Slow West

a 16-year-old kid traveled from the cold shoulder of Scotland

to the baking heart of America to find his love.

His name was Jay.

Her name was Rose.

Pegasus.

The Great Bear.

The Dragon.

Andromeda.

Orion's Belt.

I was drifting west

when I picked up his trail deep in Colorado Territory.

A jackrabbit in a den of wolves.

Fortunate to be alive.

Arms abroad, boy.

Red skin or white?

Sir.

I'm British...Scottish.

Catch the savage.

I'm Jay Cavendish.

Son of Lady Cavendish.

We're all sons of bitches.

Grave play, boy.

Sir, lower your pistol.

Hey.

Clean it, oil it.

What do you want?

He was an officer.

Wearing a dress don't make her a lady.

They ain't soldier.

At least no more.

Injun slayers.

Keep heading west solo, you'll be dead by dawn.

How you made it this far is a miracle.

I take care of myself.

Sure, kid.

You need chaperoning, and I'm a chaperone.

- Safer to travel with a killer? - That's right.

First, let's save your pony's life.

Counted a dozen of them bastards attacked those Indians back there.

Minus three.

That leaves too many.

"Ho! For The Wes!!!"

"The Traveler And Emigrant's Handbook."

"To Canada And The Northwest States Of America."

By Edward Hepple Hall.

Well, ho for the west.

Dollars. $50 now, $50 when we split.

Until we reach a forest called Silver Ghost.

Let's drift.

- What's your name? - Drop back. Single file.

Why are you heading west?

You care not why I'm headed west?

There was an accident.

My girl and her father fled from Scotland,

settled out west.

It was all my fault.

Take a hint, kid?

- We love each other. - Sure you do, kid.

Jay!

A thousand ways to die. Choose one.

Bow and arrow.

Silly boy.

My turn.

That kid was a wonder.

He saw things differently.

To him, we were in a land of hope and goodwill.

The way I saw it,

kick over any rock, and most likely, a desperado will crawl out

and knife you right in the heart if there was a dollar in it.

Same stars, same moon.

One day, we'll be wandering around that moon.

They'll build a rail road.

A rail road up and down the ways.

A rail road to the moon.

And when we get there,

the first thing we'll do is hunt the natives down.

No Indians on the moon.

No, the natives of the moon.

The moon people.

Pegasus.

The Great Bear.

The Dragon.

Sit down.

This is the last time I'm gonna clean up your shit.

It must have been winter when Rose passed through here.

What's she like?

She's a beauty.

And she does not waste words.

They tumble out, wit following wisdom.

You haven't bedded her, have you?

Grab that end.

You're a brute.

Trading post up ahead.

We can dine at a table while sitting on a chair.

Tie the horses around back.

Everyone knew about the bounty except Jay.

He was leading me right to it.

There were few of us left.

Men beyond the law.

But the most dangerous are the last to fall.

May I ask you to place your iron on the counter while you browse?

We'll be dining.

- May I try on a suit? - Sure, be my guest.

Whiskey?

- Got any meat? - I got condemned bacon.

Traded it for bullets. Both'll kill you pretty quick.

Blanket, please.

Blanket, huh?

Ma'am, you have to purchase items before bagging 'em.

How we do it here in America.

Johan!

Sorry.

Money, please.

Well, now, lookie here.

You realize if I give you money,

here's the only place around where you can spend it.

Johan!

Money.

Johan.

Johan!

Breathe.

Breathe.

In.

And out.

Money.

Money!

Breathe.

In.

And out.

Money!

Breathe.

Money!

In.

And out.

Money!

Grab some provisions.

Jay!

Shit!

Dry your eyes, kid. Let's drift.

We could have taken them in.

In where?

How do you feel

about me?

You're the little brother I never had.

You don't mean that.

That's not what you mean.

I'm sorry, my Romeo.

But, "These violent delights"

"have violent ends."

What choice do you have?

A farmer? A fisherman?

Best you leave now, Jay.

- Under the bed. - No.

- Daddy. - Rose.

Rose...

Growing up quick.

John, Calum, Rose. Willie, Angus.

Lord Cavendish, can I help you?

I've come for my nephew.

You should not be in here. These people are peasants.

I'm with Rose now.

I come in peace.

My ears hear your music.

Come, Come.

Come! Come!

Sit.

I have coffee.

You a writer?

Perhaps.

I am "Recording the Decline of the Aboriginal Tribes",

"Their Customs, Culture and Habits,"

"in the Hope of Preventing Their Extinction"

"or Conversion to Christianity."

The title of my account.

Too long?

Perhaps.

So, now.

East. What news?

Violence and suffering.

And west?

Dreams,

and toil.

I passed through burnt remains of an Indian camp.

This is dreadful news.

A race extinct,

their culture banished, their places re-named,

only then will they be viewed with selective nostalgia,

mythologized and romanticized in the safe guise of art.

And literature.

This is a new world for us.

Also for them.

You must be hungry.

Till now, my sole company's been a brute.

Sorry to hear this.

I escaped.

Thank you.

I killed a woman yesterday.

Part and parcel.

You care not to share your company with a murderer?

I'd be a lonely man if I did.