Wild Wild West

---

FADE IN:

CAMERA MOVES OVER the warehouse district of town. It's

night. A dog barks in the distance. A train whistle

blows. Then silence.

SUPER:
"SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS -- 1873"

CAMERA STOPS ON:

EXT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT

A deserted cobblestone street leads downhill to a bleak

warehouse.

INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT

START CLOSE on a combination lock. PULL BACK to reveal a

large ornate SAFE. A safe-cracker, SLIM, is hard at work,

listening with a stethoscope as he spins the tumblers.

REVEAL a tough gang of TRAIN ROBBERS. The safe sits in

the back of a wagon that was used to carry it there.

The gang's leader, LARSON, is one cold-blooded character.

He paces, occasionally glancing out the windows.

LARSON:

Come on, come on. How much longer?

SLIM:

Keep your britches on. This is a

tough one. Railroad's getting

tired of losing their money.

EXT. WAREHOUSE - UP THE STREET - NIGHT

CLOSE ON a pair of feet scurrying along the cobblestones.

MOVE UP to reveal WALTERS, a pudgy local sheriff, WHEEZING

as he runs along. He's headed for the warehouse when --

A hand shoots out of the darkness and bodily yanks him

into a shadowy doorway. He YELPS in panic, then realizes

he's face to face with a U.S. Marshal --

CAPTAIN JAMES T. WEST. From his distinctive Western attire

to his "Colt Single-Action Army," this guy's the real

thing. He's here to catch bad guys and nothing else.

This is one dog you don't turn your back on.

WALTERS:

Jesus, Marshal! I'm like to have

wet myself!

Jim is wound up, itching for action, glancing toward the

warehouse every few seconds.

JIM:

Well?

WALTERS:

(placating)

They're coming.

JIM:

(gritting it out)

When are they coming?

WALTERS:

They're rounding up a posse. Figure

an hour?

JIM:

(re the warehouse)

In an hour they're gone!

Jim's eyes dart everywhere. He's going to will a solution

into existence. He spots something. An idea hatches.

He whips out his Colt SAA. Then grabs Walters' pistol,

too.

WALTERS:

Hey...!

JIM:

You're not going to use it, are

you?

WALTERS:

Well, come on, that's half a dozen

armed men...

JIM:

Right.

And Jim's gone.

ANGLE - A FREIGHT WAGON

sits at a loading dock across the way, parked on a grade,

the rear wheels chocked, piled high with a load of

supplies, barrels, etc. Jim races over and eyeballs the

sloping street -- it leads straight down toward the

warehouse.

He yanks out the chocks and heaves on the spokes of the

rear wheel. With an ominous CREAK, the heavy wagon starts

to roll backward. He moves to the front, grabs the wagon

tongue, tilts it back against the seat and leaps aboard.

The wagon's iron-rimmed wheels CLANG along the cobblestones

as it rumbles faster and faster. Jim stands atop the

load, steering the unwieldy rig by muscling the tongue

left and right like a ship's tiller.

It's not easy to control -- first the wagon SCRAPES along

an iron fence -- SPARKS FLYING. Then it veers the other

way, taking out a row of horse hitches. But Jim wrestles

it back on course, straight for the warehouse doors.

Closer. Closer. He gets ready to duck.

INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT

Slim swings the safe door open and the men start swiftly

transferring cash and gold bars to saddlebags. But now

they hear the thunderous CLATTER of the approaching wagon.

Larson peers out a window in the warehouse doors.

He staggers back, panic-stricken.

LARSON:

What the hell...? Look out! LOOK

OUT!

The gang scrambles back across the room. They dive for

cover as the wagon EXPLODES into the warehouse, crushing

everything in its path, finally smashing into the wagon

carrying the safe. The room is choked with dust.

Rate this script:4.5 / 2 votes