankness. He pulls out his six-shooter and presents it. The judge examines it and nods. Sharpe holds out his Desert Wyvern. Another approval. Both start to slot in six rounds. They holster their weapons and start the walk.

JUDGE
(megaphone)
Our Final Match, my friends! Fasthand versus Eagle Sharpe!

Neither of the duelists is looking at the other.

SHARPE
"Scorpion?"

FASTHAND
I was making sure a little bug didn`t try to interfere.

Sharpe thinks about this. Then he nods.

SHARPE
Good. I wanna finish you off myself.

FASTHAND
You and me got scores to settle.

SHARPE
Yeah. What you did to my raiding party for starts.

FASTHAND
We go back farther than that, Sharpe.

They reach the center of the field. Sharpe glances over suspiciously. Fasthand pauses, then reaches up and pulls his scarf down, revealing his lower face. For the first time, we get a pretty good look at it. Despite the weathering it`s received from his nomadic biker lifestyle, it`s youthful. Then he pulls his goggles up and puts them on his forehead. Fasthand turns to face Sharpe, and now we have our first real look at the man behind the mask.

Fasthand`s eyes are especially youthful, with deep tan lines around his eyes from his goggles. His eyes are a clear blue color. He can`t be more than 20 years old.

FASTHAND
My name is Freed. Eric Freed. Son of Erasmus Freed, the man you murdered along with his wife and family seven years ago. There was one survivor.

Sharpe stares at him.

CUT TO:

INT. FREED HOMESTEAD (FLASHBACK) -- NIGHT

FAST, QUICK CUTS. The Father fanning the hammer of a six-shooter. Snippets of dialogue.

FATHER
(weakly)
Eric... go... out the back... GO!

SHARPE
Mr. Blackmoor told you to sell your land. You didn`t listen.
(tsks)
Brought this on yourself.

Sharpe pulling the trigger. BLAM. Young Eric Freed running out the door. Sharpe calling after him.

SHARPE
Hey! I see you, kid!
(laughs)
How`d you like all that, kid? Huh? Hahaha!

Echoing laughter. BLAM. A falling young shape in the darkness.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUND -- DAY

Sharpe`s eyes widen briefly, then narrow.

SHARPE
You`re that bastard`s kid!

FASTHAND
Right in one.

The biker rubs his shoulder. The site of the old gunshot wound he suffered as a boy.

FASTHAND
Been meaning to meet up with you again.

SHARPE
How in the hell did you manage to survive? If the bleedin` didn`t kill ya, the desert should have.

FASTHAND
I was raised in the sticks. We sticks folks know how to survive.

CUT TO:

EXT. DESERT (FLASHBACK) -- NIGHT

The young Eric Freed stumbles away from the site of the burning Freed homestead, holding his shoulder, blood covering his left arm. The six-shooter stuck in his waistband. Panting, he stumbles down into a small crevasse.

FASTHAND (V.O.)
I hid in a crevasse. My folks didn`t know it was there. Neither did I, `til I dropped in it.

Eric looks upward at the distant, muffled voices of Sharpe and his men.

FASTHAND (V.O.)
It was similar to the old "invisible canyons" the original settlers always talked about. The kind where you can look right at it and not see it until you stand at the edge.

Eric rips his blood-soaked sleeve off and struggles to tie it around his wound.

CUT TO:

EXT. DESERT (FLASHBACK) -- DAY

FASTHAND (V.O.)
I hid out there until you and your men went away, and then I ventured out.

Eric climbs out of the "invisible crevasse" and stumbles for his parents` homestead.

CUT TO:

EXT. FREED HOMESTEAD (FLASHBACK) -- DAY

Eric goes into the charred shape of a carpark and pulls a tarp off a beat-up bike. It`s a Kuat Motors TS-4, several overhauls, patches, and the like away from becoming the bike he rides in the present. Eric finds a holster on a workbench and straps it on, putting the gun in it, then sits on the bike. A pair of goggles hangs on the handbar. Ê He puts these on and adjusts them before starting up the bike and weaving unsteadily out of the carpark.

FASTHAND (V.O.)
Then I took my brother`s old bike and headed for Walkerton. Been training and preparing for this day ever since.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUELING GROUNDS -- DAY

Sharpe narrows his eyes at the grown-up Eric "Fasthand" Freed in front of him.

SHARPE
It weren`t anything personal, kid. I was just followin` orders.

FASTHAND
I know. That`s why once I`m done with you, I`m going up there.

He nods toward Blackmoor Realty.

FASTHAND
And then I square up with Lucius Blackmoor.

SHARPE
Kid, between you and Blackmoor are about a hundred and fifty gunslingers, and you ain`t got enough shells or slugs for all of `em.
(sneers)
Let`s not forget, boy, you`ve also got me between you and Blackmoor. And I`m the best crackshot this side of Walkerton.

Fasthand brushes back his duster, hand poised by his six-shooter. He smirks.

FASTHAND
You were the best.

Sharpe scowls at him. Fasthand lowers his goggles back down over his eyes.

ANGLE ON: SHARPE. He grinds his teeth in a snarl.

ANGLE ON: FASTHAND. Jaw set, eyes hidden once more.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: SHARPE`S EYES. The cold, emotionless glare of a predator.

TIGHT ANGLE ON: FASTHAND`S GOGGLES. The blank unreadability reflects Sharpe.

WIDE ANGLE: BOTH MEN. Poised to draw. The TONE sounds.

Fasthand draws. Sharpe draws. Both men shoot from the hip. BLA-BLAM!

Fasthand`s shot tears into Sharpe`s right chest. He staggers as blood starts to flow.

But Sharpe`s shot, the .44 slug of a Desert Wyvern, appears to go true.

Fasthand jerks and falls backwards, like a chopped tree. He hits the hard, dusty ground with a loud THUD. And lies there, hand still clenched around his gun.

Sharpe breathes heavily, grimacing at the injury in his chest. He plods over to Fasthand and stands over him. He raises his Desert Wyvern, preparing to make certain.

SHARPE
Told you I was the best, kid.

Fasthand`s head suddenly snaps up. His heel lashes up and hits Sharpe straight in the kneecap. CRACK!

Sharpe screams and falls to one knee, and Fasthand fires twice. BLAM! BLAM!

Sharpe`s gun spins away. Lands in a cloud of dust.

Fasthand, gun smoking, reaches up and pulls his goggles up again. He lifts his arm to the side, and reveals the hole in his duster. Sharpe missed. He smirks.

FASTHAND
Told you, you were the best. You missed. I didn`t.

Sharpe has a hand clapped against his neck. He grimaces, and manages a weak chuckle.

SHARPE
(quiet)
Nice shot, kid.

He lowers his hand. A hole starts to pour blood on the side of his neck.

SHARPE
(quiet)
You are the best, now.

Sharpe slowly slumps over. His eyes glaze over. Fasthand gets to his feet and stretches out his shoulders and neck with some cracking sounds. He looks around at the judges and spectators. The judges and Dead-Eyes among the spectators all look less than pleased at seeing their champion go down.

Fasthand pulls his scarf back up, then pops the clip out, slotting three more rounds in before slapping it shut. He gazes around again, silently daring the men to make a move.

He walks uncontested to his bike and sits on it. The nearest judge, the one who holds the megaphone, shakes his head slowly.

JUDGE
Okay, you win. Now what? Declare war on the whole Society?

FASTHAND
Don`t need to. Sharpe was the best among you, wasn`t he?

JUDGE
What if he was?

FASTHAND
I killed your best gunslinger. I killed your best sniper. I`ll kill every last one of you if I have to. Blackmoor`s the only one that matters to me, but don`t think I won`t have my vengeance for what he had done to my family.

JUDGE
Kill the killer, perpetuate the cycle. Is that justice?

Fasthand starts up his motor. It growls. Fasthand glances at the judge.

FASTHAND
That`s sticks justice.

He rides off toward Blackmoor Realty.

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, FOYER -- DAY

The lavish foyer of the Realty building is decorated with portraits of significant partners in the firm, Lucius Blackmoor chief among them of course. There`s scenic landscapes and various sculptures. Dark wood walls and floor. And Dead-Eye Society members stand waiting. All are wearing guns on their hips, or carry larger weapons like shotguns or rifles.

They all glance around as the sound of Fasthand`s bike approaches. The motor growls to a quiet. The sound of boots crunching on the dusty ground, then clomping on the wood steps. The footsteps stop.

ANGLE ON: THE BIG DOUBLE-DOORS. Fasthand pushes them open and looks around at the assembled gunslingers. Sizing up the competition. He has his six-shooter in one hand, sawed-off in the other.

The Dead-Eyes all gaze at him quietly, silently, as if weighing his worthiness. Then, the ones standing in front of the stairs slowly step back. But none of them ever take their eyes off him.

Fasthand, looking around at them suspiciously, walks forward toward the stairs, and slowly up them. The Dead-Eyes close ranks behind him, still watching him silently.

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, THIRD FLOOR -- DAY

Fasthand steps into a long hallway. At the end is a set of double doors. The brass panel on the door reads `L. BLACKMOOR, SENIOR PARTNER, FOUNDER.` Lining the hallway are more Dead-Eyes. Like their fellows, they stare silently at him, but do not block his path.

The last one before the doors is Charlie. His arm is still in a sling, the other still bandaged. His leg still in a cast, and leaning on a crutch. He glares at Fasthand, but then his stare cools and he too steps aside. Fasthand looks at him, pulls down his scarf, then nods once to him. Charlie returns it.

Fasthand pushes on the handles and swings the doors open.

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, BLACKMOOR`S OFFICE -- DAY

Blackmoor himself looks up from his desk, decidedly unhappy. Fasthand shuts the doors behind him.

BLACKMOOR
What the devil are YOU doing in here? Sharpe was supposed to--

FASTHAND
(interrupting)
Sharpe`s dead.

Blackmoor sputters, shaking his head.

BLACKMOOR
That`s impossible! He`s the best crackshot this side of--

FASTHAND
(interrupting again)
Was. Now I`m the best.

Blackmoor seethes for a moment, then calms. He puts on a smile.

BLACKMOOR
Well, then, Mr. Fasthand, let me offer you a place in--

FASTHAND
(interrupting again)
I don`t want to be part of your private country, Blackmoor. Yeah, I know you planned to secede from West. It ain`t gonna happen.

BLACKMOOR
(sniffs)
I daresay it shall, Mr. Fasthand. That`s what the Dead-Eye Society is for: to keep the Western army off my back.

FASTHAND
The Society can`t stop the army, Blackmoor. Not enough ammunition or guns to do that. Not in your territory. And if you try to secede, you`ll get innocent people, families, in danger.

Now he reaches up and pulls his goggles up, so his face is exposed again. His eyes cold, like Sharpe`s were.

FASTHAND
Families like mine.
(off Blackmoor`s look)
My name is Eric Freed, Blackmoor. My father was Erasmus Freed.

BLACKMOOR
Who?

Fasthand bristles.

FASTHAND
Erasmus Freed. He owned a tract of land about forty klicks north of Walkerton.

BLACKMOOR
Sorry, can`t say I recall the name. There`s been so much land I`ve acquired over the years, I forget who I bought it all from.

FASTHAND
You didn`t buy my father`s land, Blackmoor. You stole it. When my father wouldn`t sell his land, you had Sharpe and the Dead-Eye Society burn my family`s homestead to the ground and murder everyone there. Then you just scooped up the deed, changed a few names on it, and it was like you always owned it.

Blackmoor draws himself up.

BLACKMOOR
So perhaps I had a few people killed. A few drops in the ocean. What do one or two people matter? I had grander things in mind. Greater prosperity for the people, better protection for them.

FASTHAND
Greater prosperity for you, you mean. With all the magilyte under your properties, you could force everyone in your little country to mine it, and pad your own filthy pockets that much more. And the only protection there`d be would be of your mines and yourself.

BLACKMOOR
(sniffs)
I don`t know what you`re talking about.

FASTHAND
Yeah. You do. You just too slimy a snake to admit it. The Society doesn`t want to play your game anymore, Blackmoor. They let me in here.

BLACKMOOR
They what!?

FASTHAND
Are you surprised? These guys all have their own interests in mind, not yours. Sharpe was the one who kept it all tied to you.

BLACKMOOR
If you kill me, you`ll never leave here alive.

FASTHAND
If I kill you, I can die happy.

He draws his six-shooter, points it. Blackmoor instantly backs against the window.

FASTHAND
Just one question. Where are all the deeds?

BLACKMOOR
(nervous)
Wh-what?

FASTHAND
The deeds, Blackmoor. Where are the deeds to all the properties you`ve bought and stolen?

BLACKMOOR
Wh-why should I tell you?

FASTHAND
Because I don`t trust the men out in that corridor. And neither do you. Give them to me. I don`t want the land, but I don`t want them to have it either.

Blackmoor stares at him. Fasthand cocks back the hammer. CLICK. Blackmoor blanches, then unlocks a drawer. He puts a thick, VERY thick, bundle of folders and files and documents on the desk. It`s been industriously tied together with a cord. Fasthand nods.

FASTHAND
Thanks.

BLACKMOOR
And now you`re just going to shoot me?

FASTHAND
That`s sticks justice for you.

BLAM! Blackmoor grunts, staggering backward against the window. Blood blossoms on his shirt. Fasthand fires again. BLAM! Now a wound blossoms on the other side of his chest. BLAM! And one last one to the stomach. Blackmoor crumples, and collapses on the floor.

Fasthand holsters his six-shooter, then walks over and plucks the bundle of deeds off the desk. He tucks it under his arm, then opens the doors.

On the other side, Charlie stands with the rest of the Dead-Eye Society behind him.

CHARLIE
So you killed Mr. Blackmoor?

Fasthand glances at him, then at the men behind him. Then he locks eyes with Charlie.

FASTHAND
S`right.

CHARLIE
And you got the deeds right there?

Charlie points with his bandaged arm at the bundle under Fasthand`s arm. Fasthand glances down at it, then back up.

FASTHAND
S`right.

CHARLIE
And now you `spect we`re just gonna let you waltz on out of here?

Fasthand reaches up and pulls his goggles down over his eyes. His hand rests on the butt of his six-shooter.

FASTHAND
S`right.

Charlie looks at him, then steps aside. Slowly, the rest of the Society does the same. Fasthand stares at them as he steps into the hall.

CUT TO:

INT. BLACKMOOR REALTY, THIRD FLOOR -- DAY

Fasthand looks around at them all.

FASTHAND
Not that I`m complaining, but why you just letting me do it?

CHARLIE
The Dead-Eye Society respects its peers. And there ain`t many we consider to be our peers. Sharpe was one of our best.

FASTHAND
I know.

CHARLIE
And Sharpe respected you. Oh, don`t get me wrong, he hated you, but he respected you. Blackmoor, he wanted you to get sniped, but Sharpe said no. Sharpe always said no to that.

FASTHAND
And so now I`m one of your peers?

CHARLIE
Far as I`m concerned, you ARE one of us. Honorary member, like. Whatever you gonna do with those deeds, man, don`t concern us anymore.

There`s a pause. Fasthand slowly takes his hand off his gun.

FASTHAND
So what are you all going to do now Blackmoor`s dead?

A mass of shrugs from a few of the Dead-Eyes.

CHARLIE
Probably just head on back where we came from, back home, if we got one. A few of us gonna stay here in Dirty Pool, make sure people don`t go crazy without proper lawmen around.

FASTHAND
You`d do that? You guys ain`t lawmen.

CHARLIE
Nah. But we know about sticks justice. `Sides, what bandit in their right mind is gonna tangle with the Dead-Eye Society.

Fasthand stares at him, then smirks a bit.

FASTHAND
Right.
(raises a finger)
But I`ll be comin` back here.

He looks at the other Dead-Eyes.

FASTHAND
I`ll be comin` `round to ALL your homes. And trust me, if you ain`t playin` straight, sticks justice prevails.

The Dead-Eyes nod to him, and Fasthand walks off down the hall.

CUT TO:

EXT. BLACKMOOR REALTY -- DAY

Fasthand tucks the bundle of deeds into one of his satchels on his bike. His duffel is there already, and his rifle strapped to the bike again. The Dead-Eyes have filed out as well to see him off. Charlie limps his way to the front.

CHARLIE
Hey, Fasthand!

Fasthand stops and looks over at him.

CHARLIE
Don`t forget, you got fifty large waitin` for ya when you get back.

Fasthand smirks, pulls his scarf back up, and starts up his motor. He guns it, and then speeds off into the desert.

FADE OUT.

END.