Behind the STEAM ENGINE, on DRAKE and DRUM, as DRUM drops back down, looking to DRAKE.
SHOTS are continuing to ping off the metal crate behind them.
1. DRUM: People do take a powerful dislike to you, Miles.
2. DRAKE: Just my nature, I guess.
3. SFX: spak tk-KOW tnk
On PAYNE, crouched behind his own crate. He’s pulling the SIDE from the crate off, opening it, as he shouts.
4. PAYNE: Marshal!
5. PAYNE: Must we continue this?
6. DRAKE/off: I ain’t in the habit of repeating myself, Mister Payne.
Past PAYNE, crouched, as he removes his TOPCOAT.
Inside the CRATE is a strange-looking APPARATUS of BRASS and LEATHER, a harness of some sort; a GAUGE or TWO attached to it, as well as some small LEVERS.
6. PAYNE: It was the Judge who sold your honor, Marshal, not I.
7. PAYNE: I would think that he should be the object of your ire.
Angle, DRAKE and DRUM, each checking their respective sides of the STEAM ENGINE.
The remaining GUNMEN – if visible – are moving for new position.
1. DRUM/small: Man has a point.
2. DRAKE: Stow it, Keyton.
DRAKE, calling out over the engine.
3. DRAKE: You jaw just to hear yourself, or you taking this somewhere,
On PAYNE, now in the harness. He’s pulling a LEVER on one of the STRAPS. Slight grin.
4. PAYNE: Mostly to buy time, Marshal.