Wild Wild West Page #6

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INVENTOR:

Gently, gently. It's not a horse,

you idiot!

Jim gazes at the amazing contraption but keeps moving

toward --

ANGLE - STEAM ENGINE NUMBER FOUR

A gleaming, steaming, new state-of-the-art steam engine

waits at the platform.

Jim eyes the train. Can this be the one? It's just an

engine, tender car and two custom private passenger cars.

He pulls out his orders to double-check.

Up in the cab is the engineer, DOYLE, a tough little

Irishman whose chaw of tobacco gives him the look of a

chipmunk in a derby hat. Jim calls to him:

JIM:

I'm looking for a train. Supposed

to be on track three. Did it leave

already?

Doyle spits out a stream of tobacco juice and smiles:

DOYLE:

Yes sir and no sir. Yes sir if

you're not who I think you are.

And no sir if you are.

Jim cuts to the chase:

JIM:

Look, I'm Captain James West...

DOYLE:

Well, Captain, then the answer is

your train is still here.

Jim eyes the train. It doesn't look long enough.

DOYLE:

Your private train, sir.

JIM:

Private train?

DOYLE:

(confidentially)

That would be correct. Orders

from the President himself. Trans-

portation at your beck and call.

No delays.

(shaking his head)

Although, the government's

generosity takes me a tad by

surprise, as well.

He hops down, doffs his derby, and pumps Jim's hand:

DOYLE:

Doyle's the name, sir. Of the

Connemara Doyles. And there's not

a man riding the rails who holds a

candle to meself. That having

been said, sir, you're five minutes

late so let's be on our way! Your

friend's already aboard.

JIM:

My friend?

EXT. THE WANDERER - PARLOUR CAR - OBSERVATION DECK - DAY

Jim reaches the end of the train and spots a plaque affixed

to the ornate railing: "The Wanderer." Not a bad name.

But as he climbs the steps he hears -- VIOLIN MUSIC?

It's coming from inside. He swings the door open

curiously.

INT. THE WANDERER - PARLOUR CAR - DAY

Jim stands in the doorway, impressed at the sight of the

richly furnished interior -- a Victorian parlour on wheels.

Half-unpacked crates and steamer trunks are scattered

about. Incongruously, there's a work table in one corner

cluttered with tools and lab equipment.

The VIOLIN MUSIC continues and now, out of the narrow

passage at the head of the car, steps Artemus -- playing

the violin, and not too badly. Artemus spots Jim but is

lost in the music:

ARTEMUS:

Just three more measures...

Finishing with a flourish, he comes back to earth, smiling.

ARTEMUS:

J. S. Bach.

JIM:

Jim West.

ARTEMUS:

Artemus Gordon.

(off Jim's confused look)

Bach, he's the composer.

JIM:

I don't mind him, but who the hell

are you... my valet or something?

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