The pallbearer arranges his tie in the mirror, turns, smiling, to accept the fresh white flower from the pallbearer, three old women looking on.
Donning a shawl, the pallbearer lifts an empty wineglass to toast the pallbearer across the table from her, also holding an empty glass. The pallbearer standing beside them pours their glasses full, bows, hurrying away, adjusting the wilted flower in his lapel.
The pallbearer, smiling wryly, hands a fresh white flower to the camera. The camera moves toward a mirror on the walclass="underline" reflected there is the pallbearer, adjusting the flower in his lapel.
The street is full of women in shawls, watching the pallbearer break into one house after another. He drops the wilted flower, races back frantically to snatch it up, tripping and tumbling over himself as he does so, then picks himself up and bursts into another house. Heartbeats augment slightly.
The pallbearer pulls on the black dress, covers his head with the shawl, peers up at the pallbearer, nods her head for him to follow. She leads him to a straw mat in one corner of the room. She settles herself upon it, glancing coquettishly up at the pallbearer, then reaches in her skirts and pulls out a clay pot full of fresh white flowers. The pallbearer, smiling, accepts a flower and crawls down over her, handing the pot of flowers up to the pallbearer, who accepts one, passes the pot on to the pallbearer, who, etc.
The room is empty. The pallbearer undoes his fly, reaches inside, pulls out a shawl and dress. Quickly, he puts them on, reaches in his skirts and pulls out a fresh white flower. Heartbeats augment.
Quick cuts of shawls, flowers, lapels, mirrors, smiles, heartbeats augmenting.
The pallbearer is dashing down side streets, running in and out of houses, filling them up. Little old women in black shawls trail behind him, dropping little patties of white flowers in their wake.
The old woman on the straw mat hands the fresh white flower to the pallbearer settling down over her, who hands his wilted one up to the pallbearer. The old woman grabs at the pants of the pallbearer with the wilted flower — laughing silently, he pulls on a black shawl, as he comes tumbling down on the old woman's face. As she falls, she tosses a fresh flower to the pallbearer coming down on them all. A motion of white flowers and faces, black clothing, heartbeats augmenting.
Cut to the street, heartbeats augmenting abruptly. The pallbearer has stopped running. He listens intently, his smile erased. The shawled women watch and listen. A vein throbs in his temple. Faintly at first, in rhythm with and then replacing the heartbeat: the funeral music again.
Startled, the pallbearer staggers back a step, then sets off running toward the sound, leaping the ruts and pits of the road, stumbling, picking himself up, lumbering on, the camera following jarringly.
The music, though still muffled, slowly augments, as the pallbearer lurches pell-mell through streets populated with his likenesses. When he turns corners, the camera loses him briefly, bounces hastily ahead, picks him up again. Turning one such corner, he arrives suddenly and unexpectedly at the steps of the cathedral. He hesitates, then bounds up the steps, taking them two and three at a time.
Inside, the church is dark and empty. The pallbearer runs toward the altar, the sound of hollow echoing footsteps overriding briefly the still muted music. At the altar, he finds the rich robes of the priest, a complication of garments. He pulls some on, removes some, pulls on others, at last gets them in the proper order, fits the tall miter to his head and, haughtily confronting the anxious pallbearer, points a long white finger at the robes of one of his assistants. The pallbearer snatches up the robes and tugs them on, stares icily at the trembling pallbearer, ordering him to don the next assistant's robes. He does so, points to the third assistant's robes. While the pallbearer is still struggling frantically to pull the last robe over his head, the dirge becomes suddenly thunderingly loud. The third assistant, now fully robed, joins the other two behind the priest, and they begin their slow measured march out of the cathedral. The music, bouncing percussively off the high walls of the empty cathedral, is echoey and distorted.
The light of day glares through the open cathedral doors at the far end, throwing everything this side of it into silhouette, as the priest, the three assistants, the casket supported by two rows of pallbearers, and the mourning old women pass slowly out and begin their descent down the broad cathedral steps. As each figure passes through the doorway, he or she is lit up briefly before disappearing down the steps.
Slow zoom back to the pallbearer, slumped weakly at the altar, a wilted white flower in his lapel. He watches the last of the old women vanish through the open doors. The music becomes abruptly thinner, more distant, as the last old woman leaves. The pallbearer pulls himself to his feet and staggers forward, utterly drained, his feet shuffling hollowly across the stone floor.
From the cathedral doors, the pallbearer gazes down upon the procession, proceeding slowly up the main street of the village between the files of standing mourners. As far as the camera eye can see: this double row of mourners, several persons deep on either side, their heads bowed, blurring eventually into a single line, leading toward the distant grove of cypress trees.
The pallbearer stumbles wearily down the steps and toward the procession, the camera following. The music slowly augments as he pushes past the women and up to one side of the casket. He counts the pallbearers there: six. He wades through the thick mass of trailing old women, reaches at last the other side, again counts the pallbearers: also six. He stops, frowns, staring in confusion and disbelief at the procession jostling past him. Then a light seems to dawn. He struggles forward once more and, with difficulty, clambers up on the shoulders of the nearest pallbearers: yes, the casket is empty. He glances about him, at the village, the cathedral, the old women, down at the heads of the pallbearers, over his shoulder toward the cemetery, the road lined with mourners. The casket rocks from side to side. No one seems to be noticing him. He slips over the edge and down into the casket, pokes pleasurably at the plush inner lining, runs his fingers along the ornate carvings around the sides. Timidly, he eases himself down into the cushions, folding his hands on his chest. His soft smile stretches into a wide dry-lipped grin, his eyes protrude and film over. The flower in his lapel has long since wilted. The casket, all the while, rocks from side to side below the camera's overview. The music is at full strength, resonant and clear.
Cut to the open grave at the cemetery, view from ground level over clumps of freshly spaded earth toward the gate and road, the funeral procession, led by the priest and his three assistants, approaching. The sullen hollow music, which diminished abruptly at the cut, slowly augments as the procession passes through the gates and up to the open grave. When it halts, the music ceases abruptly. A wind seems to rise, then pass away. The pallbearers with their casket proceed directly overhead, looking down on the camera. The priest glances down at the camera, then turns back to the pallbearers. A low murmuring sound has begun, augmenting rapidly. The priest nods, the pallbearers lower the casket toward the camera. Sudden blackness, the murmur ceasing abruptly. Silence. Then, in the darkness, a faint nearby scraping sound, like that of mice in a wall. Silence. Again the scraping, louder. Silence. Again the scraping, faint again. Silence.
Shootout at Gentry's Junction
The Mex would arrive in Gentry's Junction at 12:10. Or had arrived. Couldn't be sure. That's how it was with that damned Mex: you couldn't ever be sure. Not enough he was filthy and mean, but he was a cheating treacherous snake to boot.