No Country for Old Men Page #3

Moss is on foot, rifle again slung over his shoulder,

binoculars around his neck. He is looking at the ground.

An intermittent trail of blood.

Moss's pace is brisk. Distances are long.

He suddenly stops, staring.

On the ground is the fresh trail of blood, the glistening

drops already dry at the periphery. But this trail is crossed

by another trail of blood. Drier.

Moss looks one way along this older trail:

His point-of-view: flatlands. Scrub. No movement.

He looks the other way.

A distant range of mountains. No movement.

He stoops to examine the trail.

He paces it 'til he finds a print clear enough to give him

the animal's orientation.

He stands and looks again toward the distant mountains. He

brings up the binoculars.

His point-of-view: landscape, swimming into focus, heat waves

exaggerated by the compression of the lens.

Panning, looking for the animal.

Movement, very distant. The animal is brought into focus: a

black tailless dog, huge head, limping badly, phantasmal by

virtue of the rippling heat waves and the silence.

Moss lowers the glass. A moment of thought as he gazes off.

He turns and heads in the direction from which the dog came.

EXT. RISE NEAR BASIN - MINUTES LATER

Moss tops a rise. He scans the landscape below.

Not much to see except-distant glints, off something not

native to the environment.

Moss brings up the binoculars.

Parked vehicles:
three of them, squat, Broncos or other off-

road trucks with fat tires, winches in the bed and racks of

roof lights.

On the ground near the trucks dark shapes lie still.

EXT. BASIN - MINUTES LATER

Moss is walking cautiously up to the site, unslung rifle at

the ready.

Flies drone.

He circles two dead bodies lying in the grass, covered with

blood. A gut-shot dog of the same kind we saw limping toward

the mountains lies beside them. A sawed-off shotgun with a

pistol stock lies in the grass.

The tires and most of the window glass are shot out of the

first pickup Moss approaches.

He opens the door and looks inside.

The driver is dead, leaning over the wheel. Moss shuts the

door.

He opens the door of the second truck.

The driver, sitting upright, still in shoulder harness, is

staring at him.

Moss stumbles back, raising the rifle.

The man does not move. The front of his shirt is covered

with blood.

MAN:

Agua.

Moss stares at him

MAN:

...Agua. Por Dios.

MOSS:

Ain't got no water.

On the seat next to the man is an HK machine pistol. Moss

looks at it. He looks back at the man. The man is still

staring at him. Without lowering his eyes Moss reaches in

and takes the pistol.

Moss straightens up out of the truck and slings the rifle

back over his shoulder. He snaps the clip off the machine

pistol, checks it and snaps it back on.

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