DAY--EXTERIOR--PAN
A Mississippi cottonfield, green plants and white cottonbolls as far as the eye can see, many black workers stooped over picking and sacking the bolls. Some are sneaking looks back at something the camera pans to discover (sounds of whip strikes during the pan): two white men are grappling with a young black of about 14--our lead, Robert Johnson, but as a teenager--one holding him still while the other, plantation owner Lubbell, lashes his clothed back with some sort of riding crop.
LUBBELL (shouting as he strikes): Ain't no nigra ever fainted from workin' in the sun! But I'll whip you senseless if that's what you want!
ON THE GROUP
As last blows are administered, Lubbell steps back and the second man lets Robert fall to the ground. Lubbell gestures to this man, who strides over, grabs up water bucket from small black girl, and dashes its contents on Robert. The young man jerks and rolls over, and Lubbell looks down at him.
LUBBELL: Now you dog it in the fields one more time, boy, and you gonn' be runnin' for yoah life--I'll loose the hounds on you, bigger'n buck, you heah me?
CLOSE ON ROBERT
As he raises his head, pain on his features but defiance in his eyes:
ROBERT: Oh yassuh, Mist' Lubbell, I hear you good...
NIGHT--EXTERIOR--MOVING
Robert (a man now) running for his life through heavy brush forest, branches clawing and whipping him. Sounds of pursuing hounds in the distance, baying and howling horribly. (Superimposed on this are strangely bright close shots of Robert asleep on a bed, tossing fitfully--i.e., we are seeing his nightmare).
Suddenly Robert breaks from woods and onto a rural dirt road. Now he can make better time, but the hounds seem to be drawing closer. Terrified, he looks back...
ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING
As the dogs appear on the road behind him--three huge and slavering monster hounds bounding rapidly over the ground, closer and closer.
CLOSE ON ROBERT
He is frantic, straining beyond human ability.
ANGLE BACK--OVER ROBERT'S SHOULDER
As the lead hound comes within striking distance and leaps into the air at his back... And the frame freezes.
NIGHT--INTERIOR ROOM
As Robert Johnson struggles awake, shouting, thrashing atop his bed. He shakes his head to clear it, rubs his face, touches a small bag he has hanging on cord around his neck; and then rises, walking over to the window where dawn is breaking outside. As he stands, framed against the light, TITLE up: HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL.
ANOTHER ANGLE ON THE ROOM--BRIGHTENING
Johnson, about 19 or 20, moves about the barren boarding-house room; his guitar propped against the wall, a spilled whiskey bottle on the floor, a cracked mirror and battered dresser near the door. (Main CREDITS are supered during this and following action.) He picks up the spilled bottle, looks at it, then upends to swallow the last mouthful. He peers at his face in the mirror. He picks up the guitar by the neck, then holds it against his stomach as he falls back on the bed. Without playing it, he lies staring at the ceiling.
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