Langtry

By Sid Stephenson

A fictional drama set in Texas and Mexico in 1890. An exploration of fate, life, and death in a small town in the Rio Grande desert region of southwest Texas. In the period between the Civil War and the growth of the railroad network and the industrial revolution.
Written in the genre of ‘SCROVEL’. A crossover of a SCREENPLAY, and a NOVEL.

A dispute around a campfire leads to violence and retribution, as men and women, still reeling from the aftermath of the Civil War, and the Mexican – American War, confront the vast sweeping vanguard of the industrial revolution and the growth of the railroad network.
A young cowboy is insulted and retaliates. A wealthy cattleman is humiliated and injured, and he sends a rag-tag posse into the Mexican High Country to hunt the cowboy down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665595827

Sid Stephenson

Sid Stephenson is an Education/Aid pro, re-inventing as a screenwriter and author. Widely traveled, fascinated, and enthralled by West Texas culture, music, and history.

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© 2022 Sid Stephenson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  01/10/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9580-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9581-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9582-7 (e)

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Langtry, Texas.

In 1890 Langtry was an oversized rowdy shack and tent city on the north shore of the Rio Grande, crowded with cattlemen, cowboys, and railroad crews. It had a post office, two saloons, a railroad depot, shops, and vast corrals for the trail herds which headed there before being shipped to major cities. One of the saloons, the Jersey Lillie, also operated under the supervision of Judge Roy Bean, as a courtroom. This was the only law in a vast desert region west of the Pecos River.

TEASER

EXT. SUNRISE. NEW MEXICO DESERT

The lone rider crested the ridge early morning, the sun behind him. His elongated shadow stretching impossibly ahead like a wraith. The rider paused, narrowed eyes under hat brim searching the hardpan desert disappearing into shimmering heat haze. The horse shifted its weight under the saddle, muscles moving fluidly as its head dropped, snuffling sagebrush, blowing.

The vast desert ahead was still, no trace of movement. Deep purple shadows lingered in the hollows, soon to be burnt off. The rider twisted, saddle creaking, pulling down the hat brim against the glare, scanning the back trail. Nothing moved, the rider and the horse were alone in the world.

Heels touched the horse’s flank and it moved delicately forward into the long down slope. Leaning back in the saddle, legs out straight, the rider allowed the horse to negotiate the loose gravel at its own pace. As the long gravel slope levelled out the rider dropped the reins and slid off to check the horse. Murmuring softly to it, running cupped hands down fetlocks, checking shoes, then loosening the cinch and leading the horse into the shade of a cat-claw bush. All around the rose-coloured dust of their descent hung like mist in the hot still air.

With swift economic movements the rider splashed water into the crown of his Stetson, rinsed the horse’s mouth and eyes carefully. The horse watched him, nostrils flaring, breathing subsiding, then its head dropping, it relaxed, its flank quivering to repel the incessant swarms of black flies. The rider paused and looked at the horse, a hand flat to its forehead. What the rider loved in horses resonated with a love for all creatures, the heat of the blood that ran in them, the sudden-ness of anger and affection, fight and flight, simple and understandable responses.

The rider, suddenly weary, leaned against a boulder, sliding down onto haunches, Indian style, arms over knees, hands hanging down, relaxing, hat brim lowering, finally dozing.

A sound somewhere off in the distance, it came again, and the rider felt it in the ground, deep in the earth. Glancing at the horse, its head was up, ears swivelling. It looked towards the rider, then looked away, nostrils flaring, whites showing in its eyes, fetlocks quivering.

The Colt 45 lay smooth in its leather under the rider’s right hand, his fingers touching the blue steel. Under the hat brim, the rider slowly looked around. The horse looked backwards, waiting for a reaction maybe. The sun was higher, but nothing else had changed. Flickering senses told him another story. The rider rose, sliding his back up the warm smooth boulder. Unhooking the thong from the hammer and sliding the Colt from the holster, left hand thumbing a brass shell from his cartridge belt and loading the Colt’s last empty chamber.

The rider was still for several beats. Looking towards the horse, gauging the distance to where a Winchester lay in a leather sheath attached to the horn on the Hamley saddle.

Something gently touched the underside of his bare left arm, the rider glancing down, a sudden wave of realization hitting. The snake wound slowly and powerfully around his left wrist, coiling below his thumb in slow motion. Its mouth opened, lipstick red and gold against black shimmering scales. The pressure pain in his arm was now intense, the snake’s head drawing back to strike. The rider did not hesitate, drew the Colt, and fired in a smooth motion, the snakes head exploded, the bullet smashing into the dust several feet away, pressure on his arm immediately relaxing.

The rider stood, shock surging as the shot reverberated against the hillside, repeating itself somewhere several times, diminishing into the distance. Carefully uncoiling the dead snake, throwing it into the brush. Singed hair from the arm mixed with cordite and the golden dust hanging where the 45-calibre slug had smashed into the ground.

The rider needed to move - fast. The gunshot’s echo hanging in the still desert air.

EXT. MORNING. MEXICO DESERT. 4 MILES EAST

Five men in early stages of breaking overnight camp.

The shot, a flat thud hanging in air, muted by distance, repeating several times along the vertical faces of the mesas - fading.

Five heads are raised in alertness, spinning to get direction, sniffing the air. One man crouching, his palm flat to ground, feeling the earth to sense movement. Slow knowing grins are exchanged, nodding. Coffees thrown away, boots scraping sand into fire pit. Saddles creaking as men mount up, swinging west, the sun on their backs.

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TWO WEEKS BEFORE

EXT. EVENING. NEW MEXICO DESERT.

The riders smelled the camp well before they saw it.

Their horses reacting, heads high, nostrils flaring. The Leader reined in, his right hand up stopping movement and sound. The riders spread slightly, giving each other the necessary space to react to threat, fingers hovering over holstered handguns. A horse stamped once, then all was still. They listened, no sound, then another faint scent in the hot air - coffee.

Several beats, then the Leader spurred forward, walking his horse slow and easy. The other four men fanned into a familiar line, 3 meters apart, alert, following.

LEADER

(Calling out)

Hello the camp. 5 riders coming in. We are peaceful.

(A beat)

We are stopping now until you invite us in...

The Leader reined in, again his right hand raised. The five riders were still, horses nuzzling brush, snorting fine dust into the hot air. The silence extended, then...

DRIFTER

OK, step right up where I can see you.

After a beat, the Leader nudged his horse forward, his index finger pointing downwards in a silent order to his men - stay alert.

LEADER

We are approaching, thank you.

The camp was in a draw with huge, rounded rocks scattered in late shade from a mesquite tree. A fire flickered around a blackened coffeepot. Around lay a Hamley saddle and paraphernalia. The Drifter stood, hip against a rock, a Winchester in the crook of an elbow, right hand hanging down against a tied down Buscadero holster. A horse hobbled by the tree munching from a leather bucket.

LEADER (cont’d)

Coffee sure smells good. Is it OK to step down?

The Drifter indicated OK with a slight nod. The Leader glanced back at his four companions.

LEADER (cont’d)

Them too?

Again, a slight nod from the Drifter. The men wait for the Leader’s signal, then dismounting, he glances at them and nods.

LEADER (cont’d)

We have coffee and some provisions, smokes. Be happy to share what we have. Don’t want to impose none.

The Drifter watched the five riders closely, not moving from his position. All five engaged the ritual of making camp with easy familiarity as the desert light dropped. Unsaddling, hobbling, feeding, and watering horses, finally throwing down saddles and blankets in a semi-circle around the fire, rolling smokes. The men hunkered down, their own coffeepot bubbling. All the while the Drifter watched but did not move.

The Leader squinted curiously at the Drifter.

LEADER (cont’d)

(Easy grin)

Come and sit friend. We are not a threat to you. We are cattlemen. Sold a herd back in Langtry. Heading back home now, south to our families. Too long on the trail.

The Drifter finally moved, sliding down the rock, Winchester across knees, hat brim down, face in the shade. Making no move closer to the fire.

LEADER (cont’d)

I’m Matthew Blaine, rancher.

(Indicating to his right)

This here is Wesley Horne, next to him, his brother Chesney, we call them ‘Wes + Ches’. Call them other stuff too when we are mad at them.

(Grin widening)

Over there...

(Indicating left)

Samuel Tanner and his son Mitch. Sam is my Ramrod and right-hand man. Went through a war together, me and Sam.

Glancing across at the Drifter.

LEADER (cont’d)

You got a name friend?

Silence from the Drifter.

LEADER (cont’d)

(A beat)

We gonna share a fire together, coffee, maybe something stronger, need a name at least?

Blaine looked away, staring down into the fire, his men watched him closely, they all knew he was sending a powerful signal that was a purposeful relaxing of the rules that kept men alive on the trail.

NOTE: Staring at a fire at night closes down the iris, leaving it impossible to react quickly to incoming threats from outer darkness

Blaine leaned back, crossing his boots, fingering an unlit cigarillo, contemplating the glowing tip.

MATHEW BLAINE

We are the last of them you know, the big trail-herders. Texas is changing fast. My grand-daddy drove six hundred head along the same trail we just done back in ’66. We just trailed 900 head to the railhead corrals in Langtry, four months on the trail, eating dust, cussing and hollering.

(A beat)

Pretty soon the railheads will be everywhere, they will replace us and do what us cowboys once did.

My Grand-daddy started off in a one-room shack on 250 dry acres. Ten years after that the Blaine spread was 22000 acres.

(A beat, musing)

Two years later the open rangers forced him to run out the first barb-wire fences and closed the access for anyone without permission. That was the beginning of the range wars and the start of many cowboys becoming gunslingers. By the end of that decade, the plains buffalo was all gone, shot to fucking rags to feed the bottomless appetites of them bastards back east.

(A beat)

This whole country is changing fast before our very eyes my friends, if we have the will and wit to see it happening. We can kick and rage against it, but in the end, it won’t make a spit of difference.

The camp was silent, mesmerized. Blaine tipped his hat back, reaching into the fire for a glowing ember, regarding it, blowing on it.

MATHEW BLAINE (cont’d)

I was one of six boys an one daughter. They was all dead ’fore they was 25. Shot, drowned, burned, trampled by horses, snake-bit, only me left now.

(A beat)

And I don’t guess that I’ll die in no bed. So, Mister, now that you know who you are talking to....

The five men eyed the Drifter, noting the position of guns and the fact that the Drifter had not sat completely down. The silence extended for several beats, then...

DRIFTER

(Low voice)

Lee. My name is Lee. Lee Brady.

Blaine lit his cigarillo, slitted eyes watching the Drifter through clouds of swirling blue smoke. He threw the ember back into fire in a shower of sparks.

MATTHEW BLAINE

Good to meet you, Lee.

(Glancing at the Drifter’s saddle)

That a Hamley saddle? Nice piece. Don’t see many of them around. You heading towards Mexico Mr Brady?

The Drifter nodded, giving nothing away.

MATTHEW BLAINE (cont’d)

(To Wes)

See that saddle Wes, hand built in Coahuila south of the Cordilleras. You could sit on that baby all day long and then dance a jig around the fire at night-time.

Wes Horne was a big man, hawk nose, cruel mouth, uncompromising.

WES HORNE

(Looking at the Drifter)

Nice.

(A beat, insolently)

Come and sit with us Mr Brady, Lee. Take a smoke. We ain’t gonna bite...

(Grinning around)

Are we boys?

The Drifter didn’t move. Coffee was poured into tin cups, then a clay jug splashed mescal into each cup. A cup for the Drifter was placed near the fire. The men leaned back smoking, the fire flickering brighter, sparks floating upwards. Wes Horne indicated the cup.

WES HORNE (cont’d)

(Glancing around, then to the Drifter)

Coffee and Mescal there Mr Brady, help yourself.

Mathew Blaine watched the Drifter under his hat-brim. He looked to his left, catching the eye of Mitch Tanner, a look passed between them, a head movement from Blaine.

MITCH TANNER

(Leaning forward, eyes on the Drifter)

Can’t help feeling that we ain’t too welcome around these parts Mr Blaine?

Mr Brady here ain’t too forthcoming in his friendship towards us.

(Indicating the cup by the fire)

It even looks like he don’t want to share our hospitality.

Silence for several beats. The night was now cold and clear and the sparks rising from the fire raced hot and red upwards mixing with the stars.

MATTHEW BLAINE

(To Mitch)

Why, I do believe you might be right Mitch.

(To the Drifter)

Mitchel here has been gently raised by his Daddy - Samuel over there. His Maw passed when he was knee high, but his table manners are as fine as any gentleman from back east.

A faint ripple of laughter from the men around the fire. Samuel Tanner leaned forward, an earnest look at Blaine.

SAMUEL TANNER

Captain, I think...

Blaine’s hand rises, palm flat towards Samuel Tanner, silencing him.

MATTHEW BLAINE

(Looking at Lee Brady)

I think Mitch put the cup too far away for Mr Brady to reach, maybe...

(To Mitch)

Maybe you should take that cup an put it right to him Mitch. Put it down right next to his foot where he can reach it, then there’s no excuse is there.

(To the Drifter)

What do you think about that Mr Brady? Now that’s showing real hospitality don’t you