Support Your Local Sheriff!

We are gathered here today to consign

the mortal remains of Millard Frymore.

Or whatever his name really was.

I ain't really got

a whole lot to say about Millard

because he only rode amongst us

two days ago,

and was promptly struck down

by whatever deadly disease

it was struck him down.

We can only hope

that whatever deadly disease it was

it wasn't particularly contagious.

And with that in mind, I suggest

we all bow our heads in devout prayer.

Heavenly Father, we hereby consign

to your tender mercies all that remains...

Get out!

All that remains of one Millard Frymore.

Origin unknown.

Cause of death unknown.

And of considerable concern to those

of us thrown into contact with him

during the last two days.

Millard was struck down in what

was evidently the prime of his life.

In fact, he was took from us so fast

he never even got a chance

to unpack his suitcase.

However, inasmuch as we were the last

to know poor Millard here on earth,

and in so far as we were all drawn

to this godforsaken country

in search of a common goal,

I'm certain you will agree with me...

- Hey, Pa... Pa...

- What is the matter with you?

- Take a look.

- Ain't you got no reverence for anything?

- Gold.

- What?

Take a look, it's gold.

I remind everyone we are here to

consign the remains of Millard Frymore.

- It's gold, Henry.

- Gold?

Down there in the grave.

- Let's get this coffin out and have a look.

- Oh, no, you don't!

Get out of my gold mine.

Get out of my gold mine.

- We're gonna be rich.

- Get out of my gold mine...

Gold! Gold! Gold!

It doesn't seem possible

that a town could get in this condition

in the short time it's been in existence.

Lynchings, gunfights,

and that drunken revelry going on

at Madame Orr's House 24 hours a day.

A decent woman

is not safe on these streets.

Oh, I think the women are safe enough

for the most part.

We only got a couple

that would be much interest to anyone.

Outside the dance-hall girls and they're

good at handling themselves in a pinch.

Or in a ticklish situation.

Well, now, this may be very funny

to the members of the town council.

We mine-owners haven't found anything

to laugh at since we started in business.

We don't think it's funny, Tom.

We just don't know what to do about it.

Maybe what we need is a new mayor

and a town council that does know.

What kinda talk is that? The only reason

I'm mayor and the others councilmen

is nobody else wanted the jobs.

Don't forget, Tom.

We're all mine-owners ourselves.

Do you enjoy giving 20 per cent of

everything you mine to the Danby family?

- Why would we enjoy it?

- All right, let's do something about it.

What? You all know the situation.

Us in Calendar.

There's Galena, where we ship our gold.

There's the Danby ranch in between the

two. The road runs through their property.

Then we build the road

around their property.

How? They own that whole valley.

If they don't get their 20 per cent, they

just hold up every stage and take all of it.

All right, but we've got to do something.

Even if it means bringing troops in here.

- Troops?

- Troops?

What troops? From where?

The nearest troops are 500 miles.

- Then we recruit our own.

- We can't recruit enough dishwashers.

How will we recruit troops?

Nobody wants to stop prospecting

long enough to take a bath.

It all happened so fast we ain't had

a chance to get organised yet.

- The Danbys are takin' advantage of it.

- There goes one of 'em now.

- Which one is he?

- Joe.

Out of the father and brothers,

he's second toughest.

- They all act like they own the place.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes