((The fourth section of Hellhound begins just below; there are five in all, so look for the entire finished script, 20-some parts total, to be posted in a few more weeks.))
DAY--EXTERIOR STREET
A busy street in some town, cars and many white people hurrying past Johnson, who stands playing his guitar somewhat desultorily. No one stops to listen, though one or two passersby toss nickels or dimes at this beggar's feet. And "beggar" is what he looks like--fresh scab near his eye, dirt and dried blood on his shirt, scruffy pants, shoes without socks. Johnson is in bad shape, and no better when he bends down to pick up the few coins.
CLOSE ON JOHNSON
He picks the coins up, one by one. Suddenly large legs and huge boots step before his face.
LOW ANGLE UP--P.O.V.
On the mammoth towering figure of a gross, perspiring Southern white lawman.
ANOTHER ANGLE
Johnson stands up gingerly, shielding his guitar behind him. Very nervous, he plays the "Tom" completely--so much so that the scene becomes embarrassing and uncomfortable for the viewer too.
LAWMAN: What's this, boy?
JOHNSON (mumbling): Nuthin', suh.
LAWMAN: Whut say, boy? Speak up.
JOHNSON: I jes' playin' mah git-tar.
LAWMAN: Not in this heah town, you don't, boy. Wheah you from?
JOHNSON (darting nervous looks): Memphis, suh. On my way back there, suh.
LAWMAN: Well, you jes' keep movin', y'heah? We don't want no (sarcastic now) big-city nigras comin' in this litta-bitty town o' ours.
Johnson is shifting and shuffling, anxious to be away.
JOHNSON (bobbing his head): Yassuh, I do it...
LAWMAN (off-hand now, bored): All right, boy. Git on you' way now. Ten p.m.'s curfew for culuhed folks. Don' lemme find you heah-'bouts come mawnin'.
JOHNSON: Yassuh, cap'n.
Still bowing and scraping, he scurries off.
EVENING--EXTERIOR FARM
To this ramshackle, back-country farm at twilight comes Johnson. He is dressed as before, carrying his guitar, yet looks somewhat better; we'll see that the scab has healed some too. The black farmer sits on his porch steps whittling.
FARMER: 'Lo.
JOHNSON: (wearily): Mighty low. (sheds his guitar) But it's a nice 'nuff evenin'.
FARMER: Summer come early.
JOHNSON (after a moment): You got somethin' could lay the dust?
ANOTHER ANGLE
Farmer gestures with his whittling knife.
FARMER: Water over there.
JOHNSON: Whiskey mebbe go wid it?
The farmer stops whittling and regards him thoughtfully, then nods at the guitar.
FARMER: Is you kin play that?
JOHNSON (collapsing on the steps): Oh yes, my frien', I do play gittar.
ANGLE ON THE TWO--DOOR BEYOND
The farmer twists around to shout into the house; some children are peeking out already.
FARMER: Yo, Martha! Bring us 'at jar out. (to Robert) Hongry too?
JOHNSON (shrugging): Not so's you'd notice...
He picks up his guitar and begins picking and chording softly, tuning up some. Martha appears in the doorway, nodding shyly and handing the Mason jar of corn liquor to her husband. Then she leans against the doorframe, kids clinging to her skirt and peeking around. Johnson accepts the first drink gladly.
JOHNSON (toasting): Better days. I hope.
He takes a healthy swig and passes it back to the farmer, who drinks more carefully, savoring the taste. Johnson starts a slow blues instrumental.
NIGHT--EXTERIOR PORCH
The music continues over. By the moonlight we see that the children are long gone, the woman is rocking slowly back and forth, Robert is tipsy and consuming the last of the jar's contents, and the farmer is now playing Johnson's guitar.
NIGHT--INTERIOR SHED
Later, Johnson lies snoring in a smushed heap of corn-cobs and straw, inside the farmer's rickety shed. The music slowly fades.
CLOSE ON JOHNSON
Still later. Now his sleep is fitful; he struggles and utters a strangled groan--another nightmare...
NIGHT--EXTERIOR CROSSROADS
In pitch-black darkness Johnson stands at a rural crossroads, a town vaguely in the distance. He is nervous, agitated, glancing about fearfully. A mournful howling dog sounds on the track throughout the ensuing brief scenes...
Now distant shouting men too. Johnson's fears mount, but he seems rooted to the spot, unable to move.
ANGLE ON ONE ROAD
As an old sedan speeds past on the crossing road, driven by a white man resembling Dawson the record producer. Johnson, still rooted, tries to flag him down, to no avail.
ANGLE ON DISTANT TOWN--RAPID PAN
The voices are getting louder, as a second car comes speeding from the town. The driver seems to be Johnny, with Betty Mae as his passenger. Jonson waves frantically for them to stop, but the car passes him by. Betty Mae turns to look back as the car speeds away. An incoming vehicle appears beside it, this one seemingly driven by Louise.
ANOTHER ANGLE
Johnson is finally able to move, and he runs into the road to stop this third car. But Louise drives as though she can't see him there, and at the last moment Johnson must leap from the path of the speeding car, rolling off the road.
ANGLE ON TOWN
As Louise's vehicle speeds toward the town--suddenly illuminating a gang of white-hooded figures coming for Johnson.
ANGLE ON HILL
A lone tree looms against the night sky. Up this rise go the men hauling Johnson. One figure throws a rope over a high limb.
CLOSE ON JOHNSON
As the hooded men fashion a noose and slip it over his head. They brutally yank him erect till only his toes are touching the ground.
CLOSE ON HOODED LEADER
This menacing figure now removes his hood, revealing himself to be plantation-owner Lubbell. He brandishes his riding crop, striking Johnson lightly across the face, then bursts into maniacal but silent laughter.
ANOTHER ANGLE
One of the other figures steps forward, opening a straight-razor. He stands before Johnson, and Lubbell pulls the hood from his head--it is, of course, black gangster Ras.
CLOSE ON JOHNSON
His utter terror; his frantically pleading eyes. Then he simply closes them. (The dog's howling has kept getting louder and louder through all the above.)
CLOSE ON RAS
As he smiles evilly, then lifts the razor and strikes suddenly downwards. The camera image is optically forced to a blood-red, then orange, blankness, dissolving to:
CLOSE ON SUN--ZOOM OUT
Dawn over the farmer's nearby field. Zoom out reveals Johnson seated, leaning against a broken wagon.
CLOSE ON JOHNSON
He is drawn and haggard, his eyes bloodshot, traces of straw in his clothing. He stares out across the field, lost in thought, guitar across his lap. Absently, he reaches up to touch the missing mojo bag, then realizes what he is doing and shifts his hands to the guitar. He positions it and begins idly picking, trying out chords and lines as he goes.
JOHNSON: I was standin' at the crossroads... (pause) ...crossroads, an' I could not get...
Hearing voices, he stops and turns.
ANGLE ON THE HOUSE
The farmer and his family have come out on the porch, the children still brushing sleep from their eyes.
ANGLE FROM THE PORCH OUT
Robert stands up, slings the guitar over his back, and waves goodby.
JOHNSON: Thank you.
Close to camera, the farmer and children wave back. The woman calls out to him.
MARTHA: You got to eat some-thin'!
Johnson looks back, already heading off.
JOHNSON: Give mine t' the chil'ren.
The he walks away. When he stumbles momentarily, the watching farmer looks at his wife and speaks for the first time this scene.
FARMER: That boy is livin' fas' time...
