Wet Socks and Cold Beans
Shawn stared at the mud on his boots. It seemed like a lot of effort to move them. The bandits were miles away, and frankly, they seemed more motivated than he was.
EXT. ASPEN GROVE - LATE AFTERNOON
A late October hellscape. The world is rendered in muddy browns and slate greys. SKELETAL ASPEN TREES, their white bark peeling, stand guard over a forest floor plastered with wet, decaying leaves.
The air is thick with the smell of rot and damp earth.
SOUND: A low, mournful WIND whistles through the bare branches. The wet SUCK and SQUELCH of mud.
SHAWN (17, but looks older, hollowed-out) sits on a log that is more moss than wood. His trousers are soaked through. His posture is a study in collapse, elbows heavy on his knees.
He stares, utterly vacant, at a JAGGED ROCK half-buried in the trail. A white streak of quartz runs through it. He hasn't moved in a long time.
Ten feet away, JORY (17, a bundle of nervous energy) holds the reins of two bored QUARTER HORSES. He bounces on the balls of his feet, a constant, jittery motion.
JORY
> We’re losing light, Si.
Shawn doesn’t look up. His voice is flat, a dropped stone.
SHAWN
> Yeah.
JORY
> Like, actually losing it. The sun doesn't wait for us to contemplate the foliage.
Jory pulls the brim of his hat down, shielding his eyes from a glare that isn't there. The sky is a uniform sheet of bruised purple.
JORY
> (looking up)
> And looking at the sky won't help either. It's gonna rain. Or snow. Or rain sludge. It’s definitely gonna do something wet.
Shawn’s gaze drifts from the rock to the frayed hem of Jory’s poncho.
SHAWN
> It does that.
JORY
> Does what?
SHAWN
> The sky. It does things.
Jory lets out a long, theatrical SIGH. He ties the reins to a flimsy sapling, then walks over, his boots making obscene sucking sounds in the mud. He stands directly in front of Shawn, blocking the view of the quartz rock.
JORY
> Are you sick? Did you eat those berries? I told you, red means dead, blue means... well, usually diarrhea, but you survive.
SHAWN
> I didn't eat berries.
> (a slight shift)
> I'm just thinking.
JORY
> About what? The bounty? Because Old Man Miller isn't going to catch himself. He’s got a limp, Si. A limp. We are literally chasing a geriatric bank robber with a bad hip, and we are losing.
SHAWN
> He's not that slow. He knows the passes.
JORY
> He's seventy. He stops for naps. We should have caught him three days ago.
Jory kicks the dirt. A spray of muddy pebbles skitters across Shawn’s boots. Shawn looks at them. Makes no move to brush them off.
JORY
> Get up. Seriously. My horse is looking at me like I’m an idiot, and I don't like being judged by an animal that eats thistles.
Shawn’s voice is thin, swallowed by the vast, quiet grove.
SHAWN
> What if we just... didn't?
Jory freezes, his face a mask of confusion.
JORY
> Didn't what?
SHAWN
> Didn't go. Didn't catch him. Just... went back.
Jory lets out a sharp, incredulous BARK of a laugh.
JORY
> And do what? Go back to the orphanage? Tell Sister Margaret that the big bad world was too scary? She’d beat us with a wooden spoon and make us scrub the latrines until we’re thirty.
SHAWN
> Latrines are dry. Usually.
JORY
> You have no soul.
Jory paces a tight, agitated circle. Squish, suck, squish.
JORY
> Look, I get it. You're tired. It's cold. But we need that money. We need to buy... stuff. Guns. Better horses. A house that doesn't smell like boiled cabbage.
Shawn closes his eyes. The darkness is a relief.
SHAWN
> I don't think I can move, Jory. I think my legs have decided to retire. They’ve unionised. They’re on strike.
JORY
> Don't use big words when you're being stupid. It confuses me.
Jory crouches down, trying to meet Shawn’s gaze.
JORY
> Is it the depression thing? The big sad?
SHAWN
> It's not...
> (he struggles for words)
> It's just... heavy. Everything is heavy. The air. The coat. Even you. You're very heavy, Jory.
JORY
> (offended)
> I haven't gained weight! I've been eating hardtack and dried beef for a week! I'm svelte. I'm a svelte hawk of the plains.
SHAWN
> Metaphorically heavy. You're loud.
Jory stands, defeated. He brushes mud from his hands.
JORY
> Okay. Fine. You sit there. I'm going to make coffee. Maybe caffeine will jumpstart your brain. Or your heart. Whichever one has stopped working.
Jory stomps over to the horses. SOUND of him rummaging through saddlebags: the CLANK of tin, MUTTERING, a soft CURSE.
A single, yellow aspen leaf detaches from a high branch. It spirals down, a slow, lazy descent, landing perfectly on the brim of Shawn's hat. He feels its negligible weight like an anchor.
JORY (O.S.)
> Beans. We're having cold beans because I can't find the dry wood and I'm not fighting a beaver for a stick.
SHAWN
> Okay.
Jory returns, thrusting a dented, label-less tin can at Shawn.
JORY
> Here. Eat. Fuel the machine.
Shawn takes the can. It's cold, slimy. He looks inside. A congealed mass of beans in a reddish-brown sauce the color of mud. A spoon is stuck upright in the center, a monument to culinary despair.
JORY
> Eat.
Jory takes a bite from his own can, grimacing.
JORY
> It's... textured.
Shawn lifts the spoon. His hand trembles, not from cold, but from a profound lack of will. He stares at the beans.
JORY
> You're staring at the beans like they insulted your mother. Just put it in your mouth.
SHAWN
> I'm not hungry.
JORY
> You are. Your stomach has been growling for an hour. It sounds like a dying badger.
Shawn SIGHS. He lowers the spoon. The motion is jerky, uncontrolled. The spoon CLANGS against the rim of the can.
A GLOB of cold bean sauce catapults through the air.
CLOSE ON SHAWN’S FACE as the glob lands squarely on his cheek. It slides, a slow, sticky, cold trail of humiliation, down his jaw before DRIPPING onto his collar.
He freezes. The sensation is revolting.
Jory stops chewing, his mouth full. He stares at the bean stain. At Shawn’s dead eyes.
A GIGGLE escapes him. Then another. It builds into a helpless, hysterical LAUGH that shakes his whole body.
JORY
> (wheezing)
> You... you got...
Shawn doesn't wipe it. He just sits there, the sauce congealing on his skin. This is it. Rock bottom.
SHAWN
> It's not funny.
JORY
> (gasping, wiping a tear)
> It is. It really, really is. You look like you lost a fight with a pantry.
Something inside Shawn SNAPS. Not loud. A tiny, dry twig. The sheer indignity of it all.
He slowly raises a hand. Wipes the cold slime from his face, smearing it onto his filthy sleeve. The friction is real. The anger—a tiny, flickering spark—is real.
SHAWN
> (muttering)
> I hate beans.
JORY
> (recovering)
> I know. You complain about them every night. But it's all we have until we catch Miller and get the reward.
Shawn looks at the can. Tilts it. Watches the sludge move.
SHAWN
> If we catch him... I'm buying a steak. A cow. I'm going to eat a whole cow. Cooked. Warm.
JORY
> (sensing the shift)
> That's the spirit. Cannibalism of the bovine kind. I like it.
Shawn sets the can down. He takes a deep, stinging breath. Places his hands on his knees. He pushes.
His muscles groan in protest. His knees POP, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet grove.
He rises. Unfolding slowly, swaying as he finds his balance.
Jory watches, spoon halfway to his mouth, not daring to speak.
Shawn is standing. The world tilts, then corrects. He looks down at the log. It's just a piece of wood.
SHAWN
> Okay.
> (he adjusts his hat)
> Okay.
JORY
> (tentative)
> Okay?
SHAWN
> We go. But if I see another can of beans, I'm shooting it. I don't care if it's our last food source. I will execute the legumes.
A wide grin spreads across Jory’s face. He tosses his empty can into the brush.
JORY
> Deal. Miller is probably holed up in the ravine near Black Creek. It’s downhill. Downhill is good. Gravity does the work.
Shawn takes a step. His boot pulls free from the mud with a loud, wet POP. An ugly sound, but a sound of movement.
He walks to his horse, a roan mare named BUCKET. He strokes her nose.
SHAWN
> (to the horse)
> Hey, Bucket. Sorry I'm a mess.
Bucket SNORTS, nudging his pocket for a treat he doesn't have.
JORY
> (untying the reins)
> She forgives you. She has low standards. That's why she likes us.
Shawn mounts up. The saddle is cold, his back aches, but he is vertical. He is moving.
SHAWN
> Which way?
Jory pulls out a crumpled, grease-stained piece of paper that might be a map. He squints at it.
JORY
> Uh... left? Yeah. Left feels right. Towards the big pointy rock.
SHAWN
> They're all pointy rocks, Jory.
JORY
> The pointiest one. Let's go.
Shawn nudges Bucket forward. The horse GROANS, but she moves. One hoof in front of the other. Clop, squish, clop, squish.
They ride out of the aspen grove, leaving the empty log behind in the gathering gloom.
The wind picks up. The first drops of freezing rain begin to fall, TAPPING against the brim of Shawn's hat.
JORY
> Hey Si?
SHAWN
> Yeah?
JORY
> You've still got a little bean sauce. On your ear.
Shawn wipes his ear without breaking stride. He keeps riding into the grey.
FADE TO BLACK.
A late October hellscape. The world is rendered in muddy browns and slate greys. SKELETAL ASPEN TREES, their white bark peeling, stand guard over a forest floor plastered with wet, decaying leaves.
The air is thick with the smell of rot and damp earth.
SOUND: A low, mournful WIND whistles through the bare branches. The wet SUCK and SQUELCH of mud.
SHAWN (17, but looks older, hollowed-out) sits on a log that is more moss than wood. His trousers are soaked through. His posture is a study in collapse, elbows heavy on his knees.
He stares, utterly vacant, at a JAGGED ROCK half-buried in the trail. A white streak of quartz runs through it. He hasn't moved in a long time.
Ten feet away, JORY (17, a bundle of nervous energy) holds the reins of two bored QUARTER HORSES. He bounces on the balls of his feet, a constant, jittery motion.
JORY
> We’re losing light, Si.
Shawn doesn’t look up. His voice is flat, a dropped stone.
SHAWN
> Yeah.
JORY
> Like, actually losing it. The sun doesn't wait for us to contemplate the foliage.
Jory pulls the brim of his hat down, shielding his eyes from a glare that isn't there. The sky is a uniform sheet of bruised purple.
JORY
> (looking up)
> And looking at the sky won't help either. It's gonna rain. Or snow. Or rain sludge. It’s definitely gonna do something wet.
Shawn’s gaze drifts from the rock to the frayed hem of Jory’s poncho.
SHAWN
> It does that.
JORY
> Does what?
SHAWN
> The sky. It does things.
Jory lets out a long, theatrical SIGH. He ties the reins to a flimsy sapling, then walks over, his boots making obscene sucking sounds in the mud. He stands directly in front of Shawn, blocking the view of the quartz rock.
JORY
> Are you sick? Did you eat those berries? I told you, red means dead, blue means... well, usually diarrhea, but you survive.
SHAWN
> I didn't eat berries.
> (a slight shift)
> I'm just thinking.
JORY
> About what? The bounty? Because Old Man Miller isn't going to catch himself. He’s got a limp, Si. A limp. We are literally chasing a geriatric bank robber with a bad hip, and we are losing.
SHAWN
> He's not that slow. He knows the passes.
JORY
> He's seventy. He stops for naps. We should have caught him three days ago.
Jory kicks the dirt. A spray of muddy pebbles skitters across Shawn’s boots. Shawn looks at them. Makes no move to brush them off.
JORY
> Get up. Seriously. My horse is looking at me like I’m an idiot, and I don't like being judged by an animal that eats thistles.
Shawn’s voice is thin, swallowed by the vast, quiet grove.
SHAWN
> What if we just... didn't?
Jory freezes, his face a mask of confusion.
JORY
> Didn't what?
SHAWN
> Didn't go. Didn't catch him. Just... went back.
Jory lets out a sharp, incredulous BARK of a laugh.
JORY
> And do what? Go back to the orphanage? Tell Sister Margaret that the big bad world was too scary? She’d beat us with a wooden spoon and make us scrub the latrines until we’re thirty.
SHAWN
> Latrines are dry. Usually.
JORY
> You have no soul.
Jory paces a tight, agitated circle. Squish, suck, squish.
JORY
> Look, I get it. You're tired. It's cold. But we need that money. We need to buy... stuff. Guns. Better horses. A house that doesn't smell like boiled cabbage.
Shawn closes his eyes. The darkness is a relief.
SHAWN
> I don't think I can move, Jory. I think my legs have decided to retire. They’ve unionised. They’re on strike.
JORY
> Don't use big words when you're being stupid. It confuses me.
Jory crouches down, trying to meet Shawn’s gaze.
JORY
> Is it the depression thing? The big sad?
SHAWN
> It's not...
> (he struggles for words)
> It's just... heavy. Everything is heavy. The air. The coat. Even you. You're very heavy, Jory.
JORY
> (offended)
> I haven't gained weight! I've been eating hardtack and dried beef for a week! I'm svelte. I'm a svelte hawk of the plains.
SHAWN
> Metaphorically heavy. You're loud.
Jory stands, defeated. He brushes mud from his hands.
JORY
> Okay. Fine. You sit there. I'm going to make coffee. Maybe caffeine will jumpstart your brain. Or your heart. Whichever one has stopped working.
Jory stomps over to the horses. SOUND of him rummaging through saddlebags: the CLANK of tin, MUTTERING, a soft CURSE.
A single, yellow aspen leaf detaches from a high branch. It spirals down, a slow, lazy descent, landing perfectly on the brim of Shawn's hat. He feels its negligible weight like an anchor.
JORY (O.S.)
> Beans. We're having cold beans because I can't find the dry wood and I'm not fighting a beaver for a stick.
SHAWN
> Okay.
Jory returns, thrusting a dented, label-less tin can at Shawn.
JORY
> Here. Eat. Fuel the machine.
Shawn takes the can. It's cold, slimy. He looks inside. A congealed mass of beans in a reddish-brown sauce the color of mud. A spoon is stuck upright in the center, a monument to culinary despair.
JORY
> Eat.
Jory takes a bite from his own can, grimacing.
JORY
> It's... textured.
Shawn lifts the spoon. His hand trembles, not from cold, but from a profound lack of will. He stares at the beans.
JORY
> You're staring at the beans like they insulted your mother. Just put it in your mouth.
SHAWN
> I'm not hungry.
JORY
> You are. Your stomach has been growling for an hour. It sounds like a dying badger.
Shawn SIGHS. He lowers the spoon. The motion is jerky, uncontrolled. The spoon CLANGS against the rim of the can.
A GLOB of cold bean sauce catapults through the air.
CLOSE ON SHAWN’S FACE as the glob lands squarely on his cheek. It slides, a slow, sticky, cold trail of humiliation, down his jaw before DRIPPING onto his collar.
He freezes. The sensation is revolting.
Jory stops chewing, his mouth full. He stares at the bean stain. At Shawn’s dead eyes.
A GIGGLE escapes him. Then another. It builds into a helpless, hysterical LAUGH that shakes his whole body.
JORY
> (wheezing)
> You... you got...
Shawn doesn't wipe it. He just sits there, the sauce congealing on his skin. This is it. Rock bottom.
SHAWN
> It's not funny.
JORY
> (gasping, wiping a tear)
> It is. It really, really is. You look like you lost a fight with a pantry.
Something inside Shawn SNAPS. Not loud. A tiny, dry twig. The sheer indignity of it all.
He slowly raises a hand. Wipes the cold slime from his face, smearing it onto his filthy sleeve. The friction is real. The anger—a tiny, flickering spark—is real.
SHAWN
> (muttering)
> I hate beans.
JORY
> (recovering)
> I know. You complain about them every night. But it's all we have until we catch Miller and get the reward.
Shawn looks at the can. Tilts it. Watches the sludge move.
SHAWN
> If we catch him... I'm buying a steak. A cow. I'm going to eat a whole cow. Cooked. Warm.
JORY
> (sensing the shift)
> That's the spirit. Cannibalism of the bovine kind. I like it.
Shawn sets the can down. He takes a deep, stinging breath. Places his hands on his knees. He pushes.
His muscles groan in protest. His knees POP, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet grove.
He rises. Unfolding slowly, swaying as he finds his balance.
Jory watches, spoon halfway to his mouth, not daring to speak.
Shawn is standing. The world tilts, then corrects. He looks down at the log. It's just a piece of wood.
SHAWN
> Okay.
> (he adjusts his hat)
> Okay.
JORY
> (tentative)
> Okay?
SHAWN
> We go. But if I see another can of beans, I'm shooting it. I don't care if it's our last food source. I will execute the legumes.
A wide grin spreads across Jory’s face. He tosses his empty can into the brush.
JORY
> Deal. Miller is probably holed up in the ravine near Black Creek. It’s downhill. Downhill is good. Gravity does the work.
Shawn takes a step. His boot pulls free from the mud with a loud, wet POP. An ugly sound, but a sound of movement.
He walks to his horse, a roan mare named BUCKET. He strokes her nose.
SHAWN
> (to the horse)
> Hey, Bucket. Sorry I'm a mess.
Bucket SNORTS, nudging his pocket for a treat he doesn't have.
JORY
> (untying the reins)
> She forgives you. She has low standards. That's why she likes us.
Shawn mounts up. The saddle is cold, his back aches, but he is vertical. He is moving.
SHAWN
> Which way?
Jory pulls out a crumpled, grease-stained piece of paper that might be a map. He squints at it.
JORY
> Uh... left? Yeah. Left feels right. Towards the big pointy rock.
SHAWN
> They're all pointy rocks, Jory.
JORY
> The pointiest one. Let's go.
Shawn nudges Bucket forward. The horse GROANS, but she moves. One hoof in front of the other. Clop, squish, clop, squish.
They ride out of the aspen grove, leaving the empty log behind in the gathering gloom.
The wind picks up. The first drops of freezing rain begin to fall, TAPPING against the brim of Shawn's hat.
JORY
> Hey Si?
SHAWN
> Yeah?
JORY
> You've still got a little bean sauce. On your ear.
Shawn wipes his ear without breaking stride. He keeps riding into the grey.
FADE TO BLACK.