(the first ten pages of)

"BLOOD FOR A SILVER DOLLAR"

Written by
Steven J. Weller

Steven J. Weller
512 S. Hobart Blvd. #205
Los Angeles, CA 90020
(323) 799-8004
steven_weller01@hotmail.com

FADE IN:
EXT. DESERT - DAY
In the far-off distance of an empty landscape, an OPEN WAGON,
rolling along behind a single mule, drags its way across the
trackless desert.
The hot sun blazes down on the lone occupant - the driver,
RENFIELD. A rough-looking man in need of a bath, he sweats
in his dark suit jacket and bowler hat, mopping his brow with
a soggy bandana.
In the rear of the wagon sits a huge, well-worn steamer trunk
and a few other assorted pieces of luggage. All are tucked
around the central item in the load - a somewhat ornate TOEPINCHER COFFIN.
EXT. SAN MIGUEL, MEXICO - DAY
A weathered adobe village, seemingly built around two
structures - a church, and a cantina. Scattered other
buildings define the dusty town square.
The well-worn adobe arch over the road into town announces
the name - SAN MIGUEL.
Renfield drives his wagon under the arch and looks over the
virtually empty streets, perhaps a little more carefully than
most might. He flicks the reins and steers his cart toward
the cantina.
As he goes, he passes a workshop with several plain pine
coffins stacked up and leaning against the building. On a
set of saw-horses is a work-in-progress far more elaborate
than the others.
He pulls up next to a couple of horses tied to the hitching
post and stops in front of the cantina, wiping his face again
as he climbs down. A moment to shake off the dust and adjust
his jacket and hat, and he strides in.
INT. CANTINA - DAY
A scattering of PEOPLE at tables and at the bar, drinks in
hand. Some have plates of indistinct food in front of them.
Along a back wall, a small number of PROSTITUTES lounge in
their merry widows, displaying their wares. They perk up a
bit as Renfield walks in and nods in their direction.

2.
He heads first to the bar and takes a pouch, heavy with
coins, off his belt.
RENFIELD
Do you take dollars?

Pesos?

The bartender, also the proprietor, turns around to greet

him. She's in her fifties, in a dress that suggests she used
to work with the gals along the back wall before she bought
the place. Many years ago. This is MARGHERITA.
MARGHERITA
Howdy, stranger. If it's silver, I
don't rightly care who's face is on
the front. For gold, I don't care
if there's a face on it at all.
Renfield reaches into the pouch and takes out a large silver
coin, tossing it onto the bar with a smile.
RENFIELD
Will that buy me a meal as well as
a drink?
She picks it up and looks it over, briefly.
MARGHERITA
That'll do. We have roast pork
today, and beans. You want whiskey
or coffee with that?
He shoots her a look, with a half-smile.
She reaches behind her, without looking, and grabs a whiskey
bottle with a smile of her own.
RENFIELD
And some water, if it's sweet.
It is.

MARGHERITA
I'll bring you a pitcher.

RENFIELD
Much obliged.
She pours him a shot and leaves the bottle next to it, then
walks back toward the kitchen.
MARGHERITA
(over her shoulder)
Another coin like the first, and
you can have a bath after you eat.
(MORE)

3.
MARGHERITA (CONT'D)
I expect it's been a while since
you've seen the opportunity. No
offence.
RENFIELD
None taken.
He downs his shot and pours himself another.
Behind him, an old man - grey beard, small but wiry, and with
a cheerful smile - walks into the cantina. The COFFIN-MAKER.
COFFIN-MAKER
Whose wagon is that, tied up out
front?
Renfield turns, easily.
RENFIELD
Mine, old-timer. Why do you ask?
COFFIN-MAKER
I was only curious about the coffin
in the back, seor.
The rest of the cantina falls silent, for a moment.
COFFIN-MAKER (CONT'D)
Some very fine craftsmanship, that.
Speaking as a professional, that
is. Do you know who made it?
The patrons more or less go back to what they were doing.
RENFIELD
Couldn't rightly say. It's just
cargo, for me. I'll deliver it
where I'm told.
COFFIN-MAKER
Who's in it, if you don't mind my
asking?
RENFIELD
Doesn't have a name anymore.
past needing one, I reckon.

Well

The Coffin-maker nods in agreement.

COFFIN-MAKER
You make a point, seor. He's
taking his last ride in style,
though, I'll say that much for him.

4.
RENFIELD
I'll tell him you said so.
Speaking as a professional and all.
Both men take a beat, and then laugh.
The Coffin-maker sits down next to Renfield at the bar and
raises a hand for the bartender.
COFFIN-MAKER
Miss Margherita? A shot and a
beer, if you would be so kind?
Renfield pulls the bottle between the two of them on the bar,
a silent invitation.
COFFIN-MAKER (CONT'D)
Much obliged, seor.
INT. CANTINA - NIGHT
Somewhat later on, with the sun just barely down.
Renfield sits at the far end of the bar, where the
prostitutes are lounging. He's not exactly drunk, but he's
feeling no pain as he chats them up a bit.
RENFIELD
It's a long ride in the sun, but
the benefits are worth the
inconvenience. My employer takes
very good care of me, and my days
are my own. My nights, too.
Two of the prostitutes, LUCY and WILHELMINA, pay rapt
attention - to his story, and to the pouch on his belt.
LUCY
Don't you get all squidgey-like,
with a dead man right behind you
all day long?
RENFIELD
You get used to it.
WILHELMINA
You can get used to anything, with
the right benefits.
Off to one side, at a table, sit two tough-looking guys,
BAXTER and ROJO. They've got cards in their hands, but
they're not playing so much as they're quietly listening to
Renfield's story.

5.
RENFIELD
And no one ever wants to look
inside a coffin, or even thinks to.
The two gals exchange knowing smiles.
RENFIELD (CONT'D)
I've never been robbed - well, not
successfully - but a closed-up
coffin's as good as a bank vault,
if you catch my drift.
He winks to drive the point home.
LUCY
Aren't you the clever one, then!
RENFIELD
Your Miss Margherita said something
about a bath, didn't she? Either
of you care to show me the way?
The two shoot a quick look to each other, and Wilhelmina
wins.
WILHELMINA
I expect I can help you out with
that.
Renfield grabs the bottle and his glass, and nods politely to
Lucy as he stands and lets Wilhelmina take his arm.
RENFIELD
Shall I get another glass?
WILHELMINA
It's in the room already, but
thanks for the kindness, mister.
RENFIELD
I'd like to make an evening of it.
The two head off toward the staircase.
Baxter and Rojo exchange silent looks, nodding in agreement.
EXT. SAN MIGUEL - NIGHT
The town is deserted and quiet; no lights show in any of the
windows. Renfield's wagon has long since been put away and
his mule stabled.

6.
At the door to the livery, Baxter and Rojo creep up quietly.
Rojo carries a small crowbar; Baxter carries a lantern with
the flame turned down as low as it can be without going out.
With a quick look around the empty street, they open the door
and step inside.
INT. LIVERY - NIGHT
Renfield's wagon sits parked in the darkness, the coffin
still sitting in the back along with the steamer trunk and
most of the luggage.
The two men hop into the back of the wagon, cautious of the
noise.
Baxter turns up the lantern.
ROJO
As good as a bank vault, eh?
BAXTER
Let's see what there is to
withdraw.
Rojo looks for a place to insert the crowbar, but the lid
slides as he does so - it's not fastened down.
The two men exchange smiles.
ROJO
And somebody forgot to lock the
front door!
The two, still working quietly in the flickering lanternlight, lift the lid off the box and set it aside.
Inside, laid out in a sheepskin vest, lies a MAN, early 30s,
rough-worn but peaceful. He could use a shave, but his hair
looks perfect.
What the-?

ROJO (CONT'D)
It's just a stiff!

BAXTER
'Prolly underneath.
He reaches his hand into the box between the Man and the
side, like he's searching the sofa cushions for loose change.
Rojo does likewise on his side of the coffin.

7.
ROJO
How come he don't stink?
What?

BAXTER

ROJO
He's been in this wagon since Rio
Bravo; why ain't he rotten?
BAXTER
Embalmed, I reckon.
anything?

You find

ROJO
No, I ain't-- Let go my arm,
Baxter!
The two men look up; it isn't Baxter that has Rojo's arm.
The Man, still lying peacefully, has his hand up and has
latched onto Baxter by the elbow.
The two look down as the Man's eyes SNAP OPEN to reveal jetblack orbs. His mouth opens with a feral hiss, revealing
FANGS.
In a lightning-fast move, the Man has Rojo on his back on the
wagon. He swoops in to his throat, biting out a sizable
chunk of flesh and spitting it to the side. Blood gushes up
in a small crimson geyser.
Baxter, too frightened to scream, backs away before stumbling
on the edge of the wagon and dropping to the ground in an
awkward heap.
The Man leaps out of the wagon, landing gracefully next to
him, and grabs him by the collar. He lifts Baxter to his
feet and then off the ground before plunging his face into
the man's throat.
Again biting out a chunk of flesh and spitting it out, the
Man goes back in to feed on the flowing blood.
In the wagon, Rojo struggles to his feet, the open wound on
his throat bleeding freely. He stumbles toward the edge of
the wagon, headed for the door to the street.
The Man drops Baxter - by now unconscious, if not actually
dead - and strides purposefully toward the door, cutting Rojo
off before clamping his mouth over his open wound.
Rojo gurgles his last breath as the Man feeds.

8.
EXT. SAN MIGUEL - NIGHT
The Man drags both Rojo and Baxter down the road by their
respective ankles, toward the arch at the edge of town.
Propping the bodies up on the arch itself, the Man takes a
branch from a nearby bush and uses it to smooth out the drag
marks in the sand around them.
High above it all, Renfield's head pokes out of a secondstory window above the cantina, watching the proceedings
without surprise.
INT. CANTINA/PROSTITUTE'S ROOM - NIGHT
Renfield pulls his head back in, a slight smile on his face
as he turns back to the bed.
Wilhelmina moves under the quilt, still mostly asleep as her
arm goes out to the empty space beside her. She gropes
groggily for Renfield, and he climbs in and lets her put her
arm around him.
The two snuggle together, drifting peacefully off.
EXT. SAN MIGUEL - NIGHT
Calmly walking backwards toward the livery, the Man sweeps
away the footprints and drag marks behind him, leaving no
trace to connect the bodies to the wagon.
INT. LIVERY - NIGHT
Climbing back into the wagon, the Man lies down in the coffin
and maneuvers the lid into place. As it seats, there's a
loud CLICK of the lock engaging from the inside.
INT. CANTINA/PROSTITUTE'S ROOM - DAY
Renfield lies sleeping in the bed, but alone.
lightly and peacefully.

He snores,

Wilhelmina, up but not yet dressed, shakes him by the

shoulder, a little bit panicked.
WILHELMINA
Mister? Mister, wake up!
trouble down on the road!

There's

9.
Renfield, with a snort, starts awake. He looks up and over
to her as she motions him toward the window.
Huh?

RENFIELD
Wha--?

He climbs out of the bed, stretching, but Wilhelmina grabs

his hand and drags him to the window. He looks out,
squinting.
From the window he can see the arch he drove in under, with a
small CROWD gathering.
He looks to Wilhelmina, curious.
RENFIELD (CONT'D)
What's going on down there?
WILHELMINA
Something bad.
EXT. SAN MIGUEL - DAY
The small crowd surrounds the bodies of Rojo and Baxter, dead
and looking the worse for it. Blood clots their clothes as
they lay sprawled on the ground.
Margherita frets, more angry than grieving, as the preacher,
FATHER MARTIN (30s, would need to gain ten pounds to be
skinny, wearing wire-frame spectacles and the orders of his
office) looks the two men over, his bible in his hand.
He makes a point not to touch either one any more than is
absolutely necessary, before standing to face Margherita and
the crowd.
FR. MARTIN
An animal attack, but I couldn't
say what kind exactly.
MARGHERITA
If it was an animal, why didn't it
eat them? Or at least drag them
off?
Fr. Martin looks perplexed as he glances around for clues.
FR. MARTIN
Well, I suppose they could have-DUNSTAN (O.S.)
What the hell is going on here!?

10.
ALISTER DUNSTAN (slender but muscular, well into his 40s)
bursts through the small knot of people, lividly angry.
Dressed all in black over a brocade vest, and with an ornate
six-shooter at his hip, Dunstan runs the town.
No one challenges his authority, even though it's entirely
unofficial. He's flanked to the rear by two large and surlylooking henchmen - INDIO and RAMN - with pistols and rifles
of their own.
Dunstan drops to a crouch and inspects the bodies for
himself, as his men keep an eye on the assembled town-folk.
He rises back to his feet, turning slowly to face the crowd.
DUNSTAN (CONT'D)
(quiet and dangerous)
What happened to my men?
MARGHERITA
Some kind of animal attack,
preacher says.
Dunstan turns to face Fr. Martin.
DUNSTAN
This doesn't look like an animal
attack, padre.
Maintaining his calm by force of will, Fr. Martin takes off
his glasses and cleans them on a handkerchief.
FR. MARTIN
Hydrophobic, I'd say.
MARGHERITA
Hydro-- what?
Dunstan virtually snarls at her over his shoulder.
DUNSTAN
Rabid.
(to Fr. Martin)
Why?
Fr. Martin crouches back down next to the bodies, and motions
Dunstan to do likewise.
FR. MARTIN
These are obviously bites, but they
weren't eaten, and they weren't
dragged off. Clearly, this is the
work of a mad dog. Wolf, maybe, or
perhaps a coyote. A bobcat, even.