No, you’re not. Get out of here.
The Proprietor shoots the Waitress a withering look; she shrugs helplessly and hurries away. At the tables two of the
three Tough Men quietly rise and separate, moving toward the two ends of the bar. Emmett and Paden watch.
I haven’t had a drink of whiskey or slept in a bed for ten days.
You ain’t getting them here.
I’m real sorry to hear that.
At this, the First Man steps forward quickly, snatches Mal’s rifle, and slides it down the bar. Mal looks across the
distance at his only weapon.
(quietly, to Emmett)
Doesn’t look quite fair.
Which way do you mean?
The Second Man lurches up to the bar and pins Mal’s arms behind him. The First Man moves quickly, cocking back his
arm for a punch square in Mal’s face. As the blow is unleashed, Mal bends forward with terrific speed and force, pulling the Second Man onto his back. The Second Man’s face is suddenly where Mal’s was an instant ago, and the First
Man’s punch lands hard on it. Mal slams the Second Man’s back against the edge of the bar; he falls to the floor. Mal
blocks a blow from the First Man and steps in with a flurry of body blows.
Back at the Tough Men’s table, the Third Man pushes back his chair as if to rise. Emmett has just picked up a chicken
leg; now he waves it ever so slightly at the Third Man: “Stay out of it”. The Man looks at Emmett and Paden, then settles
back into his seat.
Mal sends the First Man crashing down through a table with a final blow. He turns in time to see the Second Man, back on his feet, grab Mal’s whiskey bottle and break it against the bar. Mal looks for a frustrated moment at the splashing
whiskey — what a waste. The Second Man lunges with the sharp glass. Mal lifts the heavy statuette easily with one hand and uses its upraised arms to catch the Man’s wrist and twist the bottle painfully from his grasp. Mal’s other hand hits the Man once in the throat, and he is down.
The Proprietor rises from behind the bar, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. Mal spins, swinging the statuette brutally
against the Proprietor’s arm. The shotgun clatters to the floor as the Proprietor recoils in pain, crashing into a
shelf of glasses. The fight is over.
Suddenly, standing in the doorway holding a leveled gun is an enormously tall figure — SHERIFF LANGSTON. Dressed rather elegantly in suit and bowler, he dwarfs the man at his side, DEPUTY KERN. He surveys the scene as the three injured men stir back to life. When he speaks, it is, surprisingly, with a British accent —
What’s all this then?