No Country for Old Men Page #4

Moss crosses to the back of the truck and lifts the tarp

that covers the truck bed.

A load of brick-sized brown parcels each wrapped in plastic.

He throws the tarp back over the load and crosses back to

the open cab door.

MAN:

Agua.

MOSS:

I told you I ain't got no agua. You

speak English?

A blank look.

MOSS:

...Where's the last guy?

The injured man stares, unresponsive. Moss persists:

MOSS:

Ultimo hombre. Last man standing,

must've been one. Where'd he go?

MAN:

...Agua.

Moss turns to scan the horizon. He looks at the tire tracks

extending back from the truck. He thinks for a beat.

MOSS:

(to himself)

I reckon I'd go out the way I came

in...

He starts off.

Through the truck's open door:

MAN:

La puerta... Hay lobos...

MOSS:

(walking off)

Ain't no lobos.

EXT. FLATLAND NEAR THE BASIN - LATER

Moss stops to look out at a new prospect. Flatland, no cover.

He raises the binoculars.

MOSS:

If you stopped... to watch your

backtrack... you're gonna shoot my

dumb ass.

He doesn't see anything. He lowers the glass, thinking.

He raises the glass again.

MOSS:

...But. If you stopped... you stopped

in shade.

He sets off.

EXT. NEAR THE ROCK SHELF - DAY

A POINT-OF-VIEW

Through the binoculars, some time later. One lone shelf of

rock throws shade toward us. Heat shimmers in between.

Hard sun makes the rock shadow impenetrable. But there is a

booted foot sticking into the sun toe-up like the nub on a

sundial.

Moss lowers the binoculars.

He looks at his watch.

11:
30.

He sits down.

FAST FADE:

EXT. NEAR THE ROCK SHELF - DAY

THE WATCH:

12:
30.

Moss lowers the wristwatch and raises the binoculars again.

The shadow has shifted. The foot hasn't moved.

Moss gets up and walks toward it.

EXT. ROCK SHELF - MINUTES LATER

Moss arrives at the rock shelf.

The man's body is tipped to one side. His nose is in the

dirt but his eyes are open, as if he is examining something

quite small on the ground.

One hand holds a .45 automatic.

Next to the body is a boxy leather document case.

Moss looks at the man. He takes the gun, looks at it, sticks

it in his belt.

He drags the document case away from the body and opens it.

Bank-wrapped hundreds fill it. Each packet is stamped

"$10,000."

Moss stares. He reaches in to rifle the stacks, either to

confirm that the bag is full or to estimate the amount.

He stands, looks around, looks back the way he came.

EXT. CATTLEGUARD ROAD - DAY

HIS TRUCK:

Moss's pickup is parked by a cattleguard off a paved but

little-used road.

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