The Secret Life of Paladin (Revised) with Pics2a

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THE SECRET LIFE OF PALADIN A Knight Without Armor In A Savage Land OR Confessions of a Frontier Polymath A Novel-Play by Thomas J. Czarnik

Characters: First Male Actor – Paladin (Hugh Mann -- Young and Old) Richard Boone (R.B.), Gene Rodenberry (with William Conrad) Second Male Actor – Voice of HeyBoy (Kim Chan) Paladin’s Father (Charlie Mann) Jack Ganelon, John Ganelon, Jake Ganelon, Lance Ganelon Paladin in pantomime scenes Man in the Bowler Hat (Arthur Oliver) Doctor, William Conrad, Victor DeCosta, Gene Rodenberry Charles Manson, Johnny Western Female Actor – San Francisco Lady Lover (Gwyn Alde) Voice of HeyGirl (Kim Li) Paladin’s Daughter (Elayna) Nurse Richard Boone’s Secretary (Gwen Calibre) A boy and a girl, about ten-years-old, for pantomime scenes Portraying young Lance Ganelon and Elayna Mann

Stage Setting: Backdrop – White wall used as projection screen for still slides of setting and movie clips from “Have Gun – Will Travel.” This is an ideal set device. Substitutions include spotlighted posters and a split stage for background changes between indoor and outdoor scenes. Mid-Stage – Left, plain desk with width to audience (hotel front desk, bar) Left of mid-stage, two easy chairs facing audience (turned over and covered, serve as rocks)

Act I, Scene 1: Year 1881, San Francisco California – Paladin is 42 years old. Dark Stage. Back wall lights up with first season intro to “Have Gun – Will Travel”. When gun is drawn and pointed at audience, voice of Paladin says, “This is the Secret Life of Paladin and I’m only going to say it once. So pay attention or pay the consequences.” OR “Ganelon! Use your brains, Man. You can’t win this fight. If you kill me, you’ll be a traitor and face a fiery end, pulled to pieces by the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.” (Click, gun is holstered, theme is played) San Francisco Interlude appears on screen showing Carlton Hotel and SF lights in background and theme music. Fade out. Screen changes to background of Carlton Hotel lobby as lights on stage brighten to reveal a young Paladin in black pants and a “dandy coat”. He has thick dark curly hair and thin black mustache; sitting on chair, reading newspaper. He circles articles with a pen, reaches into vest pocket and pulls out a business card. He stops, looks up, stares out with a questioning grimace to the audience, raises his eyebrows, stands up, taking a couple of steps forward into the spotlight.)

Paladin: Excuse me. Who are you? And why are you staring at me? (slowly reaching into his vest pocket; light softens) Oh. Good day (evening). (bowing to the audience) Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Paladin. I live here at the Carlton Hotel when I’m not traveling on business. What business? Here’s my card.

(Intense spotlight focuses on Paladin’s outstretched hand as back screen changes to enlarged business card: “Have Gun – Will Travel Wire Paladin San Francisco.” Card Theme plays while Paladin freezes in place. Then scene resumes.)

HeyBoy (offstage): Mister Paladin!

Paladin: (turning head) Yes, HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: Who you talking to?

Paladin: Prospective clients.

HeyBoy: Sorry. Maybe you talk to self . . . in mirror . . .

Paladin (curtly) Apology accepted. (to audience): That’s HeyBoy, my personal concierge at the Carlton -- a Chinese immigrant who came to California during the Gold Rush days thirty years ago. He thinks I’m an insurance agent of some kind which isn’t far from the truth. Society, however, calls me a gunfighter. I prefer to be thought of as a security specialist whose services include force when necessary.

HeyBoy (offstage): Mister Paladin!

Paladin: (to audience) Excuse me. He can be intrusive though well-meaning. (turning head) Yes, HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: You have telegram. It on front-desk.

Paladin: (turning to desk) I see it.

HeyBoy: What say?

Paladin: Heyboy, please. I’m busy right now. (Turns to audience again)

HeyBoy: OK, sorry. At top it say “Urgent” in big letters.

Paladin (to audience): Excuse me. (Goes to desk stage left and picks up paper. Reads to himself.)

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin.

Paladin: (reading aloud): It reads, “Business? My business was mankind. Signed, R.B.”

HeyBoy: What mean?

Paladin: It’s a quote from a delightful little book by a British author named Charles Dickens. (To audience) He died not too long ago – 10, no 11 years ago -- in 1870, I believe. (To HeyBoy) I think R.B. is trying to remind me that people are more important than profits.

Heyboy: Who R.B.?

Paladin: You’ve heard of Daniel Boone.

Heyboy: Oh, yes. Great front man.

Paladin: (laughing) You mean a great frontiersman . . . from Kentucky.

Heyboy: You know this Dan-yell Boone man?

Paladin: No just R.B.—Robert, I think -- a relation of his.

Heyboy: He come to Carlton for visit?

Paladin: I hope not. It’s bad enough he sent me this message. (Crushes paper and tosses it offstage.)

Paladin (to audience): Now, where were we? Oh, yes. I was telling you about my services. It all depends, of course, on your problem. Most people come to me in need of protection. And they think this is the answer to all their troubles. (Goes to coat rack and removes gun-belt, holster, and black cowboy hat. Takes out Colt 45, cradles it briefly, then lays it out on desk.) The ultimate answer. Or a sledgehammer for the mosquito on your nose. I prefer this. (Picks up hat.) More specifically, what’s under it: Brains. Which most people use less than they should. They’re too easily distracted . . . (From the shadows emerges a shapely female in an evening gown. Paladin follows her with his eyes.)

Paladin (to audience): Please excuse me for a moment. (In a pantomime, goes to the lady at center stage, bows, kisses her hand, chats and flirts for a moment; she exits smiling coquettishly.)

Paladin: (returning to desk, looking to Lady) “She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes.” My sentiments -- Byron’s words. A question? Why do I quote poetry? Well, I read a lot and like to refer to the Wisdom of the Sages when it’s appropriate to the situation. A timely quotation from classic literature or philosophy inspires confidence, don’t you agree? Please excuse me a moment . . . HeyBoy!

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Champagne on ice with a long-stem rose for the lady in Room 111.

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin (to audience): So you see, my business is mankind – and more especially womankind. All profits go toward the finer things in life: vintage wine, gourmet meals, a great cigar, poetry, and the smile of a beautiful lady. A question. (Hand to his ear.) My fee? Normally, one thousand dollars. But up to five thousand depending on the difficulty of the 3 assignment. Of course, everything is negotiable. Another? The meaning of the chess piece? The knight. It’s a kind of trademark for my business card. (Holds out card, spotlight, projection on back wall, card theme.) Along with the music. Stops you in your tracks, doesn’t it. Also have a white knight on this. (Holds up holster, holster-theme plays with back wall projection) Of all the chess pieces, the knight is probably the least predictable. Able to leap over rival pieces and keep opponents wondering what’s his next move. I consider myself a kind of knight or crusader in the American West. Righting wrongs, slaying dragons, saving damsels in distress. That’s why I’m a gunfighter and why I took the name Paladin. Paladins were Charlemagne’s champions of chivalry who fought for the honor of the king’s palatinus or palace. My first name? Just call me Mister.

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin!

Paladin (rolling his eyes and stepping back to the desk) Yes, Heyboy.

HeyBoy: You have new telegram.

Paladine: Another one? (picks up and reads paper on desk) What’s this? “The truth, Man, and nothing but the truth will set you free. R.B.” I give up, Mister Boone. Are you quoting Caesar or Jesus? How about “A lie for a lie and a truth for a truth”?

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin! More telegram.

Palladin: (picks up another paper, reads) “Sisyphus. Release your rock and rest from your labors. R.B.” There will be no rest as long as you keep pestering me. (crumples page, turns to audience)

HeyBoy: Sorry, Mister Paladin. Just one more. Please.

Paladin: (to audience) Excuse me. A moment. HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: I will be bothered no more by these continuous messages. No more. Do you understand?

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Thank you. (turns to audience again) A question? Yes. Do I have a partner? No, I work alone. And I’ll tell you why. Once had an apprentice. Taught him everything I know. Then he turned on me. Became the terror of Tombstone. He was fast. I was faster. Did what I had to do . . .

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin.

Paladin: (impatiently) Yes, Heyboy.

HeyBoy: Will you be read telegram . . . last one, I sure.

Paladin(frowning with clenched teeth): Yes. I sure too. (looks up to ceiling, a clicking sound is heard) Is that you, R.B. . . working your telegraph machine day and night? Don’t you ever sleep? (grabbing page off desk, reads) “A tale told by you, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” So I’m an idiot now, am I? (crumples paper into a ball, throws it up out of view, pulls out derringer, shoots toward ceiling. Bang! Paper comes down like confetti.)

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin! You frighten guests.

Paladin: Sorry, HeyBoy. Lost my temper for a moment. (to audience) My apologies. “Anger is a brief madness.” So said Horace in his Epistles. Sometimes, not so brief . . (puts down derringer, takes out pen) Take this to the telegraph office, HeyBoy. (reads as he writes on back of business card) “To Mister R.B. My business is my business. Mind your own.” (places card on desk, puts pen away, picks up derringer, turns to audience with derringer, examines it) Just like my other pistol, a beautiful piece of machinery. The tools of the trade. This one’s insurance, part of my backup plan so I’m never totally disarmed. (puts derringer in vest pocket, holds up fists) I could always use these. But you never know when that’s not enough. A question? You’re against killing. What kind of an American are you? Just kidding. I actually feel the same way. Only use this (holds up Colt 45) in self-defense. But if I have to, I have to. Best then to think of your adversary as simply a chess piece that has to be removed from the board. (brandishes and twirls gun) The knight must be ready to attack and avert assault from any direction. The element of surprise . . . (Suddenly the spotlight intensifies over Paladin; he squints and peers into the light.) R.B., is that you? The showdown was supposed to be at noon. No one would have an advantage. But you’ve got the sun at your back now. How am I supposed to hit a target I can’t see? Coward. Make it a fair fight and let the best man win. (Silence; the light even brighter) All right. Have it your way – for now. (Paladin lays the gun on the desk and puts a hand up, wiping his forehead with a black handkerchief . As one hand comes down, the other comes up with the derringer.) We’ll talk. Where are you? (The light now comes from behind Paladin; he puts the derringer down and raises both hands.) Very clever. You’ve got my back. Well, speak, man. What do you want?

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin.

Paladin: HeyBoy. Can’t you see I’m a bit busy right now.

HeyBoy: Telegram.

(Paladin, rolling his eyes, starts to lower his arms to retrieve telegram on desk; then raises them again and glances back)

Paladin (over his shoulder, to light in back): Just trying to read your message, if you don’t mind. (the light fades a bit) Thank you. (picks up paper and reads) “To know the oak, study the acorn. Yruu R.B.” Yruu? It sounds like Lao Tzu.

Paladin: HeyBoy!

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Do you know of a Chinese poet named Yruu?

HeyBoy: Not sure. Maybe you spell please?

Paladin: Yruu. Y,R,U,U.

HeyBoy (laughing): Oh, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Why are you laughing, HeyBoy?

HeyBoy: You make joke. Y,R,U,U.

Paladin: What? Oh. Very clever, Mister Boone. Why are you you? And I could ask the same question. But you’ve got the gun and I don’t. OK. We’ll play it your way for awhile: “To know the oak, study the acorn.” (pause) My father was an oak. A really big man . . .

(The light dims behind Paladin who drops his arms and turns to the back wall where a silent scene plays out. The screen shows an oak tree near a riverbank. The shadow of a man emerges from the oak tree; he stoops to a band of glittering blue light. A golden spot shines on a pan in his hand as he scoops at the watery light. He suddenly stands upright and turns to the darkness of stage left. Actions follow Paladin’s commentary.)

Paladin (in a dim spot, crouching behind the covered upturned chair): It was 1849 – the height of the goldrush in California; I was only ten. From my hiding place behind a rock, I heard them talking. Father was gesturing to a figure upriver behind a pine tree. He kept saying “Jack” and “my claim”. I couldn’t hear what “Jack” was saying, but suddenly father’s arms went up and he shouted “No!”

(A bright flash and an explosion. The figure with upraised arms drops to the ground and crawls to the darkness offstage right.)

Paladin: I could hear father moaning as he crawled toward the darkness. And then . . (The figure disappears offstage; another shot, but no flash.) I started to stand when a man emerged from the shadows. (Another figure emerges from the shadows offstage right and walks toward Paladin hiding behind the rock) He was carrying a long rod rifle. He came up the path toward me. (The light brightens over a man standing over Paladin hiding behind the rock. He cocks the gun and points it at Paladin’s head.) I recognized him. Father’s neighbor and friend – now just a common claim-jumper and murderer: Jack Ganelon. (A tense moment as a spotlighted Jack Ganelon stares at Paladin, uncocks the gun, and walks in darkness offstage right. Paladin stands up staring after him.)

Paladin: He could’ve shot me. Should’ve probably. Sometimes I wish he had. So there, I said it. Can I go on now?

(The lights come up, the scene returns to the Hotel Carlton; Paladin returns to desk, addresses audience) Another question? Yes. How do I get clients? Well, I often meet them face-to-face like this in the lobby of the Carlton. Or I solicit, usually from the San Francisco Chronicle. News and situations wanted especially. (picks up newspaper) Here’s an article about a land dispute between two families. “Range war over water rights feared by local lawmen.” I’ll take out my card (card theme sounds and backwall projection shown) – two cards in this case -- and send them to each prospect. Both will think my services are gratis. One will agree to pay the other ten thousand dollars to settle the dispute. The other will agree to accept eight thousand dollars. As intermediary I will accept the two thousand dollar difference and be on my way before either party discovers two plus two makes five. All very proper and legal. HeyBoy!

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin (writing on envelope, putting cards in) Make sure this gets out in today’s post. (licks envelope and lays it on desk) 6

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin (returning to audience): Another question? Yes. What’s my real name? Paladin. That’s all you need to know.

HeyBoy (interrupting) : Telegram, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Now what? (glances down at desk) “A nose by any other name still smells like a nose.” Very funny. (spotlight shines brightly on Paladin’s face. Perspiring, he removes his coat/tie and lays it on the desk. Now dressed entirely in black.)

Paladin (uncomfortably): What’s in a name anyway? A paladin by any other title is still a knight. It’s my nom du plum and it will be my nom du tomb. Background? I have references. Many satisfied customers. Clients are better than relatives. They pay for help. (Peering out into the audience) Is that you, R.B.? What do you want: a note from my mother?

(The light switches to Paladin’s back again. Paladin puts his hands up again. The sound of leaves swirling as a figure appears seated in a spotlight – a woman with her hands over her face before the back screen showing the inside of a log cabin.)

Paladin (looking at the scene): My mother. Devastated by father’s death. She’d warned him about Ganelon. Told him to carry a gun. But Dad was a peacemaker. Mother said he was soft. They had arguments. She told him to live up to his name. Mann. Charlie Mann. Mother’s name was Rose. Rose Grail. She was a schoolteacher. Taught me to love reading – especially hero novels: like Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. Mother was independent, high- principled, believed in fair-play above all else. Father was a dreamer; but also a reader. He especially liked the nature poetry of Wordsworth. Father wanted to strike it rich. And he might’ve had – except for that rat Ganelon.

Rose Mann: Hugh? Is that you?

Paladin: Yes, Mother. (to audience) Hugh Mann. That was father’s way of telling me to live up to my name.

Rose Mann: Come here, Hugh. I want to talk to you.

Paladin: Yes, Mother. (glancing back over his shoulder) Do you mind? (the light dims and dies out)

(Paladin is next seen kneeling next to his seated mother. She strokes his hair.)

Rose Mann: Hugh.

Paladin: Yes, Mother.

Rose Mann: You must be a man now. A real man.

Paladin: I know, Mother.

Rose Mann: But not like your father. Charlie was a man in name only. He wouldn’t defend himself. I told him not to trust Jack Ganelon. 7

Paladin: Do you want me to kill him, Mother?

Rose Mann (pauses, smiling, holds up her son’s face) You’re too young, Hugh. Besides, the sheriff says they’ll find him and bring him to justice.

Paladin: But what if they don’t, Mother?

Rose Mann: The rule of law must come first. That’s what your father would have wanted. (scene fades out to darkness)

Paladin (still in darkness): That’s what her voice said. But her eyes said something else. (a whirling sound, the oak-tree river scene reappears on the back wall) Years went by and nothing happened. Jack Ganelon was never found. Mother died – too soon, I knew, due to her Charlie’s murder. Ganelon got them both. I went to live in San Francisco with my Aunt Martha and Uncle George. Aunt Martha continued to nourish mother’s love of learning in me. Taught me to appreciate the classics: Homer, Plato, Seneca, Cicero, Shakespeare. Uncle George was a banker who taught me about money and what it could buy. He also taught me how to play poker, enjoy good cigars, fine wine, the company of women, and how to take care of myself with a gun.

(The light brightens over Paladin at center stage. Dressed in his “business” clothes: black hat, holster, boots, he stands facing the audience in a “ready-to-draw” pose. A noise like a grunt. Paladin jumps behind the covered chair-rock, pointing his gun at a figure shuffling out of the shadows against the oak tree / river backdrop. He watches as an old man kneels down in the blue light, gold specks flash in his pan. )

Paladin (behind the rock, whispering loudly to the audience): Jack Ganelon. That son-of-a-bitch was still working my father’s claim. The sheriff knew it, was probably paid off in gold. So much for the law. I could’ve shot him dead on the spot. Still . . . He was unarmed. Reminded me of my father. What he might’ve been . . .

Paladin (rising up, facing Jack Ganelon): Jack Ganelon!

Jack Ganelon (dropping his pan, raising his arms as he sees Paladin): Who’s there?

Paladin: You don’t remember me? Charlie Mann’s son.

Jack Ganelon: Yes, I remember. What do you want?

Paladin: You. Though I’d rather have my father back.

Jack Ganelon: I had nothing to do with that.

Paladin: Oh, really. The last time we met was by that rock right over there.

Jack Ganelon: You were too young to remember anything.

Paladin: That’s what you thought. That’s why you didn’t shoot me too.

Jack Ganelon: That’s what you think.

Paladin: What do you mean?

Jack Ganelon (pause): No one will believe you.

Paladin: We’ll let a jury decide that.

(Jack Ganelon walks off-stage with his arms up. Paladin holsters his gun and turns to the audience.)

Paladin: Jack Ganelon was right. The jury didn’t believe me, as a ten-year old, and he got off scott-free. Then the war came and I enlisted. Became an officer in the Union Army. That’s where I learned to kill. I was ready to even the score with Ganelon when I returned to California.

(Paladin again hides behind the rock. Once again a figure comes out of the shadows toward the old oak tree. As he bends down to pan for gold, Paladin jumps out to confront him.)

Paladin (with hand over his holster): Jack Ganelon! I’m calling you out!

Figure (continuing to pan without looking up): Is that you Hugh Mann?

Paladin: It is. And I’ve come back from the war to set things straight between us.

Figure (standing up): Well, you’re too late. Jack Ganelon’s dead.

Paladin (squinting, putting down his gun): And who are you? You look just like him.

Figure: I should think so. I’m his son John.

Paladin: So the Lord made you an orphan before I could.

John Ganelon: He never recovered from your false accusations. The trial broke him even though they found him innocent.

Paladin: Innocent? He was as guilty as John Wilkes Booth.

John Ganelon: You’re lying! And you killed him as sure as you pulled the trigger yourself. I should be calling you out.

Paladin: Bah! I have no beef with you. Justice has been served. The Lord’s vengeance is enough for me.

John Ganelon: Your vengeance, not mine. We’ll meet again, Son of Mann. You can count on it.

(Paladin waves him off and returns to the desk at stage front left. He exchanges hat and holster for silk smoking jacket, picks up paper on desk.)

Paladin (reading): “He who sows the good seed is the Son of Man.” (looking up) Yes. But while “the foxes have dens, and the birds have nests, the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin!

Paladin: I’ve got it, HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: No, not telegram, Mister Paladin. Young lady waiting to see you in lounge.

(Light comes up center stage on beautiful woman with fan in red dress. Paladin puts down paper and walks over to her.)

Paladin (bowing): And to whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?

Lady (extending her hand): My name is Gwyn. Gwyn Alde.

Paladin (kissing her hand): A beautiful name that conjures up castles in the air.

Gwyn: As a matter of fact, I am looking for a knight in shining armor. Here. (removes business card from sleeve of glove; card projection and theme sounds) Would that be you?

Paladin: I would want nothing more – nor less -- than to be your paladin.

Gwyn: Well then, Mister Paladin. May we sit and talk.

(They sit side-by-side in spotlighted hotel lounge chairs.)

Gwyn: I have heard that your real name is Hugh. Hugh Mann.

Paladin: Not many men, or women, know that.

Gwyn: I came to that knowledge through a mutual acquaintance of ours.

Paladin: Oh? And who might that be?

Gwyn: John Ganelon. (Paladin shifts away.) What is it, Mister Paladin?

Paladin: John Ganelon is the son of Jack Ganelon. The man who murdered my father.

Gwyn: That’s not what he says. He says you killed his father.

Paladin: John’s a liar and I don’t want anything to do with him.

Gwyn: I know that. And that’s why I came to see you. He’s threatening to take over the Roncevaux ranch. My family owed him money and agreed to put a lien on our property. Then my father died and now John claims the land is his.

Paladin: How did your father die?

Gwyn: Well, we’re not sure. He was found dead, shot dead, on our ranch near Saddle Creek.

Paladin: Another Ganelon patricide.

Gwyn: What . . . ?

Paladin: It sounds like you need an attorney, not a gunfighter.

Gwyn: I’ve tried that. John won’t listen to the law. Ganelon and his gang are threatening to remove me from my ranch dead or alive.

Paladin: Listen, Miss Alde.

Gwyn: Oh, please call me Gwyn.

Paladin: Forgive me . . . Gwyn. But I must excuse myself. There’s no way I can be impartial in this matter.

Gwyn: But Hugh . . . I mean, Mister Paladin. I’ll pay you well. I’m prepared to offer you three thousand dollars.

Paladin: It’s not the money . . . Gwyn. Principle is more important than profit. John is kerosene and I’m the match. There’s bound to be an explosion if we meet again. I’ll give you the name of another gunman who’s very reliable.

Gwyn: But it’s you I want. Have Gown Will Travel Paladin: Sorry. Wire Gwyn Angels Camp Gwyn: Well, if you change your mind . . . Here’s my card.

(She removes a business card from her other glove. As Paladin accepts it, the business card theme sounds – only more mildly, with a flute and harp. The back-wall lights up with the projection of Gwyn’s business card showing the image of a Queen chess-piece and the words “Have Gown, Will Travel – Wire Gwyn, Angels Camp”)

Paladin: “Have Gown, Will Travel.” Very clever, Miss Alde. I mean, Gwyn. You could be a writer.

Gwyn: See how you inspire me, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: And the gown?

Gwyn: I’m a dress-maker. Something my mother taught me.

Paladin (examining her dress): Your work?

Gwyn: Yes. 11

Paladin: Beautiful. It’s a shame you’re only here in San Francisco on business.

Gwyn: I’ve delivered two dresses and I’ve seen you. So my business is done. I have two more days to see the sights.

Paladin: Well, in that case . . . (extending his arm) I’ll be your guide. Do you like the opera?

Gwyn: Love it. I understand Rigoletto is now playing.

Paladin: Verdi’s the best. I’ll take you tonight if you’re free.

Gwyn (flirting): For you, Mister Paladin, I’m always free.

(They exit from the spotlight. Paladin returns to the desk stage front left.)

Paladin (wiping brow, to audience): And she was. Too free, it seemed. But there’s always a price to pay – especially for love. And it was love. Or so I thought. As it turned out, Rigoletto was not the only clown in town. (turning to stage center where Gwyn poses with her parasol in a spotlight, quotes Wordsworth) She was a phantom of delight / When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent / To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; / Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn / From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, / To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. (Vision of Gwyn fades to darkness.)

Paladin: Like Wordsworth, I was waylayed all right. And a victim of a thousand clichés: blinded by love at first sight, swept off my feet, I went head over heels. Worse: I let my guard down. That was the fatal flaw. Unscathed by any man, I was no match for this one woman. She disarmed me with her charms, her culture, her couture, her contour. Wounded in the heart, I fell at her feet, begging for mercy. I would have done anything for her – except fight John Ganelon. But in the end, even that she would get from me. (spotlight brightens over Paladin) But enough of the past already! Cowley said it best: “Of all the pain, the greatest pain, it is to love, but love in vain.” A question? My kingdom for a distraction. Yes. Why the change in costume? You mean from my city suit to my country work clothes. You have to dress for the occasion. Sometimes you want to be dressed to kill and other times, well, dressed to kill. But you don’t want to be conspicuous and make yourself an easy target. That’s why I wear black. All black. Easier to hide in the shadows. Harder to hit on the move between rocks and wagon wheels. Yes. Black is also a mourning color. Mourning as in grieving. I guess I’m still struggling with a dark demon. The anger and sadness of a lost childhood. A lost love. Bah! This has nothing to do with business. You can’t kill a shadow . . .

HeyBoy: Telegram, Mister Paladin!

Paladin (glancing down at desk): From R.B.? No. From Gwyn. (spotlight reappears on Gwyn who is now dressed as a cowgirl; back screen shows California ranch landscape)

Paladin (to audience): It was nearly a year later. I vowed I’d never to see her again. And to never again mix business with pleasure. Another of my principles that you should always follow if you want to be a successful sole proprietor. 12

HeyBoy: You want I should get horse and saddlebags now?

Paladin (angrily): HeyBoy! How many times have I told you not to read my messages.

HeyBoy: Sorry, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Get the horse and saddlebags ready.

HeyBoy: Done.

Paladin (turning to leave, then to audience): The telegram? If you must know . . . It says, “Our baby in danger. Ganelon threatens. ”

(Darkness for a moment. Gwyn appears in spotlight before interior of ranch-house backdrop. She’s cradling a baby. Spot on Paladin approaching in black workclothes.)

Paladin (with outstretched arms): Our baby? How did this happen?

Gwyn (gently): Oh, Hugh . . .

Paladin: Please. Mister Paladin.

Gwyn (severely): Surely, Mister Paladin. You’re an educated man. In your intellectual pursuits, you must have discovered somewhere – in some book -- just how babies are made.

Paladin: It was only one night.

Gwyn: Well, then, Meister Gunman. You apparently don’t shoot blanks.

Paladin: What do you want from me?

Gwyn: Just what’s fair. Principles over profit.

Paladin: Are you willing to do the same?

Gwyn: Listen. I don’t expect you to marry me. But if I’m to raise this child on my own, I’ll expect substantial support. Some of your “profits” as you call your blood money.

Paladin: We can work that out. But, for the last time, it’s not blood money. If anything, my business mostly prevents bloodshed. 13

Gwyn: Well, you weren’t here when Elayna came. There was plenty of blood – and pain – then.

Paladin: I’m sorry. But I just recently got the message. Elayna’s a pretty name. If I’m to have a stake in this child, can I at least hold her.

Gwyn (handing Paladin the baby): Here. It’ll give me a chance to work on this before he gets here. (pulls out white dress and sits down)

Paladin (rocking the baby): He? Who?

Gwyn: John Ganelon.

Paladin (nearly dropping the baby): What?!

Gwyn: I told you he wants the ranch.

Paladin: But that was almost a year ago. You haven’t resolved that yet.

Gwyn: I’ve been putting him off, telling him I won’t marry him until I finish this wedding dress.

Paladin (nearly dropping the baby again): Listen. You better take her before I have an accident.

Gwyn (continues sewing): Put her in the cradle.

(Paladin disappears into the darkness for a moment; returns without the baby)

Paladin (taking the other chair): Excuse me while I pass out.

Gwyn: Don’t be such a dramatis persona.

Paladin: But this is quite the little play you’ve got going here. The only thing I want to do is make a quick exit.

Gwyn: Your role is to make sure I keep the ranch and have a decent home for myself and Elayna. Otherwise, we move in with you at the Hotel Carlton.

Paladin: That wouldn’t work. Why not just marry John Ganelon?

Gwyn: Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Get you off the hook.

Paladin: I just wouldn’t want to fight John Ganelon for what he claims is rightly his.

Gwyn (startled): Why would you say that?

Paladin: It’s just that you said your husband owed him money. 14

Gwyn (relieved): Oh, that. Yes, that’s true. But I could never marry John. He’s an abusive man.

Paladin: I could be abusive.

Gwyn: You’re responsible. That’s why I love you.

Paladin: Love? Is that what this is? I’d rather be in the second circle of Hell with Dante’s couples.

Gwyn: Drama king.

Paladin: (picking up the dress) But you’re the one acting the part of Penelope. Do you undo the stitches every night and start over every morning? (A knock on the door; moves to the shadows; gives her back the dress) I’ll lie low. Don’t tell him I’m here.

Gwyn: Coward. What kind of a man are you?

Paladin: I’m not ready to play the part of Ulysses just yet. Tell him you’re still working on the dress and he’ll go away.

Gwyn: I’m sure he will after seeing your horse hitched up front with a rifle in the saddle scabbard and your brand on the stock.

Paladin: Damn.

(A door slams; John Ganelon enters the spotlight with Paladin and Gwyn)

John Ganelon (tips hat with one hand, the other lose above his holster) : Well, lookee here. It’s Hugh Mann – better known as Mister Paladin, the man who murders for a living. Gwyn said you’d be coming. You here to be the best man or help her pack?

Paladin: Neither.

John Ganelon: Well, then. Maybe there’s some unfinished business we should tend to first. (pulls out gun; Paladin holds up hands)

Gwyn (shouting, baby starts to cry): Outside. Both of you. There’ll be no gunplay in here.

John Ganelon (pointing to invisible door with gun): You heard the lady. Out. (stops Paladin as he begins to leave, stretches out hand) Your weapon.

Paladin (handing him his gun): So you’re giving me the same chance as your father gave mine?

John Ganelon: Or you gave mine.

Paladin: I gave him the chance to tell the truth. (turns and stares at him, clenching his fists) 15

John Ganelon: I’m giving you the chance to ride out of here sitting on your horse or across its back. Your choice.

Paladin: (staring at him, clenching his fists) Why don’t we settle this mano-a-mano? Fists to fists – like men.

John Ganelon: Out! (pushes him)

(The spotlight goes out over the cabin interior and goes on over the adjacent area of the stage. As Paladin stumbles out into a bright light, the back screen shows an exterior scene of rocks and range. Ganelon with his gun drawn emerges from the darkness and faces Paladin.)

Paladin (squinting at light, on his knees with arms extended): Ganelon! Use your brains, Man! You can’t win this fight. If you kill me, you’ll be a traitor and face a fiery end, pulled to pieces by the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.

John Ganelon (approaching closer): What are you ranting about, Paladin? Have you been smoking loco weed?

Paladin (standing up, fists clenched): I’m talking about the Song of Roland. This ranch is named Roncevaux. The lady who owns it is Gwyn Alde. Alde was the sister of Oliver and betrothed of Roland. Roland and Oliver fought a duel near Vienna until an angel told them to save themselves for war against the Saracens. I’m telling you we need to save ourselves for the real enemies of the throne and not fight each other.

John Ganelon: You’re babbling like a stream.

Paladin: Yes. A golden river turned red by a father’s fall from grace.

John Ganelon: Liar! I should just shoot you now and put you out of your misery.

Paladin: That would be big mistake. We’re two sides of the same coin. It is written in the chansons. Your father Jack betrayed my father Charlie just as Ganelon of Old betrayed Charlemagne. We as knights, as paladins of the West, are called to continue their rivalry. But the real foes are those who don’t believe in the code of chivalry, commoners who cannot contend.

John Ganelon: I have no idea what you’re raving about.

Paladin: This is about us – noble horsemen of the New World who bear the name chevalier. A dying breed unless we survive to protect our English cousins: Gwyn and Elayna. In Arthurian times, I’m Lancelot and you’re Mordred. Two dragons we fight, now as then: Desire and Fear. Twin monsters, guarding the Cave of Maidens, we can defeat, by seeking safety on the Mountain of the Middle Way. We’re brothers, I tell you . . . closer than brothers . . . Gemini, in fact, like Castor and Pollux . . .

John Ganelon (startled): What? Brothers! Twins! How do you . . . ? You’re as crazy as a loon, Paladin.

Paladin: Ah, yes, la lune. The moon we are to mankind. Paladin provides a white night. But you Ganelon are an eight- point star – the Cross of Saint John. Together we’re Galadin, the lion and the unicorn. And these are our virtues. I’ve got them written down here . . . (reaches toward belt) 16

John Ganelon: Freeze or you’re a dead man.

(Paladin slowly pulls out a paper and starts to hand it to Ganelon, but then crumples it up and throws it in his face. Momentarily startled, Ganelon lets down his guard. Paladin grabs the gun and a struggle ensues. As they twist and turn, Paladin shouts out the chivalric virtues: “Humility. Compassion. Courtesy. Devotion. Mercy. Peace. Resolve.” A sudden explosion. Baby cries. A spotlight comes up on Gwyn by the rock. She is pointing Paladin’s smoking rifle at the struggling pair who have now suddenly broken apart. Paladin has Ganelon’s gun.)

Gwyn: You forgot chastity. (lowering rifle) Ha. Could’ve got the two of you with one shot. Now git. (pointing rifle at Ganelon) Yeh, just you. And don’t ever return. Paladin stays. (Ganelon exits)

(The spotlight goes dark on the centerstage scene and backdrop. Paladin reappears in a spot next to the desk.)

Paladin: Many days I wish she had told me to go and Ganelon to stay. Other times, I wish she had shot him dead. Then there are moments when I wish she had shot me instead. Or both of us. But generally I’ve been satisfied to survive as Elayna’s father. Don’t see her much. Just on her birthday: April 19th. The same day as the shot heard round the world: the first gunfight of the American Revolution on Concord’s North Bridge.

(Paladin looks to back of stage where the cabin interior scene appears with Gwyn sewing in her rocking chair while a young girl pirouettes around her.)

Paladin: Elayna and Gwyn. It’s been seven years since that shocking telegram. Every month I send silver to Roncevaux Ranch, 500 dollars by Wells Fargo. Not so much as a thank you note. But that’s all right. I get to keep up my business and my gentleman’s lifestyle. Marriage would suit me ill. Still. I look forward to April 19th. Gwyn won’t tell Elayna I’m a gunfighter. She thinks it would horrify her. So she tells her I’m a big game hunter. For her last birthday I played the part. Wore a pith helmet and we pretended to being on safari in Africa.

(Backscreen turns from inside to outside where silhouetted figures act out hunting scene. Pith-helmeted figure with stick pretends to hunt young Elayna who holds her hands next to her head as ears and plays the part of a tiger.)

Paladin: I hunted Elayna in the brush around the cabin and when I found her I aimed my stick at her. But then Elayna got upset, held up her arms, and cried out “Daddy, it’s me. Don’t shoot.” I dropped the stick and picked her up; held her in my arms and rocked her; told her that I always tried to capture man-eating animals alive and put them in a cage and only shot them if they tried to bite me. Then I read to her from Tennyson’s poem about the Lady of Shalott: “Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot . . .”

(Silhouetted figures act out new scene of Aladdin and the genie.)

Paladin: And sometimes we’d play Aladdin and the magic lamp. Elayna would call me Pal-lad-din, so it was natural for us to act out the famous story from the “Arabian Nights.” Elayna would be the genie and, when she asked me what I wished for, I said I wanted nothing more than for her to be a beautiful young woman who would marry a handsome prince and be 17 happy the rest of her life. Then I would play the part of the genie. Elayna would rub the lamp and I would appear from behind a rock and asked her what her wish was. And she would say . . . (pause) . . . she would wish that I would stay and never leave her or her mother alone. And I would say that – maybe, someday – her wish would come true. But, in the meantime, she never had to be afraid -- that I would always come right away, whenever she needed me. And then, I gave her my card.

(Backscreen lights up with image of Paladin’s business card, theme sounds, backstage scene fades to black)

Paladin: And that seemed to settle her down. And me too. You see, I love that little girl as my own and I would never harm a hair of her head. Just the thought of it . . . (emotional pause) And if anyone ever caused even one tear to stain that rosy cheek . . . Well (pause) But enough of my life. Any more questions about the business? Yes. What makes me a successful gunfighter. Some big things: practice for one thing, concentration, naturally quick reflexes – you either got that or don’t. And lots of little things: a great gun for one. (picks up holster, takes out gun) This is a .45 caliber Colt Single Action Army revolver. It’s perfectly balanced, hand-crafted, with a two-ounce trigger pull and a rifle barrel. (looks down barrel) Straight as an arrow, on target within one inch to the right at fifty feet. For farther out, there’s this. (pulls up rifle) It’s a lever-action Winchester. Very accurate. A beautiful weapon I had custom-made with my logo on the stock. For closer in, there’s this (pulls out derringer) – the weapon of last resort, deadly at close range. This is a single-barrel Colt; I also have a double- barreled Remington. Did I tell you this before? That’s because I’m a repeater, like my rifle. The point is, you never want to be totally disarmed, if you can help it. Have Guns – Will Travel is a more precise description of my services. How do I draw so fast? Here’s a little trade secret I don’t tell everybody; (whispers) I put a drop of panfat in the holster. Just a drop. The barrel slips out nice and easy like a water snake. Another tip: practice with your weak hand. Once got my right hand broken by a rifle butt. It wasn’t an accident. The hombre who maimed me thought he had the upper hand. Drew on me. I slipped the Colt out of my belt with my left hand. Dropped him before he could level his weapon.

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Another telegram.

HeyBoy: You read my mind, Mister Paladin.

Paladin (picking up paper): No. Just too many telegrams. “He who lives by the sword shall perish by it as pride goeth before the fall. R.B.” So now you’re mixing up Old and New Testaments. (looking up) The correct quote, by the way, from Proverbs, is “Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.” (turning suddenly toward center stage as spotlight brightens on a man in a bowler hat, staring out at Paladin and the audience.)

Paladin: HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Who is that man and why he is he staring at me?

HeyBoy: Oh. That man in boulder hat.

Paladin: You mean the man in the bowler hat.

Heyboy: No, I mean boulder. He have very hard head. Brain like rock.

Paladin: You say he’s hard-headed. What happened, HeyBoy?

HeyBoy: He call me HeyYou. Told him my name at Carlton HeyBoy. Then he call me HeyYou again. So I say, HeyMan make self comfortable. Mister Paladin very busy man and you have long wait now. That’s what he get to be so rude.

Paladin (laughing): OK, HeyBoy. I think he got your message.

HeyBoy: Message that name everything. Respect important.

Paladin: Of course. (smiling, approaching the man in the bowler hat) Hope you haven’t been waiting long. Apparently there was a misunderstanding.

Man in Bowler Hat: The only misunderstanding was by that impudent chink who made me wait.

Paladin (mood darkening): That “impudent chink” happens to be my friend and you owe him an apology.

Man in Bowler Hat: I think not. That ungrateful slanty-eyed immigrant should apologize to me.

Paladin (pulling out derringer from his vest pocket): All he wants is a little respect for his name.

Man in the Bowler Hat: His name? HeyYou, HeyBoy. What’s the difference? That can’t be his real name anyway.

Paladin (raising derringer): HeyBoy is what we call him around here.

Man in the Bowler Hat: What? I heard you could be rather impetuous. Are you going to shoot me now?

Paladin: No. But I could put a neat little hole in the middle of that nice hat.

The Man in the Bowler Hat: Mister HeyBoy!

HeyBoy: Yes, Mister HeyMan.

The Man in the Bowler Hat: Sorry I called you HeyYou. (nodding to Paladin) Er . . . It won’t happen again.

HeyBoy: Your apologize accepted.

Paladin (putting derringer away): OK, Mister. Now if you still want to see me . . .

The Man in the Bowler Hat: To begin with, here’s my card . . .

(Back screen changes to enlarged business card: “Have Gun – Will Travel Wire Paladin San Francisco.” Card Theme plays.) 19

Arthur Oliver Attorney At Law Paladin: That’s my card. Where did you get it? Angel’s Camp California

The Man in the Bowler Hat: Sorry, I’ll explain. Here’s my card . . .

Paladin (reading card): Arthur Oliver, Attorney at Law, Angel’s Camp California. (looking up) R.B., you torture me.

Arthur Oliver: Is there something wrong?

Paladin: No, nothing. Other than the fact that Arthur was a legendary king of England and Oliver, the best friend of Roland, Charlemagne’s first paladin.

Arthur Oliver: I fail to see the relevance . . .

Paladin: Of course not. So why are you here, Mister Oliver, and how did you come by my card?

Arthur Oliver: Are you familiar with the Roncevaux Ranch just outside Angel’s Camp?

Paladin: Yes. My daughter and her mother live there. Are they in some kind of trouble?

Arthur Oliver: Legal trouble, yes. There’s been a threat . . .

Paladin: Ganelon.

Arthur Oliver: I’m not familiar with that name. My client’s Taillefer, William Taillefer. He runs a cattle ranch east of Roncevaux.

Paladin: Ah. Ganelon’s west. What’s the name of the ranch – the ranch owned by William Taillefer, your client?

Arthur Oliver: Orlando. The Orlando Ranch.

Paladin: (rolling eyes, looking up at ceiling) So it’s William as in William the Conqueror. Taillefer as in the poet Taillefer who juggled a sword while reciting the Song of Roland to William the Conqueror in 1066. And Orlando as in Orlando Furioso, Charlemagne’s most famous paladin who was in love with the pagan princess Angelica.

Arthur Oliver: That appears to be neither here nor there . . .

Paladin: Oh, I assure you, Mister Oliver. It is both here (looking down at cigar box) and there (looking up to ceiling) . . .

Arthur Oliver: Yes, well, in any event . . . Will Taillefer’s been running cattle up near Saddle Creek in Calaveras County for twenty years. Recently he discovered he could no longer drive his herd to prime grassland and water.

Paladin (lighting up cigar): Did you know that Calavera is the Spanish word for skull?

Arthur Oliver: Yes, well . . . So it turns out that owners of Roncevaux had built a fence across the creek claiming the land was their own.

Paladin: Did you know that Sam Clemens wrote a popular story about a jumping frog from Calaveras County?

Arthur Oliver: I don’t see how that’s pertinent.

Paladin: Now you know how I feel, Mister Oliver.

Arthur Oliver: I’ll get to the point.

Paladin: Thank you.

Arthur Oliver: The bottom line is your Miss Gwyn Alde has been named as defendant in a suit by William Taillefer, represented by me, over grazing rights.

Paladin: So. Are you soliciting me for a settlement?

Arthur Oliver: No, but I do need your assistance -- as an interested party.

Paladin: You are aware of what my business is?

Arthur Oliver: Yes.

Paladin: And my fees?

Arthur Oliver: I’m not requesting use of your services. On the contrary. I’m requesting that you not provide them.

Paladin: How’s that?

Arthur Oliver: This comes to how I got your card and the threat . . .

Paladin: I was wondering when you were going to get to that.

Arthur Oliver: It all happened about a week ago Saturday. I was in Angels Camp, because I heard that the Roncevaux party would be at the Good Angel’s General Store, shopping for supplies. They were. I approached Miss Alde who was exiting the store with her daughter.

Paladin: Elayna. Lovely Elayna.

Arthur Oliver: Yes, you would know. Well, when I introduced myself and served Miss Alde notice of Mister Taillefer’s lawsuit, she expressed anger rather vulgarly and inappropriately, I thought, in the presence of a young child.

Paladin: The point, Mister Oliver.

Arthur Oliver: Yes. Well, at this point, the lady, Miss Alde, hands me your card and says, “Elayna’s father will take care of you.”

Paladin: So you took that as a threat.

Arthur Oliver: Well, yes, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s obvious you’re a gunfighter -- an established one at that.

Paladin: I don’t pursue lawyers or those involved in legal matters.

Arthur Oliver: I’m relieved to hear that.

Paladin: Is that all, Mister Oliver? I’m a busy man . . .

Arthur Oliver: Well, just one more thing. When Miss Alde asked for your card back, I handed her my card instead. She didn’t notice. So, in a sense, I exchanged yours for mine.

Paladin: Stealing a business card is hardly a misdemeanor.

Arthur Oliver: I know. But I was afraid she’d notice nonetheless. Miss Alde was so angry with me already.

Paladin: Gwyn Alde is a lady. She won’t hurt you. THE DEVIL’S DOUBLOON

Arthur Oliver: She probably wouldn’t, but her husband might. SALOON

Paladin: Her husband? LEAVE YOUR GUNS ON THE BAR

Arthur Oliver: While I was speaking to Miss Alde, a man came across the street from the Devil’s Doubloon Saloon. They exchanged words, and the man just stood there glaring at me with his hand over his holster. Miss Alde looked at me with some fear in her eyes and, with a gesture of her hands, like this, managed to calm the man down.

Paladin: And how do you know the man was her husband?

Arthur Oliver: Well, I just assumed that, I guess. The way she touched him. And they all got in the buckboard together. The man, Miss Alde, and the two children . . .

Paladin: Two children?

Arthur Oliver: Yes. A boy and a girl.

Paladin: Where did the boy come from?

Arthur Oliver: He ran out of the general store and jumped in the back of the wagon.

Paladin: And about how old was this boy?

Arthur Oliver: Oh, I’d say, about the same age as the girl. In fact, but this might be presumptuous . . .

Paladin: What’s that, Mister Oliver?

Arthur Oliver: It’s just that, they were so close in age and appearance . . . Well, they looked like twins.

Paladin (silent for a moment): You are man of many words, Mister Oliver. Too many words. But your last ones were most interesting. (rising to leave) Good day.

Arthur Oliver: So, Mister Paladin, do we have an agreement? I mean, you won’t do anything to . . .

Paladin: I’m a man of my word.

(Darkness. Scene changes back to Gwyn’s cabin at the Roncevaux Ranch.)

Paladin: You gave me your word.

Gwyn (busy cleaning house): I gave you a child. Words mean nothing.

Paladin: Well, how about these words: “Our baby in danger. Ganelon threatens. . ”

Gwyn: That was true then, but not now.

Paladin: Did you marry him?

Gwyn (hesitating): No.

Paladin: You hesitated saying no. Why?

Gwyn: John’s been helpful and, well, since you’re rarely around, we’ve been close.

Paladin: Intimate, you might say.

Gwyn: I might say that’s none of your business.

Paladin: Actually, it is my business to protect the public from criminals and ne’er-do-wells.

Gwyn: I can take care of myself.

Paladin: And Elayna. You can take care of Elayna too.

Gwyn: With your help, yes.

Paladin: And the other one? (Gwyn remains silent; Paladin grabs her hand to stop her from cleaning) The boy. (pause) You had twins didn’t you? 23

Gwyn (pulls away): I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Paladin: The lawyer told me everything.

Gwyn: That little weasel knows nothing.

Paladin: And it appears I know even less. (grabbing her arm) Gwyn. Listen to me. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on around here.

Gwyn (struggling): Stop it! You’re hurting me.

(A commotion; the sound of a door opening. Palladin releases Gwyn and steps away. Two children carrying wooden toys, rush in toward Gwyn crying “Momma, Momma, look what Daddy got us.” Elayna, seeing Paladin, stops and stares at him with her mouth open. John Ganelon enters.)

John G: Well, lookee here. It’s Mister Hugh Mann here for a surprise visit. Didn’t see your horse . . .

Paladin: It’s tied up back. And the name’s Paladin.

John G: Sorry. Never know what to call you: Hugh, Paladin, bastard brother.

Gwyn: John, your language . . . the children.

Paladin (to Gwyn): What’s he talking about?

Gwyn (tensely): You were the one raving about being brothers the last time you met.

Paladin: Oh, yes, that. I tend to get a little excited when someone has a gun pointed at my head.

John G: You’re lucky I didn’t put a permanent crease in that curly-haired mop of yours.

(Paladin and John glare at each other.)

Gwyn: Stop it, John. Children, take your toys and go out and play . . . in the back of the house.

(Children start to leave. Paladin stops them.)

Paladin: Wait. Elayna. What’s your brother’s name?

Elayna (glancing to Gwyn and John): Lance.

Paladin: And who’s your Father?

Elayna (hesitating, glancing to John and back to Paladin): I, I . . . (crying) 24

Paladin: It’s OK. Go play with your brother. (the children leave; turns to Gwyn) So they’re your twins.

John G: It’s none of your goddam business.

Gwyn (to John): It is his business, John. He’s helping to support them.

John G: With his blood money.

Paladin: Hey, I’d just as soon keep my dirty cash in the bank. The real question is whether I’ve been a responsible parent or an unmarried cuckold. I need to know the truth: Whose children are these?

John G (pulling out gun): Get out.

Paladin (hands up): Not this again.

Gwyn(to John): Put that away. Hugh deserves to know.

John G (putting gun away): What can you tell him?

Gwyn: I don’t know.

Paladin: You don’t know what to tell me, or you don’t know . . .

Gwyn: I don’t know who their father is.

Paladin: How’s that? Surely one of us . . .

Gwyn: One or the other. Or both.

Paladin: Not possible.

John G: Well, it seems, Mister Paladin, we’ve had a shoot-out and it ended in a draw.

Paladin: That usually means two bodies on the ground. And only two . . . (to John) How long have you known about this?

Gwyn (interrupting): I told John as soon the twins were born. And we decided . . .

John G: You decided.

Gwyn: That it was only fair you should have one and John the other.

Paladin: And Elayna has my curly-haired mop.

Gwyn: And Lance has John’s jaw. 25

Paladin: But hopefully not his temper. (John and Paladin glare at each other; Paladin turns away) Well, folks, that was a really entertaining show. But, unfortunately, as a true story, I don’t believe a word of it.

Gwyn: It’s what really happened. I swear it.

Paladin: Swear by what? Your mother’s grave?

Gwyn: No. By your mother’s grave. ROSE G. MANN 1819 - 1852 Paladin: I hope you’re not joking.

Gwyn: Wait right here. (leaves room, into darkness)

Paladin (to John): So, John. Besides wanting to kill me, what other interests do you have?

John G: Genealogy.

Paladin: Genealogy? That’s an awfully big word for a two-bit cowboy.

John G: I’m just itching to get you outside alone.

Paladin: I’m sure you are. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring any paper to throw in your face.

John G: Ha. I read your telegram from Gwyn.

Paladin: You read? Another surprise. Then you know why I don’t buy into this charade.

John G (pulls out paper, reads): “Our baby in danger. Paladin threatens.”

Paladin: You mean “Ganelon threatens.” Let me see that? (takes paper, scans) You got this message the same day . . . So she played us both . . .

John (smiling): Gwyn’s one tough lady.

(Gwyn returns with a packet wrapped in ribbon.)

Paladin (to Gwyn, holding out paper): “Paladin threatens”?

Gwyn: You both are a threat to my babies if you don’t take responsibility for them.

Paladin: Is there anyone else?

Gwyn: No.

Paladin: You’re sure? How can I believe you? And no other children?

Gwyn: Well, there’s Jake.

John G: Don’t talk about Jake . . .

Paladin: Jake? Who’s Jake?

Gwyn: Jake was John’s son in a prior marriage. But he ran away from home when he was fourteen. He might be a pirate or he might be . . . dead.

Paladin: There hasn’t been a California pirate since Bouchard attacked Monterey in 1818.

John G: About as many left as professional bounty hunters, eh?

Paladin: What happened to your wife, John? Did you shoot her?

John G: None of your damn business, Paladin.

Gwyn: I’m afraid it is.

John G: Gwyn. Don’t . . .

Gwyn: John and I were once married.

Paladin: What?! So, this Jake is your son too. This is unbelievable. And you’re living together. According to common law, that means you’re still married.

Gwyn: No, our marriage ended ten years ago. My brother Arthur Oliver handled the divorce . . . badly, as it turns out.

John G: You got to keep your father’s property.

Gwyn: I should’ve got half of yours too.

Paladin: Arthur Oliver your brother? But your last name is Alde.

Gwyn: That was my mother’s maiden name.

Paladin: So you’ve been Gwyn Oliver, Gwyn Ganelon, and now Gwyn Alde.

Gwyn: That’s right.

Paladin: Why do I feel like I’m a character in an Anthony Trollope novel? (looking up) R.B. This is all your doing, isn’t it?

John G: You hallucinating again, gunman? 27

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

Paladin: No! Is there anything else I don’t know?

John G (to Gwyn, laughing): Should I tell him?

Gwyn: No. Not now. He’s learned too much today.

Paladin: If that’s all . . .

John G (to Paladin): We have unfinished business.

Paladin (tipping hat): I’d really like to oblige you. But believe me – our business is finished. And so am I . . . (turns to leave)

Gwyn: Wait. Take this home with you, Hugh. (hands Paladin package wrapped in ribbon.)

Paladin (examining package): What’s this?

Gwyn: Letters. Read them and you’ll know everything. Goodbye. (exits)

John G (grinning, slapping a bewildered Paladin on the back): If we need you, we know how to reach you . . . brother. (hands him a business card; card theme sounds off-key as Arthur Oliver’s card appears on back wall.)

Paladin (tensely): That’s not my card.

(Darkness. Scene changes with Paladin dressed in robe, sitting in lounge chair toward front stage left. On a table next to him is a burning candle and the opened package of letters. He struggles to read one in his hand.)

Paladin (obviously tired, sighs, puts down letter): HeyBoy! (There is no answer.) HeyBoy, I know you’re there. Why don’t you answer me?

HeyBoy: No one here by that name.

Paladin: What do you mean?

HeyBoy: My name Kim Chan.

Paladin: Since when?

HeyBoy: Since I baby.

Paladin: So . . . what you’re saying is you’d rather be called Kim Chan instead of HeyBoy.

HeyBoy: You Mister Paladin. Better Mister Chan.

Paladin: OK, Mister Chan. Could you please bring me a glass of port. Better the bottle. 28

HeyBoy: I leave now to see sister Kim Li. Bring bottle on desk before leaving.

Paladin: Thank you, HeyBoy . . . I mean, Mister Chan.

Heyboy: You welcome, Mister Paladin.

(Paladin stands up, shakes head, squints, looks at audience.)

Paladin: Oh, you again. How long have you been sitting there in the dark? A question? Yes, of course. What have I learned? Well, I told you how I run my business, but I can give you a few more tips. Only, I’m quite tired tonight . . . from reading these letters. What have I learned from them? I’d rather not say . . . (a clicking noise is heard; Paladin starts, looks up and about) Not this, R.B. Not now. It’s too late for a telegram. (clicking grows louder) All right. All right. I’ll even give you a quote: “He who knows his neighbor is learned. He who knows himself is wise.” Lao-Tzu. Now, leave me alone. (the clicking noise stops but a light shines in back of Paladin) You don’t trust me on my own, do you? (to audience) You see what I must contend with. Such a specter can’t be stopped with a bullet. Unless it’s to the head. (rises, goes to desk, finds port and fills glass) I’d offer you a drink, but there’s only one glass. (Light brightens on desk, shows second glass) Well, thank you HeyBoy . . . er, Mister Chan. (fills second glass, leaves it on desk, addresses audience) Come, join me if you wish. Paladin takes his drink back to lounge chair; light behind Paladin moves to second chair) No, not you, R.B. I need a prospect. Someone who will listen to me -- and repay me with kindness. (Light dims out on second chair; Paladin sips his drink for a moment.) So you’d like to know what I learned from Gwyn’s letters. Well, for one thing, they weren’t Gwyn’s at all. They were Jack Ganelon’s. John’s father, Gwyn’s father-in-law. They were love letters. And if you haven’t guessed it by now, they were sent to him by my mother, Rose Mann – or as she signed them, Rose Grail.

(Paladin puts down glass, picks up letter to read by candlelight.)

Paladin: They all start out the same: “My Darling Jack,” Jack Ganelon, the same man who killed my father, Charlie Mann. (holds up letters) Look at them. More than a dozen over the course of ten years. The first and last the most revealing. The earliest one dated August 1838 – seven months before I was born. (reads) My Darling Jack, I’m with child. It’s yours. I know it. Charlie thinks it’s his. But he’s not man enough. I miss you. Someday we’ll be together when he’s gone. For now, recall the words of Shakespeare: “The course of true love never did run smooth.” Damn. (slams down letter) That’s from Midsummer Night’s Dream. This is not a comedy. This is a tragedy beginning with my birth and ending with the death of my father. My father. Who the hell is my father then? Charlie Mann or Jack Ganelon? And who is the father of Elayna and Lance? John Ganelon or me? And who are these people all around me? Are they really who they say they are? Or are they just characters in a story? And who then am I? Paladin or Hugh Mann? But that’s my business – and no one else’s. (clicking sound) Yes, yes, I know. The business of life . . . (clicking stops, Paladin picks up another letter) Then there’s the last one, dated June 1849 – the month before my father – the father I knew – was shot. In a note of desperation my mother writes, “I can’t live without you any longer.” And then there’s this. (Paladin pulls out another piece of paper from the envelope.) A draft of a letter never sent I assume. (reads) “My Darling Rose, You are the Holy Grail of my life. Know this and fear not: The dragon will die and soon you shall be free. Love always, Jack G.” The words of Jack Ganelon? I think not. The letters, the lies, the names. A plot by Gwyn and John to keep me close? More likely. And yet . . . Doubt. That’s the real dragon. Who was my mother then? Rose Mann, a devoted wife and a tender parent who taught her son to read and love culture. Or Rose Ganelon, an adulterer and a fraud, a traitor who inspired the murder of her loyal husband Charlie Mann. Killed him as if she pulled the trigger herself. Snuffed him out like a candle. (blows out candle)

(Darkness for a moment. Paladin strikes match and relights candle.)

Paladin: But just when I thought all doubt had been extinguished, another lamp was lit, far back in my mind. Father’s papers. Charlie Mann’s, I mean. The man I once thought was my father. I found his papers and read them. Mostly copies of claim forms, bills of lading, receipts – and then this. (pulls up another piece of paper) Another love-letter. This one dated October 1838, five months before I was born. “Dearest Charlie,” it reads. “This child of ours will be a wonderful witness to our love. Every moment with you is a treasure beyond words. Love, R.G.” R.G.? Rose Grail? Why not just “Rose”? That’s when my investigative instincts ignited. I compared the handwriting on the letter from R.G. to Charlie with the letters Gwyn gave me from Rose to Jack. They didn’t match. Well, there’s the proof, I thought. Gwyn’s letters are fake. Mother never had an affair with Jack Ganelon. But then that dragon Doubt crept into my cave again. I had to know for sure. In mother’s papers I found a note written to me about settling father’s accounts after his murder. The handwriting matched Gwyn’s letters from Rose to Jack but not the one from R.G. to Charlie. Then it was certain I was Jack Ganleon’s son. Damn. But who was R.G.? Did Charlie Mann have a child out of wedlock at the same time I was born. It seemed preposterous, but there was only one way to rule out my worst fear. I went to the county recorder and asked to see John Ganelon’s birth certificate. It read, “John Ganelon, born March 15th 1839, of father Jack and mother Rolanda.” R.G. Not Rose Grail but Rolanda Ganelon. The facts were dizzying. John Ganelon was the son of Charlie Mann and I, Hugh Mann, was the son of Jack Ganelon. And then the whole horrifying truth exploded in my head: John’s father had not killed my father, but mine had murdered his. (blows out candle again)

(Darkness for a moment again. Paladin lights candle for a third time.)

Paladin: But who else had seen this light? Did Gwyn? Did John Ganelon know the strange twists that took them from not being related to being half-brothers to not being related at all? Did Charlie Mann know about Rose and Jack? Did Rose encourage Jack to kill Charlie because she knew about Charlie and Rolanda? And now the children Elayna and Lance. Who are they related to? What is their . . . genealogy? That’s what John was interested in . . . besides gunning me down. (blows out candle)

(Paladin takes off robe and puts on black hat; stands facing desk-as-bar in business attire. Two spotlights: one dim on Paladin stage left and the other bright at stage right on the figure of John Ganelon in the pose of a gunfighter ready to draw.)

John G: Paladin. I’m calling you out.

Paladin (to audience): It was six months ago. A year after Gwyn gave me the letters. I was in Angel’s Camp on business, having a drink at the Devil’s Doubloon Saloon.

John G: Come out of that bar. I know you’re in there.

Paladin (to audience): I recognized the voice and figured we’d just talk or have a fist-fight at worst.

John G: Paladin. We’ve got a score to settle.

(Paladin turns and walks several steps to center stage into a bright light; faces John Ganelon)

Paladin: The score’s zero to zero. What do you want, John? 30

John G: I want you dead.

Paladin: Live long enough and you’ll get your wish.

John G: Your day of reckoning is at hand. Now!

Paladin: Don’t do it, Man. We can talk this out.

John G: Your dandy words don’t mean anything.

Paladin: But we’re brother-knights, John. Like Percival and Galahad.

John G: Ha. Percival failed to find the Holy Grail and Galahad was the bastard son of Lancelot.

Paladin (surprised): What? How did you know . . . ?

John G: Genealogy, Paladin.

Paladin: Genealogy, right. But you don’t have to be Ganelon, John. You can be any knight you want to be. There’s Bedivere, the giant, and Gawain who fought the Green Knight. And then there’s Dagonet, King Arthur’s jester.

John G: A joker? Is that who you think I am?

Paladin: No, John. I can see you’re dead serious. But you don’t have to be. Shakespeare said we’re all actors. That means you can change your role anytime . . .

John G: That’s not how things work, Hugh Mann. It’s a cold and heartless world that tells you who you are and what your fate will be.

Paladin: Not true, John. We’re white knights of the West.

John G: You’re a dark knight, Paladin. A knight of gloom that must be ended by the Dawn of Death.

Paladin (to audience): John’s hand was shaking. He was desperate and so was I.

Paladin: Drop the gun, John, and come inside for a drink. It’ll settle you down.

John G: I thirst only for justice.

Paladin: But the Bible also says, “Those that hunger and thirst for justice, shall be satisfied.”

John G: Your blood alone will quench my thirst.

Paladin: Use your brains, Man. You’ve got a woman and two kids who need you. 31

John G: It’s . . . impossible.

(Light dims on Paladin; he turns his head slightly to the audience as he and John move in slow motion.)

Paladin (to audience as he draws gun): I waited till the last possible second to pull the trigger, hoping that he would stop before the borehole came up to his belt. But the gun kept rising, and when it reached his waist, I knew I had no choice. I fired and John went down in a heap. (John falls to ground into darkness) It was a clean kill to the middle of his chest. John had time to get a round off – albeit wildly. But he didn’t. I was relieved and baffled. In the aftermath, with witnesses agreeing it was a fair fight, I checked John’s gun. The barrel was cold and the chambers empty. John had called me out without a bullet in his revolver. I wasn’t sure what really happened until a month later. That’s when Arthur Oliver, the man in the bowler hat, returned to the Carlton Hotel.

(Spotlight brightens on Arthur Oliver at center stage; Paladin returns to chair, puts on silk robe.)

HeyBoy: Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Yes, HeyBoy. I mean, Mister Chan.

HeyBoy: Man to see you.

Paladin: (turning, going to stage center) Oh, who? Ah. Mister Oliver.

Arthur Oliver: You remember my name.

Paladin: I never forget a hat. Please take a seat. (They sit.) What brings you back to San Francisco?

Arthur Oliver: Legal business unfortunately.

Paladin: But fortunately for you – since you are an attorney.

Arthur Oliver: I suppose . . . (looking about) Could I speak to you privately for a few minutes, Mister Paladin?

Paladin: Of course. (offering cigar box) Care for one?

Arthur Oliver: No thanks.

Paladin (lighting cigar): Is this about that Taillefer lawsuit again? I thought it would be resolved by now.

Arthur Oliver: It actually is.

Paladin: Oh? And I assume your client is satisfied with the judge’s decision.

Arthur Oliver: Yes. Mister Taillefer now has full access to water and grazing for his cattle.

Paladin: That’s fine.

Arthur Oliver: Unfortunately, the other interested party was quite the opposite of satisfied.

Paladin: You must mean your sister Gwyn.

Arthur Oliver: And John Ganelon.

Paladin: Yes. John. You heard what happened to him.

Arthur Oliver: Yes. And that’s why I’m here.

Paladin: Oh?

Arthur Oliver: Let me explain. In the case of William Taillefer, the lawsuit ended when an independent surveyor confirmed that the fence in dispute was not on the border between the Roncevaux and Orlando ranches. The real boundary line was actually across the river, not only giving Mister Taillefer complete water and grazing rights, but denying those same rights to the proprietors of the defendants’ land, i.e., Miss Alde and Mister Ganelon.

Paladin: What?! You mean the Roncevaux Ranch has no water or pasture for its cattle?

Arthur Oliver: Yes.

Paladin: Well, that’s a disaster. Did Mister Taillefer agree to share the river and grasslands with Miss Alde and Mister Ganelon?

Arthur Oliver: Unfortunately, no.

Paladin: Then, what did they do?

Arthur Oliver: John Ganelon came to you for help.

Paladin: Help? He threatened to kill me. What help could I give him but kill him in self-defense.

Arthur Oliver: As it turned out, that was exactly the kind of help he wanted.

Paladin: You’ll have to elaborate.

Arthur Oliver: About a month before your “shoot-out”, as you call it, Mister Ganelon contacted the Golden State Life Insurance Company and took out a ten thousand dollar policy on himself, naming Miss Gwyn Alde as beneficiary.

Paladin: So what you’re saying is that, in effect, John Ganelon killed himself by provoking a shoot-out with me and that since suicide was the cause of death within two years of the policy effective date, the insurance company is absolved of all liability.

Arthur Oliver: Ah, Mister Paladin . . . You know the law. Yes. That’s the contention of my client.

Paladin: The Golden State Life Insurance Company.

Arthur Oliver: Yes. GOLDEN STATE LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY

Paladin: So what do you want from me, Mister Oliver?

Arthur Oliver: Just the truth.

Paladin: Ah, the truth. William Blake wrote in Auguries of Innocence: “A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.” But I suppose you mean the truth that will nullify any obligation of your client to pay Miss Alde the proceeds of John Ganelon’s insurance policy.

Arthur Oliver: Yes.

Paladin: You realize, of course, that my interest in this matter is conflicted by my concern for Miss Alde and for her children.

Arthur Oliver: Of course. And to a certain extent I share your concern.

Paladin: As her brother.

Arthur Oliver: I’m not as cold-hearted as Gwyn would have you believe.

Paladin: So . . .

Arthur Oliver: So that’s why I’m here to propose a settlement.

Paladin: Ah . . .

Arthur Oliver: The Golden State Life Insurance Company is prepared to offer Miss Alde four thousand dollars.

Paladin: Instead of ten thousand dollars.

Arthur Oliver: Instead of years of delay, the expense of litigation, and the probability of receiving nothing.

Paladin: Six thousand.

Arthur Oliver: Five thousand.

Paladin: Done.

Arthur Oliver: And done.

(They shake hands. Darkness for a moment. John Ganelon’s body appears in a spotlight below the spot where he had been standing before. Medium spot on Paladin sitting in chair with unlit candle on table beside him.)

Paladin: Done. The deed was. And done. (lighting a match) A man’s life. Snuffed out like a candle. (blows out match, spot on Paladin dims.) Only smoke to show where once it was. Dead center -- right through the heart. A clean kill. But not an honest one. John’s heart, as it turned out . . . was already dead – fatally pierced by his lover . . . Gwyn (another spotlight brightens on Gwyn with a smoking rifle pointed above Ganelon’s body) as if she had pulled the trigger herself.

(Darkness again. Paladin in black work clothes appears standing with unlit candle in hand, next to lobby desk.)

Paladin (to audience): In the end, Gwyn got one-half of John’s insurance proceeds as promised and I increased my monthly support to Elayna and Lance from $500 to $1,000. As a result, I was forced to freelance more – travelling as an itinerant knight with a “free lance” – that is, free for a fee. For nearly a year, I roamed from town to town, far, far from home, thereby increasing my income as well as my chances of becoming another hapless resident of Boot Hill – the ultimate old- age home for “retired” gunfighters. (Re-lights candle, moves to center stage and places it on the floor where it becomes a flickering campfire)

Paladin: (laying down on back, next to candle-campfire) Of course, there were benefits to this new arrangement. Less time lounging under silk sheets at the Carlton Hotel meant more time contemplating the stars under God’s great cosmic canopy. (The ceiling lights up with stars, Nature sound effects) Outside in the wild. The one place I could escape the telegrams and taunts of R.B. Nothing but a crackling campfire, the snort of a horse, the howl of a coyote, and the wind whistling through the ocotillos. Here I could stare at the sky and see nothing more threatening than a comet. Here I could be a vigilante in the best sense of the word. Vigil-ante: Watch before. Keeping watch like a shepherd before the dawn. No one here to tell me it’s time to ante up. All bets are off. It’s a sure thing: There’s no night than a night like this. Browning said it best: “The year’s at the Spring / The hillside’s dew-pearled / The lark’s on the wing / God’s in his heaven / All’s right with the world.” (clicking sound begins; moon appears as stars vanish)

Paladin: Damn it, R.B. Even out here. Is there no place safe from your probing eyeball? Stop staring. I’m warning you. If I have to, I’ll shoot the moon. (The moon vanishes and the stars come out again) That’s better.

Paladin: It was a clear dark night like this long ago. An ancient Babylonian astrologist, who had too much wine, started seeing shapes in the stars. (Ceiling shows star outlines corresponding to cited Signs of the Zodiac) Among the many signs he saw, there was a lion, Leo (clicking sound). Yes, R.B., just like Charlie Mann. A bull, Taurus (clicking sound). Jack Ganelon. A scorpion, Scorpio – his son John – always ready to lash out. A virgin, Virgo – Gwen, until she seduced John and me. Twins, Gemini. Elayna and Lance. An old goat, Capricorn – Arthur Olivier. Water-pourer, Aquarius – HeyBoy, naturally. And finally, the Scales of Justice and Balance, Libra – my duty and passion.

Paladin: But the one sign that the Babylonian astrologist never saw was my very own brand: the sign of the horse, Equus. (Knight chess piece fades into view, outlined by stars) For it was on a clear dark night like this many years ago that I first connected the dots and saw the dark knight I was to be . . . Paladin. (Card theme sounds mystically on wind-chimes) There was no mistake, no doubt. This was my mission, my meaning in life. To avenge my father’s death by bringing a tin plate and a canteen to those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. It was in the stars. (Knight image fades out from sky; clouds appear on backscreen) But now, there are clouds on the horizon. (lightning flashes between gunmen-shaped 35 clouds) Doubt, no doubt. The gunmen of Fate on their four horses of war, famine, pestilence, and death. The stars themselves, once friendly beacons of light are now but bullet holes in the roof of my shadowy shack. (popping sounds; a star brightens with each pop, followed by the thunder of guns from the threatening cloud bank)

Paladin: Shooting stars from the greatest Gunman of the Universe, the Sheriff with the Silver Star. There is no way out of this box I’m in. No way alive at least. All conscious creatures are outlaws in violation of the Natural Order of Things. All fall and bite the dust before the double-barrel of Time and Eternity. (popping sounds again) Firing at will – my will. Each bullet is an attempt on my life: an accident (pop), an illness (pop), a natural disaster (pop). Each year, they come closer. I’ve been grazed a few times. Nothing but flesh wounds so far. Wine, women, and song – wondrous distractions to keep the posse at bay. But one day . . . Why think about it? These thoughts are simply shadows – shadows from Plato’s Cave. But still they come, threatening my serenity. They’re worse than the certainty of the Sheriff -- The Sheriff with the Silver Star. Even if he doesn’t destroy me right away, he will in the end. If not by bullets, then by the upside-down question mark of the hangman’s noose. Justice always prevails.

Paladin (standing in spotlight, arms extended in front, fists together): I give in, Sheriff. In but not up. If my choice is you or Zeus or Allah or Elohim or Vishnu or the Logos, I’ll stay with None of the Above. Disarm me. No matter what, I’ll stick to my guns. Just be just. For I am as much a man as any other. If you shoot me, do I not bleed? If you hang me, do I not die? A fair trial is all I ask for.

(The ceiling darkens; the clouds on the backscreen become prison bars.)

Paladin (standing, pacing, talking to the audience): Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. As you can see, I’m taking the stand in defense of myself. As I always have. I understand I’ve been brought here on the charge of being alive. The same charge filed against every man or woman who’s ever lived. I know what the penalty for conviction is. Of this I have no conviction. I make no joke. For I believe I’m as innocent as every human being who is sentenced to death at birth. My defense? Mistaken identity. You have the wrong man. Let me explain. According to the warrant, the suspect’s name is Hugh Mann. Yes, I was given that name when I was born. But I may actually be Hugh Ganelon. I have been called a son. But whose son am I? Charlie Mann’s or Jack Ganelon’s. I have been called a father, but that may not be true. I’m a lover with no one to love. I call myself Paladin, an alias for my self-image as a medieval knight on a quest for justice. For that, I have been called an avenging angel and a murderous devil. But names are just words. And words mean nothing, as Gwyn and John used to say. Who are they? Just names of characters in a play.

Paladin: So the question you have to ask yourself is: Who am I? Or, more specifically in my case: What does it mean to be Hugh Mann? Am I a hired gun that brings death into the world or a fired gun that brought life. Shakespeare said through the character Jacques in “As You Like It”: “All the world's a stage / And all the men and women merely players / They have their exits and their entrances / And one man in his time plays many parts.” But in this, The Bard was referring to the Seven Ages of Man – from toddler to tottering old codger. The real question then is: Who is this person called myself? If we are, in fact, all actors on a stage, then we should be able to change our masks at a moment’s notice and become a completely different character in the play of Life. That’s why this warrant for my arrest is null and void. I am not who you say I am. Because no sooner do you confirm my identity, then I am someone else entirely. And in my case, I was never the one so named. Furthermore, words mean nothing when society confuses verbs with nouns. Am I a poet just because I write a poem? A father just because I help make a child? A murderer just because I kill a man in a fair fight? No, I say. Your warrant fails to distinguish between the act and the actor. It is null and void for this reason as well. 36

Paladin: And finally, the real criminal in this case has never been charged. Who is that suspect? you ask. Why, none other than the Sheriff himself, of course. (A gavel rap) Consider the evidence. Where is He whenever Death and Misery occur? What’s His alibi? He has none because he is most certainly guilty. He accuses others of committing crimes against humanity when he himself is the biggest offender. He expects to be praised with phrases like “Thanks to the Sheriff” or “The Sheriff is Our Savior” when the world is filled with chaos and misery. He takes credit for love but not hate, for pleasure but not pain, for life but not for its opposite. He has dishonored his oath of office, betrayed the trust of the people, and tarnished his Silver Star. He’s the one who should hang, not me. (A double gavel rap)

Paladin: But then who actually is the Sheriff? What is his real name? If he is the Creator and Director of all things, as some say, then I suspect his initials are R.B. His full name, like Yahweh’s, must omit the vowels. To speak his name out loud is to invite certain death and damnation. But when you come right down to it, the Sheriff may be as much a victim as everyone else. A victim of the Law itself which allows no doubt. For the Law requires sharp distinctions between one act, one person and another -- between right and wrong, yours and mine, accused and accuser. It must have left and right, sun and shade. The Law hates grayness. For this reason, I believe, the Shadows created the Law. Without the Law, there are no Shadows and without the Shadows there is no Law. Are the Shadows then the guilty party? Perhaps. But perhaps they have no choice. For cloudiness destroys shadows. While the bright light of the Law ensures their survival. (The sound of a gavel) Justice requires blame. So who is culpable? Is it my Self, Society, the Sheriff, or the Shadows? That is your decision, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury. (The gavel again) You must excuse my ramblings. I always veer off the path of straight thinking when a gun is pointed at my head. Or, in this case, a noose. Call me crazy. But if you do, then I’m also innocent by way of temporary -- or permanent -- insanity. Thank you.

Paladin (seated in a dim light): It was a hung jury. They were hung and I wasn’t. At least, not yet. It’s up to the Judge now – who’s also the Sheriff. A small town, this Universe is. So here I sit, awaiting my fate. My only hope of escape is this . . . (holds up silver derringer; it gleams in spotlight) A secret key. Deadly within five feet. No match to the lynch mob outside, but an expert opponent for the demon within. (points derringer to his head; a tense moment of silence; a full moon appears shining brightly through the bars; Paladin drops down hand) So why are you staring at me, R.B.? Do you think I’m a coward? Do you think I must choose Life to be a man, a real man? A Hugh Mann. No less a man than the Man in the Moon. (points gun at moon) Should I shoot the moon then? Would that end your lunacy and mine? In the courtroom, I could’ve made a neat little hole in the center of your Silver Star. That would’ve gotten some attention at least. On the other hand, my little derringer is no contest against the Cosmic Cannon. So what choice do I have except . . . . (yawn) to sleep. (sarcastically) But how can I rest with that bright eye of yours peering into my cell? (The moon fades to a gray sphere of light; Paladin looks up) Thank you for that.

Paladin: (staring at derringer in his hand) Ah, the seduction of Death. But with Lethe’s embrace, less doubt, no doubt, of waking again. (putting gun away) So, sleep. (yawn) Sleep, perchance to dream. But even that brooding Prince of Denmark feared the dark dreams that might come next. A night mare. A black horse ridden by a nameless knight. A paladin. One of Charlemagne’s twelve disciples. Is that who I am? Or am I a blind Cyclops reaching for the Noman of Ulysses? Who I am determines what will become of me. Am I nothing then? Born of nothing, destined to return to the Emptiness of All? If Mister Darwin is to be believed, I am nothing but an educated ape buffeted about by the urges and scourges of the lowest beasts. Sex and death: the highlights of Life. Yet, according to the Psalms, I am a being slightly less than the angels. And if there are no angels? Then I am less than nothing. A hero below zero. A liability on the balance sheet of the Universe. A worm and no man. (a flash of lightning followed by thunder) 37

Paladin: The thunder reports and an echo retorts, calling Ophelia to the Stygian Creek. To live, perchance to die. Where is the justice in that? To dream, perchance to sleep. Yes, sleep. Nirvana. A pleasant reprieve from the high noon of consciousness. The welcome siesta that the Don of Cervantes called “The cloak of all human thoughts, equally shielding the shepherd and the king, the simpleton and the sage.” Which, then, am I? Hamlet or Nick Bottom? Macbeth or Lear? Genius or fool? Victor or victim? Does it really matter, then, who I am? Does nothing matter? Only if nothing is a circle of rope around the moon. (The bright moon reappears in the center of a silhouetted noose)

Paladin: So I see . . . Judgment has been passed: I am condemned to the Certainty of Doubt. That is, if I accept the verdict. But who will hear my appeal? (lightning and thunder; clouds swirl around the moon) The Shadows return. Unlikely allies. But can they be trusted? The Sheriff says, “In the shoot-out of Life, the shadows always win.” Can the Sheriff be trusted? No. No one can be counted on. They are all zeros. But being less than zero, I am a number nonetheless. I can count on myself alone. Truth calls me out. Doubt must be doubted.

(As Paladin speaks, the silhouetted noose changes from an upside-down question mark to an exclamation mark to a right-side up question mark and then to a horse-knight chess-piece.)

Paladin: When it’s time, in spite of the gravity of the situation, I will submit my plan, to be executed. The stretch of my neck will straighten out that upside-down question mark; make it into an exclamation point. And the dot at the end shall not be my head but a bullet aimed at Doubt itself. Then I will turn the hangman’s noose right-side up and transform the question mark for good into the Sign of the Chevalier. My brand. The Mark of Paladin.

(Theme music begins quietly; knight chess piece on screen turns grey within the full hazy moon; bright stars shine overhead again.)

Paladin: In the meantime, I will sleep. Sleep perchance to waken from the Dark Dream of Identity. Sleep perchance to flee from this corporeal prison – to be free of Me and the Jail of Reality. Sleep perchance to break the bondage of I, bounded and bonded by body and bone and blood between. To be dead to the world in a refreshing respite of wondrous slumber. Each breath, a week. Each minute, a year. And on wakening, a New Life, far from this dusty desert and all that sucks dry the cells of my brain. It is destiny, my Fate. Call me crazy, but it’s what I know to be true.

(Theme music reaches a crescendo as knight chess piece on screen turns black within the full bright moon.)

Act II: Year 1896, San Francisco California – Paladin is 57 years old. Dark Stage. Back wall lights up with first season intro to “Have Gun – Will Travel”. When gun is drawn and pointed at audience, voice of Paladin says, “This is the Secret Life of Paladin Part 2. An early exit is not advisable. You may find yourself on the outside looking in. Or worse.” OR “Ganelon! Your days are numbered. And that number is low. You’ll be a hero only as long as your gun is faster and more accurate than your rival’s. Then it ends. And when you die, so does your fame. No one will remember you.” (Click, gun is holstered, theme plays, fades out) Spotlight on younger Paladin of First Act, in black working clothes, sitting at bar (also used as hotel lobby desk) at forestage left.

Paladin (squinting across the bar counter into bright flickering light): Bartender! Can’t you cover this mirror. Socrates said, “Know Thyself.” That doesn’t mean I have to look at myself. And, while you’re dimming that glass, you might as well

38 refill this one. Another brandy to improve my image. Bartender! It’s bad enough I have to drink alone. It’s worse with someone staring at me while I do it.

(Another spotlight brightens across the stage on a figure holding a shotgun, facing Paladin’s back)

Paladin (seeing the figure in the mirror): Oh, oh. It looks like I’ve got company. You must be part of the Ganelon party. With reservations for, let me guess, four or five? Am I right? (deathly silence for a moment)

Paladin: Well, I’m Paladin. And you are . . . ? (silence) Sorry. I have this thing about names, especially the name of someone who wants to kill me. So, just tell me: What are you called, Cowboy? (a tense moment)

Cowboy (quietly): Toby.

Paladin: What was that? I can’t hear . . .

Cowboy (loudly): Toby.

Paladin: Ah. Toby or not Toby. That is the question. Bartender! A shot for my friend, Toby here.

(A click as the figure cocks and raises the shotgun. In the meantime, Paladin has stealthily placed his revolver on his shoulder, using the mirror to aim the barrel back toward his assailant.)

Paladin: Never mind, Bartender. I’ll take care of him myself.

(Shots ring out. Paladin rolls off his barstool into the darkness at centerstage. Toby grabs his chest and drops to the ground. Spots out. Gunshots continue as shadowy figures appear on the stage walls. One by one, they disappear until a clicking sound is heard. Paladin’s gun is empty. He is seen on the ground, trying to reload. Another figure with long grey hair and a floppy leather hat appears in a spotlight where Toby had been standing. It is Jack Ganelon. He is holding a rifle pointed at Paladin’s head. )

Jack G: Drop it.

Paladin: What the . . . ? It can’t be. Is that you Jack Ganelon?

Jack G: I said: Drop it .

Paladin (dropping gun, holding out hands, looking up): This is your doing, R.B., isn’t it? Now you’re even meddling in my dreams.

Jack G: Who are you talking to? Are you crazy?

Paladin: I may be crazy, but you are very definitely dead.

Jack G: I’m not sure about that. But I am sure you killed my son John.

Paladin: I wouldn’t be so sure about that either.

Jack G: Oh, why is that?

Paladin: Assuming that I killed your son is wrong for two reasons. One: because John Ganelon committed suicide by calling me out with an unloaded gun. And Two: because John Ganelon is not your son.

Jack G: That can’t be . . . ?

Paladin: Not only can, but is. John Ganelon was really John Mann: Roldanda’s fruit from Charlie Mann’s seed.

Jack G (cocking gun): You’re lying.

Paladin: And just as certain is the fact that you will be the one guilty of killing your son by pulling that trigger.

Jack G: You mean . . .

Paladin: I am your son Hugh Ganelon, the fruit of your seed by Rose Grail.

Jack G (uncocking gun, holds it aside, drawing close): Son?

Paladin (pulling out derringer): Now you drop the gun.

Jack G: So you did lie.

Paladin: No. Now put down that gun.

Jack G: Hell, no!

(Jack Ganelon raises gun, cocks, and aims. Paladin fires and Jack Ganelon drops down out of the spotlight.)

Paladin: Damn. Again? When is this done?

(Out of the darkness, below the spotlight, emerges Arthur Oliver, the man in the bowler hat.)

Arthur Oliver: Done.

Paladin: And done. Arthur Oliver. What brings you into my nightmare?

Arthur Oliver: The Law.

Paladin: Naturally. You’re a lawyer. But I’m done with the law.

Arthur Oliver: But the Law is not done with you. I have the warrant for your arrest. (pulls out paper)

Paladin: I’ve already been arrested, indicted, convicted, sentenced, and condemned to doubt.

Arthur Oliver: There are new charges.

Paladin: Oh? I’m sure I paid my bill . . .

Arthur Oliver: Not this one. (reading) Hugh Mann, aka Hugh Ganelon, aka Paladin -- You are hereby charged with the following offenses: One, claiming to be a lawman when you really are taking the law into your own hands Two, claiming to be a peacemaker when you disturb the peace by indulging in fisticuffs and shootouts Three, claiming to be respectful of life when you gun down those who confront you Four, claiming to be a hero when you wear the black clothes of a villain

Paladin: Oh, that’s a new one. Then why do judges wear black robes?

Arthur Oliver: Five, claiming to be a protector of the people when you’re really a bounty hunter and a vigilante Six, claiming to be a family man when you live the life of a single man

Paladin: That’s not true. I support my children and their mother.

Arthur Oliver: Seven, claiming to respect women when you treat them as objects of sexual desire Eight, claiming to be motivated by justice when your real motivation is revenge

Paladin: Now that’s a goddamn lie. I’ve heard enough.

Arthur Oliver: But there are many more violations that must be refuted.

Paladin: Violations of what law?

Arthur Oliver: You don’t recognize the Chivalric Code?

Paladin: And neither would any court.

Arthur Oliver: Except the Court of King Arthur.

Paladin: What do you have to do with that?

Arthur Oliver: My name is Arthur Oliver.

Paladin: You’re no knight. You’re a fraud.

Arthur Oliver: And so are you, Hugh Mann.

Paladin: It’s Paladin.

Arthur Oliver: A name like any other . . . signifying nothing.

Paladin: That’s life. And yours is a tale told by an idiot. As for sound and fury, vacate this dream now or your brief candle will be nothing but a smoking wick. Quit this mortal shore.

Arthur Oliver: But I’m here to represent you.

Paladin: You want to be my lawyer? Ha. You can represent me in the Eighth Circle of Hell.

Arthur Oliver: Be reasonable, Paladin. I’m the only chance you’ve got.

Paladin: Then I’d rather have no chance. You’re a two-bit Boston city-slicker attorney that isn’t worth the dirt you’re standing on. You know nothing about the Chivalric Code or the Law of the West for that matter. Vamboose. I need you like I need a hole in the head.

Arthur Oliver: You have no choice. I’m here until you answer the charges.

Paladin (loading his gun): I’ve always wanted to do this.

Arthur Oliver (backing up): Be reasonable, man . . . What are you doing?

Paladin (pointing gun at Arthur O’s head): Don’t move. Pretend I’m William Tell.

Arthur Oliver (grabbing his hat with both hands): My hat! It’s not an apple . . .

Paladin: Arthur Oliver . . . you’re a worm and no man.

Arthur Oliver: Paladin. Your father . . . killed . . . your father.

Paladin (gun shaking in his hand): Out, out. You, you . . . Tiresias. Vaya con Diablo.

(Bam! Paladin’s gun goes off. As his hat goes flying, Arthur Oliver spins around facing the wall. Spotlight brightens on the back of his head which is covered by the skull of a horse. As spotlight narrows to the masked back of Arthur Oliver’s head, a garish dissonant version of Paladin’s theme music is heard. Action freezes as the dazed face of Paladin himself appears in a narrow spot at mid-stage. Paladin is now well into middle-age with graying curly hair.)

Voice: I’m calling you out, Paladin. It’s showdown time.

(Spotlight widens on Paladin who is seen rising up from a gaming table with five cards in his hand. Dressed in a silk coat – his leisure clothes – Paladin, in the moment between dreaming and waking, appears shocked and confused.)

Voice: Whoa, Captain. They’re just cards. What you holdin’? 42

(Paladin shakes his head and becomes fully conscious. The horse skull mask vanishes.)

Paladin (sitting down): Sorry, gentlemen. (placing cards face up) Three jacks. (reaching for invisible stack of coins)

Voice: And here come three queens to take your three jacks. Sorry, Paladin. Better luck next time.

Paladin (standing up): And that, gentlemen, is the last hand. (pulling up book to tabletop) If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired and I’d like to read my book a bit before turning in. Good night.

(General shuffling, then silence. Paladin picks up his book, begins to read, then stops, puts it down; eyes close, his head drops forward. The image of Jack Ganelon with shotgun pointed at Paladin appears in spotlight again. Light flashes on and off until Paladin awakes and bolts upright. Ganelon disappears. Paladin looks out intensely into the audience.)

Paladin (standing, approaching center forestage): You, there. Yes, you. Who are you? And what are you staring at? Come into the light so I can see you . . . Oh, my apologies. I thought you were someone else. Wait a minute. I remember you. You came to see me some time ago when I was living at the Carlton. How many years ago was that? Fifteen? No. It can’t be that long. Where am I living now? Well, I spend most of my time right here, at the San Francisco Yacht Club. (light brightens over stage revealing a comfortable lounge) I’m a chartered member. No, I don’t actually reside here. I have a boat in the harbor. It’s a black-hulled ketch with a black gaff-rigged mainsail – a real beauty I named Rose Grail, after my mother. The cabin’s small but that doesn’t matter. You see (extending arm as backwall lights up) the SFYC is a rather elegant place to spend one’s waking hours. Take a look . . .

(Paladin walks across the back wall pointing out several items of interest: a banner depicting a three-masted schooner with the letters SFYC on it’s square unfurled mainsail, a glass case filled with racing trophies, several sailboat models lined up over a fireplace mantel, and, hanging on the wall itself, an astrolabe, a mirror framed by a life preserver, and various oil painting portraits of the club’s commodores.)

Paladin (sitting again in lounge chair): So. You never did contract me. Not that I had time for another client. Hope you still don’t need a gunman to solve your problems. Fifteen years. That must have been 1881. Elayna and Lance were only seven then. All grown up. You should see them now . . . I have a tintype of them on my boat. Yes, they’re still living with their mother Gwyn on the Roncevaux Ranch. She needs all the help she can get. No, not from me. Except for financial support. Believe me, it’s better that way. Though there have been pleasant moments. Like the last time I stopped by . . . some time ago . . . it seems like a dream now . . .

(A dreamlike scene begins. Light fades on Paladin who stands up, removes robe, and approaches backwall where screen changes to interior of Roncevaux ranch-house. Spotlight shifts to figure of Paladin in workclothes – without his holstered gun – approaches the figure of a grey-haired Gwyn standing before a canvas on a tripod.)

Gwyn (looking up from painting): Hugh? What brings you to town?

Paladin: Nothing, for a change – except to see you – and the children.

Gwyn: Well, that’s something. The children, unfortunately, are out with their uncle. 43

Paladin: Then, that means, it’s just the two of us.

Gwyn (coming around to him from behind tripod): If that’s what you want, Mister Paladin.

Paladin (hugging her): Why so formal, Gwyn? We’re old friends. (they kiss) So what’s all this?

Gwyn (reluctantly releasing him): Ah. My studio.

Paladin: Where are all the dresses?

Gwyn: I had to give that up. My hands . . .

Paladin (looking at his own): Yes. I know what that’s like. In my case, a little joint pain means more than dropping a stitch. (going to canvas) May I?

Gwyn (joining him behind the tripod): Of course.

Paladin: Wonderful. An amazing likeness.

Gwyn (turning her face towards him): Yes. I think so.

Paladin (pushing her away): Me? It’s a horse’s head.

Gwyn: You’re right. It’s a quarter-horse and you’re a stallion.

Paladin: I’m still not sure that’s a compliment. Do you plan on selling these?

Gwyn: No. Not unless someone really wants to buy one.

Paladin: So it’s “Ars Gratia Gratis.”

Gwyn: Yes. Art for art’s sake. But also for my own. Creativity keeps me from going crazy. (hands him a brush) You should try it.

Paladin: I’m quick on the draw, but not with a stick and camel hair. Maybe I’ll try writing.

Gwyn: Writing would be good for you. The pen is mightier than the sword, they say.

Paladin: Some words are more deadly than bullets. And the wrong words can get you shot.

Gwyn: Who said that?

Paladin: I did.

Gwyn: So it’s not a quotation. Aren’t you clever.

Paladin: In spite of the resemblance, I am not a horse.

Gwyn (hugging him): Sometimes I wish you were, so we could ride off into the sunset together.

Paladin: I’m not your John Ganelon.

Gwyn: But you are . . . a Ganelon.

Paladin: I refuse to believe that. I’m a man . . . who hungers and thirsts for justice.

Gwyn: A bounty hunter.

Paladin: Yes. But now, you’re the only bounty I need.

Gwyn: Oh, Hugh. I do love you. Do you . . . ?

Paladin: You’re my distant Dulcinea.

Gwyn (kissing him): And you’re my quixotic Quixote.

Paladin (resisting): Don’t spoil the moment, my Donna Mobile.

(Scene fades to black. Spot brightens on Paladin in robe, sitting in lounge chair.)

Paladin: And that’s how I did . . . spoil the moment. But I can always hope there will be more . . . (shaking his head, waking as if from a trance) Sorry, I must have drifted off a bit. No, don’t go. Sleep is a matter of choice and I choose to stay awake and converse with an old friend. We were discussing my love life. Let’s move away from that sensitive topic. Yes, I’ve changed: wrinkles, gray hair, a little wiser, I hope. But you’ve changed too. How did I recognize you? I never forget a hat. Yours is stunning. Though, you know, it’s not what’s on your head that counts, but what’s in it. So what have you been doing all these years? What have you learned? What have you been reading? Bet you haven’t read this. (holds up a mid- size black book engraved with the image of a white knight chess piece) It’s called “The True Adventures of Paladin.” People kept urging me to write my memoirs, so I complied. In the book I recount my most interesting and exciting escapades as “a knight without armor in a savage land.” So far, it’s the only copy. But once I finish editing, I plan to publish. You can read it if you want. I would be honored for your opinion. Oh, forgive me . . .

Paladin (rising, moving across the stage to the former Carlton lobby desk): The bar. My apologies for not offering you a drink sooner. And a cigar . . . No? Hope you don’t mind . . . (pausing to light up a cigar and take a puff; looks about the bar and not finding what he wants) HeyGirl! (Silence) HeyGirl! Dammit . . .

HeyGirl (offstage, in a lilting Chinese accent): “Dammit” is not my name either.

Paladin: I know your name, HeyGirl. It’s Kim Li.

HeyGirl: So why don’t you call me Kim Li?

Paladin: I forgot. I’m sorry . . . Kim Li.

HeyGirl: All right. You are forgiven. Now, how can I help you, Mister Paladin?

Paladin: Could you bring us a bottle of the Club’s best port . . . and two glasses?

HeyGirl: Certainly. I will place the refreshment, along with a telegram, on your table in the lounge.

Paladin: A telegram? Probably from R. B., chiding me to follow his script.

HeyGirl: It says “Urgent” in big letters on the envelope.

Paladin: Then it most certainly is from R.B. and it can wait. (to audience) What happened to HeyBoy? Oh, that’s right. He was my concierge at the Carlton when we last met. HeyBoy . . .

HeyGirl: His name is Kim Chan and he is my brother.

Paladin (sarcastically): Of course. I’d forgotten . . . to use HeyBoy’s birth name . . . in a private conversation . . . that should normally be exempt from curious ears.

HeyGirl: Your drinks are ready.

Paladin: Ah, good. Come. Let us sit and reminisce.

(Paladin returns to the lounge chair and sits. The table now has a bottle, two glasses, a telegram, and a book.)

Paladin (pouring the drinks): About HeyBoy, or rather Kim Chan . . . He left the Carlton about a year ago. Saved enough money to open his own restaurant – Chan’s Teahouse on Market Street. Yes, it was very successful until . . . Well, suffice it to say, it went out of business. (Lights begin to flash; a clicking sound is heard) What the . . . No, it’s not an earthquake. R.B., I get your point. I’ll read your telegram shortly. Now, stop it! (flashing lights, clicking sounds continue)

HeyGirl: Maybe Mister R.B. wants you to tell the truth about my brother.

Paladin: Why . . . All right, all right, I will. (to R.B. , loudly) I said, I will. Just end this nonsense . . . (Lights stop flashing; clicking sound stops) Thank you. (to audience) My apologies for the interruption.

HeyGirl: The truth, Mister Paladin.

Paladin: Yes, of course, Kim Li. The truth is . . . Chan’s Teahouse burnt to the ground. Probably an accident since the fire started in the kitchen.

HeyGirl: It was no accident. My brother told me he was being threatened by a gang for not paying for what they called “insurance.” The gang leader’s name was Ganelon. 46

Paladin: That’s impossible. Ganelon’s dead. HAVE GUNWALE WITH TRAVELER

HeyGirl: And my brother . . .

Paladin: His body was never found. The police . . . WIRE PALADIN SAN FRANCISCO HeyGirl: But you haven’t investigated.

Paladin (standing): I’m not in that business anymore. (to audience) You see, I’m no longer a gunfighter. My new business is sailing. Here’s my card. (holds out hand, backscreen lights up showing business card with horse head on sailboat, framed by words “Have Gunwale, With Traveler” – Card theme sounds with nautical bells) Pardon my play on words. A gunwale is the railing around a sailboat’s deck, while the traveler is basically a boom horse that allows the mainsail to slide from side to side on the stern. Anyway, I’m available for water tours and transport. That’s my business now . . .

HeyGirl: Humanity is your business. That’s what you said.

Paladin: I didn’t say that. But I suppose it’s true.

HeyGirl: And Kim Chan was your friend.

Paladin: Yes.

HeyGirl: Then what are you waiting for? You’re not afraid, are you?

Paladin: Ganelon’s a ghost. There’s nothing to fear.

HeyGirl: Yes. Nothing. So you won’t need a gun.

Paladin: If Ganelon’s really a ghost.

HeyGirl: There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?

Paladin (yawning): I’m tired now. We’ll talk about it in the morning.

HeyGirl (shouting): No!

(Suddenly again: flashing lights and clicking sounds)

Paladin (stunned, to HeyGirl): What do you want?

HeyGirl: It’s not me. It’s R.B. He wants you to read the telegram.

Paladin (snatching the telegram from the table, opens it and reads): Is this some kind of joke? (to HeyGirl) Did you have anything to do with this? (examining paper) When was this sent? 47

HeyGirl: It’s from Lady Gwyn. Today.

Paladin (to audience): I’m sorry for this inexcusable breach of hospitality. But you see how tortured I am even after all these years. It reads: “Ganelon threatens. Your babies in danger.” Impossible.

HeyGirl: Two “impossibles” in one day. Does that add up to a possible?

Paladin: My horse and my saddlebags please, Kim Li.

HeyGirl: And then you’ll find my brother too?

Paladin: I’ll do my best. (to audience) Now, old friend, excuse me while I scrutinize this mystery. As Lord Byron wrote: “Tis strange, but true. For truth is always strange. Stranger than fiction, if it could be told.”

(Stage goes dark. Backdrop scene changes to the interior of Roncevaux ranch-house. Spotlight displays bowler hat in the middle of small table. Spotlight shifts to figure of Paladin in workclothes – without his holstered gun – approaches the figure of a grey-haired Gwyn standing before a canvas on a tripod.)

Paladin (holding up telegram): So what do you call this, a work of fiction?

Gwyn (stops painting): I’m telling you: I didn’t send you that telegram.

Paladin: Then who did?

Gwyn: Perhaps, your friend, HeyThere. She wanted you to find her brother.

Paladin: HeyGirl. I thought of that. But this was sent from Angels Camp. HeyGirl – Kim Li – was in San Francisco.

Gwyn: Maybe she sent the message to Western Union by post.

(Paladin goes to table, picks up bowler hat, puts finger through hole so it sticks out like a worm)

Paladin: I questioned the clerk. The telegram form was definitely filled out in person . . . by a man.

Gwyn: A man? Who?

Paladin(holding up hat from table): A man wearing a bowler hat. (shouts) Arthur Oliver come out here!

(Arthur Oliver emerges from stage left shadows; tries to take hat from Paladin)

Paladin (dropping hat, grabbing Arthur Oliver by neck): So it was you, you weasel. Where are my children?

Gwyn (alarmed): No! Let him go. 48

Arthur Oliver (struggling): I don’t know.

Paladin (tightening his grip): You don’t know!

Gwyn: I told you, Hugh. They’re with their uncle.

Paladin: He is their uncle.

Gwyn: Their other uncle. Well, really their cousin. But they call him Uncle Jake.

Paladin (releasing his grip): Jake. You don’t mean Jake Ganelon, John Ganelon’s first son. (to Gwyn) And yours . . . I thought he was dead.

Gwyn (hugging Arthur): He ran away from home when he was fourteen. But he came back a year ago. Now he’s a good friend of the family.

Paladin: But he’s neither cousin nor uncle to Lance and Elayna. He’s their half-brother. (to Arthur Oliver) And you. I saw how Gwyn looked at you. Coming out the bedroom with your hat on the parlor table instead of hanging in the hall. What’s going on here?

Gwyn: If you really must know . . .

Arthur Oliver: Don’t, Gwyn.

Gwyn: He’d find out sooner or later anyway. Arthur’s been living with me since John died.

Paladin: That was fifteen years ago. You kept it a secret from me that long?

Gwyn: We were afraid you wouldn’t understand.

Paladin: Or continue to help you financially.

Gwyn: Both, I suppose.

Paladin: But that’s not exactly a sisterly hug. Just what is your relationship?

Gwyn: Arthur’s my stepbrother.

Paladin: Oh, he’s your stepbrother now. Well, that better explains the last name difference, the initial estrangement, and the fact you’re definitely not living here as brother and sister. (to Arthur) I suppose you had something to do with John signing up for a life insurance policy.

Arthur Oliver: I got him the policy. But it was Gwyn’s idea.

Paladin: I thought so. 49

Arthur Oliver: They’re my children too. I mean . . . I’m their uncle.

Paladin: Ah,yes. Their de-facto step-father. Or is there something more? (to Gwyn) Has our twisted triangle become a wretched rectangle?

Gwyn: I can assure you . . .

Paladin: And can you assure me our children are safe? (grabbing Arthur again by the collar) Tell me. Are they safe?

Arthur Oliver: Yes. I believe so.

Paladin: Then why did you send me this telegram: “Ganelon threatens.”

Arthur Oliver: I didn’t send it. I swear.

Paladin: Then who?

Gwyn: Jake sometimes wears a hat like Arthur’s.

Paladin (releasing Oliver): Then why would he . . . unless . . . Damn! Where is he now?

Gwyn: On his boat in San Francisco Harbor.

Paladin: He wanted me out here, far away from the city. But why? He knew that, sooner or later, I’d come looking for him. What’s the name of his boat?

Gwyn: I think it’s called Tamelac.

Arthur Oliver: It’s Tolemac.

Gwyn: Yes. That’s it.

Paladin: Tolemac. That’s Camelot backwards. (looking up) How you torment me, R.B.

Gwyn: Are you all right, Hugh?

Paladin: Of course not. Are Lance and Elayna all right? That’s the important question. I must go immediately. (turns to leave)

Arthur Oliver: Wait. There’s something else you should know.

Gwyn: Arthur . . .

Arthur Oliver: Gwyn. I know Jake’s dear to you, as your prodigal son, but . . . 50

Paladin: Well, what is it?

Arthur Oliver: There’s something queer about him.

Paladin: Queer? What do you mean?

Arthur Oliver: I mean strange. The way he’s always dressing up and playing with the children.

Paladin: Dressing up?

Arthur Oliver: Wearing exotic clothes, silk shirts, a cape, and fancy robes.

Paladin: There’s a time and place for dressing like a dandy. The opera, for instance.

Arthur Oliver: I think Jake likes being other people. Like an actor might . . .

Gwyn: Hugh would wear a pith helmet and play safari with Elayna.

Arthur Oliver: Yes. And Jake likes pretending he’s a pirate.

Gwyn: That’s why the children were excited about staying on his boat.

Arthur Oliver: Yes, they love him. But the last time they played pirate in the yard . . .

Gwyn: Arthur, really . . .

Arthur Oliver: You were away in town and I was here watching them. Well, Jake got a little excited, brandished a real sword he had, and started shouting, “Kill the pelican!” I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t. “Kill the pelican!” he kept shouting. And I noticed his eyes were red and there was an odd look on his face.

Gwyn (alarmed): You never told me this.

Arthur Oliver: I didn’t want to alarm you.

Gwyn: Well, now I you have.

Paladin: What happened?

Arthur Oliver: You see this. (holding up his hat, sticking his finger through the hole)

Paladin: The hole in your hat. I wondered how you got that.

Arthur Oliver: I was the Pelican.

(A moment of tense silence. Paladin turns again to leave, but is stopped by Gwyn who stares at him with concern)

Gwyn: Hugh. Please. Bring them home.

Paladin (holding her hand): There is no greater love than a man’s love for his children.

(Scene goes dark. Paladin emerges into a light at the desk-bar forestage left.)

Paladin (to audience as he puts on robe and fixes a drink for himself): The actual quote from the Gospel of John is “No greater love hath a man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends.” I wasn’t about to assume that my crucifixion was a foregone conclusion however. Yet, I knew the danger was real. Four people were probably being held hostage by a madman. Let me explain. When I returned to San Francisco, the first thing I discovered was that HeyGirl – Kim Li – was missing. According to the SFYC commodore, she was nearly hysterical when one morning, while I was gone, she suddenly left the club, accompanied by a man wearing a bowler hat. Now the telegram that sent me out of town made sense. Jake Ganelon, an experienced poker player, had just upped the ante. He more than likely convinced HeyGirl -- Kim Li -- that HeyBoy – Kim Chan – would remain alive and well as long as his sister came to see him. And where was HeyBoy? I was convinced he would be found on the Tolemac along with Lance and Elayna. Four hostages. Was I meant to be the fifth? Or was something more sinister in store? I had to assume the worst, but I didn’t want to precipitate a dangerous confrontation if I could help it. Come armed or unarmed? Above all, appearances would be most important. One decision had been made already. When HeyBoy – Kim Chan – left the Carlton to open his tea-house, I gave him my Colt revolver as a gift. I told him, and I meant it, that we were both changing professions at the same time. He to be a restauranteur and I to be a retired gunfighter. But Fate had brought us together once again. Was it really destiny? Or should we believe as Shakespeare wrote: “Men at some time are master of their fates: the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings”?

(Darkness over Paladin. Backscreen brightens to reveal the beam-view of a ship’s deck against a blue sky. A three-foot wall – the rail and gunwhale of the ship – extends the length of the stage across the back wall. The desk-bar box has been moved to the far left side near center stage, width side to the audience. About a third of the length from the left end, there is a rectangular box about a foot and a half high next to the wall. On this box sits a young woman dressed in white, reading a book, facing right. On the right side of the stage, in back of the wall, the top half of a smaller boat’s luffing mainsail moves into view – a black triangular cloth emblazoned with a white horse chess piece, the brand of Paladin. After the sail stops moving, Paladin himself emerges from stage right, holsterless with a black bandana on his head instead of a cowboy hat.)

Elayna (seeing Paladin): Father! (runs to him)

Paladin (stops her, signaling for silence, whispering): Shhsh. Where’s your brother?

Elayna (whispering back): He’s tied up below. And HeyBoy and HeyGirl too . . .

(They both turn toward center stage left, freeze in place. Jake Ganelon, with a black mustache like Paladin’s, emerges from the shadows atop the box at center stage left. He is wearing a bright multi-colored bandana with feathers around a bowler hat, silk scarves around his neck, and black-and-white pirate-like clothes.)

Jake G: Well, lookee here. It’s Mister Pelican come to visit family and friends on board the Tolemac.

Paladin: The name is Paladin.

Jake G: Ah, yes. Paladin. One of Charlemagne’s twelve legendary knights. A man of honesty and integrity. A courageous defender of righteous causes.

Paladin: Hmmph. And you, I presume, are Jake Ganelon.

Jake G (bowing): At your service.

Paladin: The service I would most appreciate would be to let my children go and release anyone else you’re holding against their will aboard this ship.

Jake G: Oh. You want special service. Only singular guests are honored with the Tolemac five-star treatment.

Paladin (whispering to Elayna): Get in the boat . . . now! (out loud to Jake Ganelon) Listen, Jake. I have no beef with you. Allow them all to leave and no one gets hurt.

(Jake G, seeing Elayna move towards Paladin’s boat, draws gun from holster and points it at her. The gun is Paladin’s own with a white knight chess piece on the stock.)

Jake G: Now I wouldn’t do that, pretty Elayna, if you want to see your brother again . . . or your next birthday. You don’t believe me . . . ?

(Jake shoots at sailboat and a bullethole appears through the horsehead on the sail. Elayna stops and returns to the side of her father.)

Paladin: What do you want, Jake? Money? I’ve got a thousand dollars here if you just let them all go.

Jake G: Ha. A thousand dollars. That’s what you supposedly get for killing one man.

Paladin: I’m out of that business. Four thousand dollars. One thousand for each. Is that what you want? I can give you a promissory note.

Jake G: A promissory note? Another promise you can’t keep? All I want is you, Mister Pelican.

Paladin: It’s Paladin. (JG signals Elayna to step away as gun is pointed directly at him) What? Are you that stone-hearted to kill an unarmed man in cold blood?

Jake G: Oh, no. You’ll get a fighting chance. More than you gave my father.

Paladin: Your father committed suicide. He drew on me with an unloaded gun. It was unprovoked.

Jake G: My father knew what kind of a man you are. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Paladin: I still have lots of questions. Like “Why do you want me dead?” You must know John set me up to kill him so his wife Gwyn would get a life insurance pay-out for ten thousand dollars.

Jake G: They were . . . divorced.

Paladin: He felt obligated to her. Like I do. There was some question about who the real father was . . .

Jake G: Just as there was about who your father was – and my grandfather.

Paladin: Jack Ganelon may have been my father. And your grandfather may have been Charlie Mann. That makes me Hugh Ganelon and you Jake Mann.

Jake G: It doesn’t make any difference. The past is dead. Only the future matters.

Paladin: Then why are you here, threatening me, my family, my friends . . . ?

Jake G (putting one hand up to his head, lowering his gun a moment): Maybe it’s because I’m confused and need some answers too.

Paladin (signaling Elayna to get in the boat): Confused. Yes. It’s easy to be confused, the way things turned out.

Jake G: No!

(Jake Ganelon shoots the gun and hits the top of the mast on Paladin’s boat. The SFYC burgee falls. Elayna flees back in terror.)

Jake G: I’m confused because of the way you turned out. I thought you were a hero, but you turned out to be a fraud.

Paladin: What are you talking about?

Elayna (speaking up): My father is a hero. It’s all here in his book. (holds up book)

Jake G: Yes, the book. “The True Adventures of Paladin.” The memoir you say has never been published. Yet, somehow, hundreds of copies have been circulating throughout the Western United States and beyond. True adventures? The only “true” part of your book is that it was written by you, Hugh Mann . . . or Hugh Ganelon. You claim your stories are based on fact when, in fact, they are the product of a febrile and overworked imagination.

Paladin: Liar! What is the basis of this outrageous accusation?

Jake G: Ah, you want proof. Exactly what I was looking for when I returned to California from my own adventures on the high seas. Proof that my father’s death was really a suicide. My mother -- Gwyn to you -- gave me a copy of your book. On page 233, you wrote, and I quote: “I waited till the last possible second to pull the trigger, hoping that he would stop before the borehole came up to his belt. But the gun kept rising, and when it reached his waist, I knew I had no choice. I fired and

John went down in a heap. It was a clean kill to the middle of his chest.” What I found out, after some investigation, was that, in fact, my father was shot in the leg and died of lead poisoning one week later.

Paladin: What investigation?

Jake G: The coroner’s report attached to the death certificate.

Paladin: Impossible. I know what happened. The bullet went through his heart. There were witnesses . . .

Jake G: There were no witnesses. And if there had been, you would have been charged with murder.

Paladin: John Ganelon called me out. He drew on me first. It was a fair fight.

Jake G: According to the coroner’s report, my father was shot in the leg – the back of the leg.

Paladin: Not true! Don’t listen to him, Elayna.

Jake G: My guess is you ambushed him, then panicked and ran away before he could identify you.

Paladin: You keep forgetting about that insurance policy.

Jake G: Oh yes, there was a life insurance policy all right. But my father didn’t want to die. He wanted the insurance payout to support his wife and children in the unlikely event of his untimely death.

Paladin: So they weren’t divorced. I knew it . . .

Jake G: They . . . remarried. What you didn’t know is that my uncle, Arthur Oliver, told me how he got you to admit what really happened to my father. You then paid Gwyn and him five thousand dollars to keep them quiet.

Paladin: That little weasel. He’s a liar too.

Jake G: It seems everyone’s a liar except you, Mister Pelican. HAVE FUN UNRAVEL

WIRE PELICAN SAN FRANCISCO Paladin: For the last time, it’s Paladin.

Jake G: I don’t think so. A paladin-knight is a model of virtue and a champion. But you’re an imposter and a coward. A pelican. A filthy bird that flies away at the first sign of danger. I took the liberty to make you an appropriate card.

(Jake Ganelon throws card on floor, Elayna runs to retrieve it, gives it to her father. A strange bird-like Paladin theme is heard as a new card is seen on the backwall. In the middle is the image of a pelican in the same profile as the horse-knight chess piece flanked by the words: “Have Fun / Unravel” and below “ Wire Pelican / San Francisco”)

Paladin: Ancient people considered the pelican a Christ symbol. A pelican was believed to be so loyal to its young chicks that it would peck open its own breast and give the offspring its own blood to keep them from starving.

Jake G: You’re no Christ. You’re Satan. But there will be blood. There’s no doubt about that.

(Jake Ganelon points gun directly at Paladin. A tense moment. He turns the gun toward Paladin’s black sail and blows another hole in the middle of the white horse’s head.)

Jake G: Too easy. (drops gun down, puts hand to his head again) You’re such a disappointment.

(Paladin reaches into his vest pocket.)

Jake G (looking up quickly): Not so fast, Mister Pelican. Take it out . . . slowly.

(Paladin, staring at Ganelon, pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his brow.)

Jake G: Elayna. Go to your father and reach inside his vest pocket. (Elayna does what she’s told) Now grab hold of the gun. That’s it. Pull it out.

(In a flash, Elayna pulls out a derringer from Paladin’s pocket, turns, holding the gun with two hands and pointing it directly at Jake Ganelon.)

Elayna: Now let us go. Or I’ll . . .

Jake G: Very smooth, Miss Elayna. A real Annie Oakley you are. Of course, I have the colt pointed directly at the head of your father. At fifteen feet, I’d say you have about a twenty percent chance of hitting me. And with your hands shaking like that, it’s more like ten percent. An errant shot means your father is likely dead and you and your brother as well. I’d highly recommend you slowly lay the gun down on the deck and kick it over to me with your very dainty foot.

Elayna: No!

Paladin: Elayna. Please. Do as he says.

Elayna: My father’s not a coward. You are.

Paladin: Please, Elayna. Drop the gun.

Jake G: Listen to your father. For once he makes sense.

Elayna (lowering the gun): Ah . . . You’re not a good pirate. You’re a very bad pirate.

(Elayna puts the gun on the floor and kicks it to Jake who picks it up and puts it in his vest pocket.)

Jake G: And your father’s a very bad paladin.

Elayna: If you read his book, you’d know who he is. He’ll make you pay for this.

Jake G: What, the book again? It’s not worth the paper it’s printed on. Let me tell you why, little girl. After I found out how my father died, I started thinking. Why would a famous gunfighter, who never lost a showdown, shoot someone in the back of the leg? Was he trying to maim him? Did his gun misfire? Then it dawned on me. The legendary dead-eye Paladin was trying to shoot him in the back and missed. Mister Pelican can’t hit the side of a silo.

Paladin: Give me that gun, Jake, and I’ll show you what a straight-shooter I am.

Jake G: Oh, you would, wouldn’t you? If you had the time to aim. But in a quick-draw contest of life and death consequences, I wouldn’t bet on it. And why not? Because I checked out your stories. One by one. Went to as many towns as I could in a month and talked to as many folks as I could. And you know what? No one had ever heard of you. Not one. Not even some of the gunman you supposedly shot or brought to justice. They all just laughed and asked me where I heard such nonsense. I showed them your book. No one would buy it. And neither would I.

Paladin: People move on. Many don’t want to admit they’ve been on the wrong side of the law . . .

Jake G: Or bested by the best. Based on your book, there should be a trail of bloody bodies and broken hearts.

Paladin: I made my living as a gunfighter. How do you explain that?

Jake G: That was my next question. And for that answer I turned to Mister Kim Chan.

Paladin: HeyBoy. Who you’ve got tied up down below.

Jake G: With some persuasion . . .

Paladin: Torture.

Jake G: He said you told him about your cabin in the woods, where you go to get away from it all.

Paladin: That’s true. It’s my retreat. Where I go to read, write, and study.

Jake G: HeyBoy didn’t know where this cabin was, but I found out.

Paladin: Impossible.

Jake G: Do you remember receiving a solicitation with a newspaper clipping about six months ago?

Paladin: I get many requests for my services.

Jake G: You’d remember this one. It was about a haunted ranch in Nevada. Three people had died in baffling unexplained murders. A reward of three thousand dollars was offered to anyone who could solve the mystery and bring the murderer or murderers to justice.

Paladin: I remember now. A very interesting case.

Jake G: Do you remember riding out to the Rappaccini Ranch in Hawthorne Nevada this year on or about March 15th?

Paladin: I might have. That sounds about right.

Jake G: That sounds about wrong to me. You see, on or about March 1st you left the Carlton Hotel on your horse and rode out to your cabin in the woods near Angel Creek.

Paladin: And how do you know that?

Jake G: Because I followed you.

Paladin: I had a funny feeling . . . So. I stopped by my cabin on the way to Nevada.

Jake G: I staked you out. You didn’t leave your cabin for three weeks. And when you did finally leave, you made two stops nearby before returning directly to San Francisco.

Paladin: So you got the wrong month. I must’ve gone in April.

Jake G: And miss Lance and Elayna’s birthday? I don’t think so. Besides, I found what you were doing for three weeks in your cabin – a cabin, by the way, filled with rare books and fine furniture.

Paladin: You broke in.

Jake G: I made a necessary survey of the premises. I didn’t take anything of value. But I did find some interesting papers including a manuscript of some twenty pages entitled “The Strange Case of the Dansforth Family Murders.” In it, you described how a man named Roderick Dansforth was supposedly killed by someone in his family and then came back as a ghost to avenge his murder, killing his sister, mother, and stepfather in the process. Roderick, however, was not dead. He staged his own death with the paid cooperation of a corrupt undertaker. After murdering his family, he returned home to claim his inheritance as his long lost twin brother Frederick. When the real Frederick arrives after hearing of his family’s demise, Roderick claims the prodigal twin is an imposter. You, Mister Pelican, solve the case by tricking Roderick into mentioning that the name of his sister’s horse is Abigail. Frederick would not have known this. A gunfight ensues, you kill Roderick, and collect three thousand dollars from the real Frederick for your services. Another successful episode in the “True Adventures of Paladin.” The only trouble is: you never went to the Rappaccini Ranch in Hawthorne, Nevada in March of 1896 as you insisted.

Paladin: So I got the month wrong. It must’ve been February. The manuscript you read illegally was the account of what actually occurred on the Rappaccini Ranch. A true account . . .

Jake G: True? How could it be true when there is no Rappaccini Ranch in Hawthorne Nevada. I had that newspaper article printed up just especially for you. I made it all up and so did you.

Paladin: Liar! It did happen just as I wrote it. It’s as clear to me as if I was there yesterday. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

Jake G: And sometimes truth is fiction. Like “The True Adventures of Paladin.” Fantastic figments of your contorted cranium.

Paladin: Don’t listen to him, Elayna. He’s trying to justify the homicide he intends to carry out.

Jake G: Oh, you mean the way you justified your homicide of my father John.

Paladin: Don’t be ridiculous. You just can’t accept the facts, can you?

Jake G: The facts. You want the facts? How about this: After you left your cabin on or about March 21st, I followed you deep into the woods where you uncovered an opening to a cave. You went into the cave and didn’t come out again for about an hour. When you reappeared, you were carrying a bag. You got on your horse and I followed you to the assayer office in Angel’s Creek. You left there after a half hour without the bag you took from the cave. The assayer told me, with a little persuasion . . .

Paladin: You put a gun to his head.

Jake G: The assayer told me you got a thousand dollars for fifty ounces of gold. He also told me you’d been coming to him about once of month for years. That’s when I knew what the source of your wealth had been. It wasn’t from bounty hunting or being a gunfighter for hire. It didn’t come from successful “business trips” into the Wild West. Your steady income came from mining gold near Angel’s Creek. And not only that. It came from gold that wasn’t even yours. You stole it from a mine that was on land owned by my grandfather, Jack Ganelon.

Paladin: Unless your grandfather was really Charlie Mann. Then the mine was mine, not yours.

Jake G: You’re trying to confuse me with your clever words, Mister Pelican. But it won’t work. I have proof.

Paladin: What proof?

Jake G: Right here. (Pulls out papers from his pocket, throwing them in the air) Assayer receipts I found in your cabin. Some going back almost twenty years. And then something else of value – but not from your cabin. (pulls out a gleaming nugget, holds it up) Gold from my grandfather’s mine.

Paladin (laughing, applauding): What a wondrous performance, Jake Ganelon. You call me a storyteller and here you create the tallest tale ever. Pay no attention to this man, Elayna. This is nothing but an elaborate hoax to impress you as the damsel-in-distress. Uncle Jake, the huckster, first tried to blame me for his father’s untimely demise. Now he’s trying to get his revenge by turning you and Lance against me with these false accusations. By diminishing me in your eyes, he makes my life to you unimportant and my death insignificant.

Jake G: Once again, you’re talking around the truth, Mister Pelican. This isn’t about revenge. It’s about revision. You were a hero – my hero. I looked up to you, a legend of the frontier, like Daniel Boone. Defender of Law and Order in the Wild West. I trusted you, as most outcasts did, to make things right with the world. Justice, integrity, honesty, courage, chivalry, and righteous wrath. These were your principles -- and mine. But now I find out who you really are: a fraud. The only way to correct a counterfeit is to replace it with the real thing.

Paladin: And you would be that real thing, would you, Jake? My replacement. The next Paladin.

Jake G: The real Paladin. A real man. Not the fictitious character you’ve become.

Paladin: And you’re qualified to wear my clothes? What makes you a real man?

Jake G: Ten years on the high seas. Ten years of tough living, surviving the elements, danger, and deceit. Clawing my way to the top of humanity’s heap. And reading. Oh, yes, I read – the classics, just like you. Because I wanted to be just like you, Mister Pelican. A frontier polymath. And now I’m ready to be the one and only heir to Roland’s legacy.

Paladin: And that’s why I have to die. But you said you’d give me a fighting chance. To keep my job – and my life.

Jake G: Yes. The test. The only thing that will settle this once and for all. Stay right here. And don’t make any foolish moves.

(Jake Ganelon disappears into the shadows at stage left.)

Paladin (to Elayna, pointing to boat): Hurry.

Elayna (tearfully): I believe you, Father . . . I don’t want you to die.

Paladin: Get into the boat. Now!

(Elayna moves quickly, begins climbing the rail to Paladin’s boat. A shot rings out. Another hole appears in the white horsehead on the black sail. Elayna jumps back into Paladin’s arms. Jake reappears with a rope on his shoulder. In one hand is Paladin’s gun; in the other, two swords.)

Jake G (putting swords down at his feet): You don’t hear very well, do you, princess? (to Paladin, throwing him a rope) Tie her up – with your best bowline knot.

Paladin: A Gordian Knot, to be sure.

Jake G (pulling off a scarf from around his neck): And use this too. I don’t want any more outbursts. ALEXANDER AND THE GORDIAN KNOT

Paladin (to Elayna, tying her up on the box): We must do what he says? (whispering) “She loosed the chain as she lay.”

Elayna (whispering back): Astolat!

Jake G: Enough susurrus. Gag her now or I’ll silence you both for good.

Elayna (shouting): No! Stop! This is madness!

Paladin (to Elayna): Shhsh. (putting scarf around her head) You must sit quietly now.

Elayna: I don’t want to. I have something to say.

Paladin: Be the princess you are. This is a man’s game.

Elayna: What?! (mumbling loudly as gag is tightened over her mouth)

Paladin (turning to Jake G): Why do we need this? Just let them all go and no one gets hurt. We can figure out a way to share the gold -- and there’s plenty of it – in the Manelon Mine.

Jake G: The Manelon Mine. Is that what you call it? The greater gold flows in your veins. And I intend to have it. (Tosses Paladin a short sword, stands ready to duel) On guard.

Paladin: So now you play the part of Rigoletto with a stiletto. (comparing his sword to Jake’s) Though it appears yours is bigger than mine.

Jake (remaining poised): So you noticed. I promised to give you a fighting chance, not a fair fight. I fully intend to win.

(Jake lunges at Paladin. They cross swords, moving about the stage as they fight. Thrusting and parrying, grappling and stopping at times to exchange verbal barbs, pausing to catch their breath. Elayna, struggling to free herself, watches the duel in horror.)

Paladin: Let her go. Let them all go. They were the bait. You got the raccoon you wanted in your trap.

Jake G: No one goes until I’m wearing the coonskin cap.

(They continue to fight. Paladin is holding his own.)

Jake G: Not bad for an old man. Where did you learn to swordfight?

Paladin: See page 127, “The Samurai Twins of Mount Sutro.” I’d be even better . . . with a longer . . . sword.

(They skirmish. Paladin manages to catch and rip the sleeve of Jake’s shirt.)

Jake G: Look what you’ve done. That was my best shirt. Or rather your best shirt.

Paladin: What are you talking about? And why are you wearing those clothes? That’s not the attire of a true paladin.

Jake G: I fully plan on wearing your uniform when you no longer need it. Right now, I’m dressed like this to show you what you really look like on the inside.

Paladin: What?!

(Jake lunges, Paladin dodges away)

Paladin (panting): What do you mean? 61

Jake G: Face it, Mister Pelican. You’re really a dandy at heart. Reading books, quoting Shakespeare, writing stories. I wouldn’t be surprised if you even compose poetry. You really should dress like this. And, in fact, you do, when you’re at your club or off alone on your boat or in your retreat. When you die, which will be soon, we will exchange clothes. Your burial robe will be this showy shroud of the pelican, while I will don the dark mantel of the new American knight. Then Paladin will be a real man – a man of action, not inaction.

Paladin (lunging ): I’m retired. You can have these clothes now. There’s no need for anyone to die.

Jake G: You know the Rule of the West. Only a showdown can determine the next top gun.

(They grapple. Paladin reaches for the gun in Jake’s holster.)

Jake G (pushing Paladin away): Oh, no you don’t. (removes gun and puts it behind him on the floor) I’m saving that for the coup de gras.

Paladin: Elayna’s right. This is madness. Think of your mother Gwyn and Uncle Arthur. I’m the goose that lays their golden eggs. They need me.

Jake G: I have the Manelon Mine. They shall be provided for. You’re just an old bird with clipped wings. All show and no go.

Paladin: And what of my children?

Jake G: You’ve hardly been there for them anyway. They like their Uncle Jake. With Arthur and Gwyn and me, they can manage quite well without you – as they always have.

Paladin (angrily lunging): No! You shall not rob me of my legacy or my family.

Jake G (fending him off): What legacy? You claim to be a paladin in the grand tradition of Charlemagne and of King Arthur, yet your life has been a lie. What family? You don’t know who your father was. You’ve never married. You may or may not have children. I have as much claim to Lance and Elayna as you do. I’m their brother.

Paladin (stopping): Yes, a stepbrother. Just like the two of us. Sons of Roland we are, but stepchildren nonetheless. Steps leading to the turret atop Tolemac. Rival knights sharing the same mission of making Tolemac into Camelot. Together we represent both Dionysius and Themis. Pleasure and Justice. By hitching our horses to the same wagon, we can make this world both beautiful and bold. This is our destiny. It is written in the chansons. We are two sides of the same coin.

Jake G: We are opposite ends of the same magnet. Mars and Minerva. Work and Wisdom.

Paladin: Yes, precisely. And side by side we can attract the world to our cause of liberty and justice.

Jake G (lunging): Two sides of the same blade, eh? I once idolized you as both brain and brawn in a singular action hero. Now, I know better. You abandoned your calling as a philosopher-warrior for the comfort of the lounge chair and writing

62 table. The Paladin I believed in was a man of both books and bullets. But there were no bullets, were there? Except for the one you gave to my father. After that misfire, I presume, you decided to trade in your gun for a fountain pen.

Paladin: “The pen is mightier than the sword.” So said Cardinal Richelieu in a play by E.B. Lytton. Some words cause deep wounds. The wrong words can get you shot.

Jake G (wielding sword): Or stabbed to death. In the end, actions speak louder than words.

Paladin: But long after the echoes of action die out, words remain to counsel and inspire.

Jake G: Nonsense!

Paladin: Hear me out, Jake Ganelon! You believe in the Bible, I assume.

Jake G: Of course. Only a fool or a devil wouldn’t. CARDINAL RICHELIEU

Paladin: Then the words have meaning to you. They inspire you. They make you a moral man, do they not?

Jake G: Yes. What’s your point? Besides the tip of that sword.

Paladin: It’s the words, not the actions, that inspire you. Does it really matter whether Moses parted the Red Sea or Noah saved two of each creature on the ark or whether Jonah was swallowed by a whale and lived to tell about it? The words, the stories – that’s what matters. Whether or not the events actually happened – that’s irrelevant.

Jake G: Not true! It’s the actions of God and Man that make the words plausible. The Bible is history, not fiction. Would you say that it doesn’t matter whether or not Jesus walked on water, healed the sick, or rose from the dead? All Christians rely on belief in those actual events as the foundation for their faith.

Paladin: Belief and faith, yes. But how do you prove those events actually occurred? You can’t. The seventeenth century philosopher Baruch Spinoza argued that all Biblical events should be viewed as allegorical, not as factual. Bible stories are valid to the extent that their metaphors are meaningful. It’s the story, not the history, that’s important.

Jake G: Biblical figures, and all historical characters, are only true heroes if their words are supported by their actions.

Paladin: And they do – at least on paper. Even Socrates, a historical hero if ever there was one, needed Plato to write about his life, and death, to ensure his fame. Even at that, the exact facts of his suicide may be apocryphal.

Jake G: Apocryphal meaning fake.

Paladin: Apocryphal meaning “veracity undetermined.” Most so-called history is apocryphal. The important thing is that the hero’s exploits are published. SOCRATES

Jake G: Which means, Mister Pelican, that you’re a hero because it says so in your book.

Paladin: If others believe in me – and change their lives accordingly . . . Yes. 63

Jake G: No! You’re a fraud. A real hero lives in reality, not fantasy.

Paladin: And it’s your intention to be that hero in my place. To be the philosopher-warrior. To be a creator and destroyer god combined.

Jake G: Yes, yes, and yes.

Paladin: Let me tell you something, Jake Ganelon. I was once like you. Young, idealistic. Convinced I could be both a vigilante and a man of peace. Thought I could be a Son of Man and a Son of God at the same time. Tried a gunfight once and nearly got killed. Then it dawned on me. What people need is not a dead hero but a living inspiration.

Jake G: So you finally admit you were a fraud.

Paladin: I admit I was finally true to my nature. I was born to be a storyteller.

Jake G: Then why not just spin yarns? Why did you have to convince people you were a real hero?

Paladin: People want to believe their heroes are superhuman. They desire to be deceived into thinking life is fair and just and doesn’t end in death and despair. They yearn for a god-made-man to solve the eternal problems of existence and mortality.

Jake G: Well, I’m willing to take up that challenge and give the hero’s task a fair shot.

Paladin: And are you willing to take a fair shot? Or an unfair one?

Jake G: Whatever comes.

Paladin: And you think you’re ready? THOMAS CARLYLE Jake G: My hands are quick. My aim is accurate -- not like yours. And I can quote anyone from Seneca to Shakespeare, from Catullus to Carlyle.

Paladin: Carlyle, eh? He once wrote “In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time; when the body and material substance of it have altogether vanished like a dream."

Jake G: He also said “Not what I have, but what I do, is my kingdom.”

Paladin (striking his sword): Touche! But what you do will never mean anything, never change anyone or influence the course of world events -- without a writer.

Jake G: And you would be that writer.

Paladin: I am that writer, a hero of fantasy. You can substitute yourself for me as hero of history.

Jake G: Well, thank you so much, Mister Pelican. But that’s exactly the reason for this swordfight. I don’t need a scribe. My actions alone will create the legend you falsely created for yourself on empty pages.

Paladin: And how long do you think you’ll last, Jake Ganelon?

Jake G: Call me Paladin.

Paladin: Over my dead body.

Jake G: And that will be soon.

Paladin: It doesn’t have to be that way. I could be the moon to your sun, the dove to your eagle, the yin to your yang.

Jake G: Or I could be both sides of the same coin.

Paladin: When you put the sun and the moon together in one circle, you get an eclipse – and darkness. I tried it. I know.

Jake G: Is that why you wear black?

Paladin: Black is the color of shadow where I prefer to remain. It’s also the color of ink.

Jake G: So ink and pen are better than blood and bone?

Paladin: The great writers have not only recorded history they have also, for better or worse, inspired others to take action in the name of justice and freedom. Consider the writers of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Jefferson and others not only gave voice to the American Revolution; they were inspired by the Greek and Roman writers of two thousand years ago -- eons before they ever considered putting pen to paper in the name of liberty.

Jake G: Scribblers all. King George wouldn’t listen to the rhetoric of Rousseau and Locke. What got his attention was the shot heard round the world from Concord Bridge. You can keep your parchment. Give me a tricorn hat and a musket. The time for talking is past.

Paladin: Wait! How long do you think you’d last on the streets of Tombstone or Laredo? A year, a month? Maybe only a week until someone either outdraws you or shoots you in the back.

Jake G: Like you shot my father. THE DEVIL’S DOUBLOON

Paladin: That again. Let me tell you what really happened to John Ganelon. SALOON

Jake G: I wish you would. LEAVE YOUR GUNS ON THE BAR

Paladin: The truth is – and you won’t like this – your father got drunk at the Devil’s Doubloon Saloon in Angel Creek. He dropped his gun, it went off, and he shot himself in the back of the leg. He died a week later, like you said, of lead poisoning. But before he did, he told me what he had planned to do: to call me out with an empty revolver. I knew that the life insurance company probably wouldn’t pay the proceeds due to your father’s negligence. So I let it be known that I 65 shot him clean through the heart in a fair fight. People believed me. They always do. So at least Gwyn and Arthur got five out of the ten thousand dollars they were due.

Jake G: Son of a bitch.

Paladin: Not a nice name to call your grandmother Rose.

Jake G: So there was no shootout. JAMES BOSWELL Paladin: Just in my twisted mind – as you described it. But if you are intent on being a real gunfighter, with real bullets and real blood, your days are numbered. And that number is low. You’ll be a hero only as long as your gun is faster and more accurate than your opponent’s. Then it ends. And when you die, so does your fame. No one will remember you. Unless there are stories. Stories have a life of their own. Good stories – like the Song of Roland – live forever.

Jake G: So now I’m Sam Johnson and you want to be Jim Boswell.

Paladin (bowing): A troubadour for the trouble-shooter. An advisor as well: a Krishna to your Arjuna.

Jake G: Krishna and Arjuna? Enlighten me.

Paladin: Krishna was a dark-skinned Hindu god and author of the Bhagavad Gita. Arjuna was a great warrior and master archer. When Arjuna had doubts about participating in warfare against his own family, Krishna appeared to him and convinced him that it was his moral duty, above all else, to fight for justice even it meant losing his own life and killing kin or kind.

Jake G: Yeh, sure, Krishna. I’ve got your game, Mister Pelican. I let you go and then you scrawl your notes until someone gets off a lucky shot. Then you go back to being Paladin of the Pen. Better yet, I turn my back on you and you shoot me between the shoulder blades. No thank you. Our fight continues now . . . to the death!

Paladin (fending him off): Nonsense! I detest this needless violence. I was a knight without armor in a savage land. But that was nonsense too. I had no armor because I needed none. But you. You will need a suit of iron or an ironclad alibi.

Jake G: An alibi? That’s just an excuse for avoiding the truth.

Paladin: An alibi – or a lie as you call it – can be a story either you write yourself or an advocate composes. All I’m saying is that, if you insist on being a real hero, you’ll be a dead one – sooner rather than later.

Jake G: I’d sooner be a dead hero than a live coward.

Paladin: Be prepared to drink the hemlock, Jake Ganelon. Or be nailed to a cross.

Jake G: Before that, I intend to throw out money-changers from the temple, cast devils into swine, and bring a sword, not peace, to evildoers.

Paladin: If you’re going to quote the Bible, make sure you include the parts where Jesus talked about turning the other cheek and about the meek inheriting the earth.

Jake G: Nice-sounding words that mean nothing. The Paladin of your stories always fought back and evened the score.

Paladin: As a reluctant warrior for justice. I never shot anyone except in self-defense.

Jake G: And even those were imaginary bullets. But enough of this vacillation. It’s time to end this trial by steel once and for all.

Paladin: Yes. But before we do. Tell me just one thing more. Why did you leave home when you were fourteen?

Jake G: A final request. Granted. It should be obvious by now. My father cared neither for wisdom nor work, knowledge nor justice. He was your opposite. Or at least what you purported to be. John Ganelon was a criminal, a gang-leader, a man of without principles. My studies and my mother's morality led me to decide on a life away from my father’s influence. So I chose the sea.

Paladin: A pirate’s nothing but an outlaw on water.

Jake G: That was my story. See how I’m like you. It must have made my father proud. The truth is: I became a deckhand on various clippers out of the bay. One was the Western Shore. Made five trips around the horn to England and back until it was wrecked on Duxbury Reef.

Paladin: Yes. Near Bolinas. In 1878. Eighteen years ago. But the Western Shore only made three trips around the Horn to England between 1876 and 1877. How old are you, Jake?

Jake G: No more questions.

Paladin: I’d say not more than thirty years old. That means you were about twelve years old when you were a deckhand on the Western Shore. But you left home when you were fourteen . . .

Jake G: I said . . . no more questions.

Paladin: Of course not. I wouldn’t want anyone to suspect that you weren’t telling the whole truth. Or worse, making up tall tales.

Jake G: The truth is I worked on the Simpson Company clippers – mostly hauling lumber down the coast from Oregon.

Paladin: That’s more believable, but not as romantic. And so you returned home, gave up that exciting life of adventure, to avenge the death of your father.

Jake G: I came home to find out if you could be my new father. Someone I could look up to as a man of action and integrity. But as I discovered, you were no better than he was. John Ganelon’s crimes were of commission, yours, Mister Pelican, of omission.

Paladin: And now your mission is to be a real paladin. A knight of wisdom and work, knowledge and justice. Well, my hat’s off to you, Jake Ganelon. Yours will be a lonely grave on boot hill.

Jake G: I never said I had to go it alone. If others want to join me, I will welcome them.

Paladin: A band of vigilantes.

Jake G: Or new Knights of the Round Table.

Paladin: Paladin’s Apostles following their Master and Lord Ganelon until death do them part.

Jake G: And maybe this new Church will read some of your stories for amusement if not for inspiration. In that way, you’ll ensure yourself a lesser legacy in the Elysian Fields. Now, Mister Pelican, let me ask you one final question.

Paladin: Take your best shot.

Jake G: Ah, yes . . . The bullet-holes in the roof of your cabin. What’s that all about?

Paladin: California condors.

Jake G: Of course. And you’re sure they weren’t bats in your belfry?

(While Paladin and Jake Ganelon have been talking between sword bouts, Elayna has freed herself from the rope and retrieved Paladin’s Colt revolver from behind Jake’s back.)

Elayna (pointing gun at both of them): Stop this insanity! Or else . . .

Jake G: Well, lookee here. The little lady’s got herself a real gun now. It was a bad bowline knot, Mister Pelican. In fact, a slip knot, I betcha.

Paladin (approaching with hand signals): All right, Elayna. Hand it over.

Elayna (pointing the gun at Paladin): Not so fast, Father.

Jake G (threatening with sword): Yes. Not so fast, Mister Pelican.

Paladin (stepping back): That Colt’s got a hair trigger. You don’t want to do something foolish . . .

Elayna: You think I don’t know how to handle a gun. (raises it and shoots in the air) Mama taught me. And now I want you men – you real men – to hear me out. I may be just a little lady-in-waiting, a damsel-in-distress -- but I have something to say about all this nonsense. The absurdity of two grown men fighting over who’s the real man. The truth is: neither of you is what you say you are. A real man would care about life and love and the important things like family and friends and kindness to strangers. And about the wonders of the world like animals and trees and rivers and mountains. And the seashore. But no. All you two care about is killing and your so-called justice. Well, I know a thing about the Bible too. “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.” It’s the Lord’s chore, not yours. 68

Paladin: That’s what I’ve been telling your uncle . . . your stepbrother Jake.

Elayna: But you lied, Father. And your stories are filled with killing, inspiring violence with your words. Why did your father give you the name Hugh Mann, if not to inspire you to be human and humane? Yet your tall tales just made Jake want to go out and do what you wrote about. To be just like you – a cold-blooded murderer.

Paladin: You misread me. I only defended myself. My life was devoted to resolving conflicts without violence.

Jake G: On paper . . .

Elayna: What difference does it make? Action man or Acting man. Without love in your life, neither one of you amounts to a mountain of fool’s gold. And even your real gold is worthless without compassion and charity.

Paladin: That real gold kept you and your mother and your brother alive when the ranch failed.

Elayna: And why couldn’t you be there in person when we were growing up instead of going off on your writing adventures? What I needed was a father. A real father. And what mother needed was a real man. Not you, Mister Paladin. And certainly not you, Uncle Jake.

Jake G: You don’t understand, Child.

Elayna: I’m not a child. I’m a woman.

Paladin: As Wordsworth wrote, “The child is father of the man.”

Elayna: And the mother of the woman.

Jake G: But the sins of the father are visited upon the son.

Elayna: And from both parents onto their children.

Paladin: But Jesus said of the blind man: "Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.”

Elayna: So what does this all mean? Just words causing confusion it seems. Words mean nothing. What we need is action. What I need is a real father.

Jake G: That’s exactly what I propose to do. Replace your “father” with a real man.

Elayna: You? The man of the sword?

Paladin: “He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.”

Jake G: Or by the gun.

Elayna: A real father is a source of love and comfort, not of fear and anger. A real father would do anything for his children.

Paladin: Like save them from the hand of a madman.

Jake G: Or from his pen.

Elayna: You’re both madmen. Two-faced like the Roman god Janus, each of you is looking at life from the opposite direction. One of you would be Don Quixote, jousting at windmills to save the world. The other Macchievelli, maintaining law and order by whatever means necessary.

Paladin: I would rather be Cervantes, writing about a knight fighting for the poor and downtrodden in a savage land.

Jake G (brandishing sword): And I D'Artagnan, a famous swordsman bringing evil men to justice in France.

Paladin: D'Artagnan’s life was highly fictionalized by Alexandre Dumas in his novel “The Three Musketeers.”

Jake G: D'Artagnan was a real hero of the royal court under King Louis the Fourteenth.

Paladin: A puppeteer, not a musketeer.

Jake G (lunging at Paladin): Liar!

Elayna: There you go again, inflating your own self-importance. Neither of you makes any difference at all in a world of violence and cruelty. What’s needed is a real hero that is neither too soft nor too hard, not just brain or body, but both. A balance between the two extremes of fantasy and reality. A hero that is both practical and artistic, neither looking to the future or past, but concerned only about present day problems. A hero must be both a doer and a thinker. He who does without thinking is as bad as one who thinks without doing. Without thinking there is no perspective. Without doing there is no progress. Thinking alone and doing alone come to the same end. An escape from reality into madness. Only very special, very talented people can be heroes. JOAN OF ARC

Paladin: A woman perhaps?

Elayna: Yes. Why not?

Jake G: The world of wicked men is no place for a woman.

Elayna: Oh, no? I think I couldn’t make a better paladin than either one of you.

Jake G: Oh? And how’s that?

Elayna: By this. (pulls out card and tosses it to the floor; Paladin picks it up and reads as the image of the card appears on the back wall with the words “Have Love – Kill Trouble” over Lion’s Head followed by “Wire E. Manelon -- Angel Creek.”)

Paladin: Very impressive. What’s your service and your fee?

Elayna: My service: inspiring peace and providing non-violent solutions to conflict. My fee: negotiable.

Paladin: Yes. That’s what I did. And killed trouble when necessary. HAVE LOVE – KILL TROUBLE Jake G: It was time you killed . . . in your mind.

Elayna: Not by writing, Father, but by doing.

Jake G: Yes. Actions, not words. WIRE E. MANELON – ANGEL CREEK

Elayna: Not your kind of action, Uncle Jake. I want to be a warrior for peace. A pacifier. Someone who takes the commandment “Love Your Enemies” seriously.

Jake G: A noble sentiment but not worth much in a world at war with itself.

Elayna: It’s 1896 and only four years to the new century. If you can believe the evangelists, judgment day draws nigh. With them, I say, “Repent, cast down your swords, and embrace the Lord thy God. For a big shakeup is coming, and the high will be brought low, while the mighty fall to the level of the mild.” That’s my message. Change your ways or face the consequences.

Jake G: And that’s exactly what I intend to do as the New Paladin.

Elayna: Your paladin just adds to the violence.

Jake G: So what would your paladin do?

Elayna: Speak out in public against conflict. Stand in harm’s way if need be.

Paladin: That’s dangerous and no job for a woman – any woman.

Elayna: It’s what I’m trying to do right now. To stop you two animals from killing each other.

Jake G: And how do you propose to accomplish that, Little Lady – or should I say, Grand Woman? Will you disarm us with your charms? Or with that olive branch in your hand?

Elayna: I detest violence, but if need be . . .

Jake G: So not a true pacifist after all. Only when it’s convenient. You are no different than any man.

Elayna: Yes, exactly. It’s a man’s game. That’s what you said, Father. Why not a woman’s game too? But in my chess game the objective is not to capture the king but to release the queen and all the other players from this crazy contest for survival. Instead of removing each other from the board, as you both propose – one with action, one with words -- I propose that the pieces be rearranged in civilized pairs of black and white. Instead of a duel of duality to the death, all individuals should be free to move about wherever they please – as long as they don’t displace the others. To this end, the board will no longer be a grid, but a circle – like the grand round table of Arthur.

Jake G: Elayna, dear Elayna. I applaud you. Your utopia is wonderful.

Paladin: Yes, I agree. Now . . . Give me the gun and, when this over, you can write a beautiful poem that will inspire the world to dream of the day when the “wolf will dwell with the lamb and the leopard shall lie down with the kid . . .”

Elayna (brandishing pistol): No! Not someday. Today. Right now! Lay down your weapons . . . both of you.

(Everyone freezes in place. A triangle is formed by Elayna with the gun pointing at first Paladin then Jake on either side of her. Slowly, both men begin to stoop, lowering their swords as if to place them on the ground. At the last moment, they both jump up with their weapons and glare at each other.)

Jake G: It’s a standoff. So what’s next?

Paladin: Since, by my count, you have only one bullet left in that six-shooter, Elayna, you must choose between us. Think carefully. I came here as your father to rescue you and Lance as well as HeyBoy and HeyGirl from the clutches of this mad man. Jake Ganelon is not unlike the lion who threatened you when we played safari at the ranch. I told you then and I’ll tell you the same thing now. I always try to capture man-eating animals alive and put them in a cage. I only shoot them if they try to bite me. Your Uncle Jake is that wild animal.

Jake G: Or am I the lion on your card, Elayna? A lion-hearted hero who is willing to be your king and champion. My father John Ganelon was probably your father. If so, that makes me your real brother and this man your father’s murderer. As I told you before, I am the good pirate who will bring you both buried treasure and happiness greater than gold.

Paladin (lunging at Jake): Liar!

Elayna: Oh, my. What’s to become of this tragic threesome?

Paladin (stopping, animated): A trinity. That’s it! In the immortal words of Julius Caesar: Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres. All Gaul is divided into three parts. And so are we. Like three strands intertwined in one rope. Like the Hindu Trinity: Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva. The creator, sustainer, and destroyer.

Jake G: And who are you, Mister Pelican?

Paladin: Brahma the creator, of course. While Elayna is Vishnu, believing that love will save and maintain the universe. And you, Jake, are Shiva – since you seem hell-bent on destruction.

Jake G: On destroying you.

Elayna: Stop it, both of you. Only God is a Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Paladin: Ideally, each of us is a trinity of thinking, doing, and loving – mind, body, and heart – pen, gun, and open hand. If not a triune god individually, then we must find others to join our collaboration and bring all three modes together in one harmonious human society.

Jake G: Now look who’s talking utopia. Dream on, Mister Pelican. For soon you will rest in peace.

Paladin: And will that give you contentment? Or will you still be fighting who you really are?

Jake G: What do you mean by that?

Paladin: Those clothes, this performance. You wear them with a flare. They’re your clothes, aren’t they? Not mine, as you said. I’ll bet you got kicked off the Simpson ship in San Francisco. Sailors can be hard on effeminate deckhands. They probably gave you the nickname Pelican.

Jake G (lunging): Another story. Take it back.

Paladin(fending): Yes, a fairy tale. You’re no more an action hero than I am. You’re just an actor. All show and no performance. You want my clothes and my title to masquerade as a paladin. You want to be who you thought I was: a gunfighter with brains. But you’re no knight in shining armor. You’re incapable of being that. Because, beneath your tough exterior, you’re as soft as a shellfish.

Jake G (furiously attacking him): I’ll show you who’s soft.

Elayna: What can I do to stop this madness? How about . . . ? (puts Paladin’s gun to her own head)

(Paladin and Jake stop fighting. A tense moment of silence. Then Paladin drops his sword and lunges at Elayna, grabbing the gun from her hand. At the same time, Jake lunges at Paladin and stabs him in the back. Paladin drops the gun and falls on his back in front of Elayna who tries to catch him. Jake grabs the gun from the deck, drops his sword, and jumps up on the box above Elayna who is now cradling Paladin in her arms.)

Elayna: What have done? You’ve killed him!

Jake G (pointing gun at Elayna and Paladin): Not yet. Move aside for the coup de grace.

Elayna: No! You promised not to hurt him. And look what you did.

Jake G: I promised you and your brother a pirate’s paradise and that’s what you’ll get . . . if you get out of the way.

Elayna: What? Would you shoot me then?

Jake G: Only if the bullet has to go through your heart to get to his.

Elayna: You are a bad pirate, Jake Ganelon. And my heart is not with your 73

but with my father’s, no matter who he was.

Jake G: Suit yourself, Gilda.

(Jake aims the gun at Paladin as Elayna throws herself across his chest. She is immediately pushed aside by Paladin’s arm. A shot rings out. Jake Ganelon drops the gun and grabs his own chest. He falls over the ship’s railing and out of sight. Paladin’s arm holding a small derringer drops to his side.)

Elayna: Father. How . . . ?

Paladin (gasping): Two . . . derringers . . . better . . . than one.

Elayna (crying): Oh, Father. I’m so sorry.

Paladin: Go . . . get your . . . brother . . . the others.

Elayna: Yes. He must see you. Hold on, Father . . . please.

(Elayna exits stage left. The spotlight brightens on Paladin propped up against the wall; darkness all around. A shadow begins to creep across Paladin’s circle of light from his feet to his face.)

Paladin (squinting): Ah. The shadow . . . returns. No . . . it is the moon . . . again . . . stealing sunlight . . . inch by inch. A total . . . eclipse. Yes . . . the ninth of August . . . eighteen ninety six . . . A fitting climax. With John Donne . . . soon . . . one short sleep past . . . wake eternally . . . proud Death . . . shall die. (sighs, closes his eyes)

(The creeping shadow suddenly recedes. A clicking noise is heard.)

Paladin (reviving, opening his eyes): What’s this? R.B.? You’re ruining my dramatic departure from this world in the midst of a rare natural phenomenon. Nature’s tribute to its fallen hero. A perfect ending it was to be, but you . . . (clicking grows louder) What do you mean it’s a lie? August 9th 1896. You can look it up. (clicking) You did? Good. Then you know I’m telling the truth. (clicking) Japan. Yes. But not San Francisco? Not North America, you say? Well, then . . . Allow me a little poetic license, won’t you. A bit of requiel ambience is all I ask. Like the dark clouds over Jerusalem and the wind rending the temple curtain in two. (clicking) No, I’m not Christ, for Christ’s sake. But I deserve some respect . . .

HeyBoy (from shadows): Oh, Mister Paladin. You not die yet. Thank God.

Paladin (closing his eyes): Oh, HeyBoy . . . Kim Chan . . . pardon me . . . you’re free . . .

HeyBoy: I not tied up . . . watch from shadows . . . I so afraid . . . so ashamed . . .

Paladin: It’s . . . all right . . . I’m glad . . . and HeyGirl?

HeyGirl: I’m right here too. I saw it all. You were wonderful.

Paladin: Thank . . . you. 74

HeyBoy: I so ashamed . . . I betray you . . . my good friend . . . Paladin.

HeyGirl (screams): Kim Chan! (In Japanese: What are you doing, you stupid goat?) Put down that gun.

Paladin: HeyBoy . . . be . . . careful. That Colt . . . has a . . . hair-trigger.

HeyBoy: I so ashamed. You die, Mister Paladin. I die too. Not deserve to live . . .

HeyGirl: (In Chinese: Don’t be a coward. Be brave and live. No!) (A gunshot.)

HeyGirl: (In Chinese: You’re very lucky, you silly goose.)

Paladin: What’s . . . going on? What . . . happened?

HeyGirl: It’s all right, Mister Paladin. He missed.

HeyBoy: I so ashamed. I can’t shoot self even. I try again . . .

HeyGirl: No!

Paladin: Don’t worry . . . Kim Li. He’s out of . . . bullets.

HeyBoy: Then I fall on sword.

HeyGirl: Oh, no you won’t. (a splash is heard; then another) Both blades are in the bay with that bad pirate. No more talk of killing. Think about me. I came here to save you and so did Mister Paladin. We want you alive.

Paladin: She loves you . . . Kim Chan . . . good friend.

HeyBoy: And you real man, Mister Paladin.

HeyGirl: (In Chinese: You see how foolish you were. Now come to me. Remember what father used to say: Our hearts are forever tied.)

(Talking fades out, then fades back in as Elayna and Lance arrive. Spotlight expands over Paladin who has slumped and closed his eyes. Lance is carrying a sketch book; dressed as a pirate with feathers similar to Jake’s, he is shy, limps, and talks with a stutter.)

Elayna: Father!

Paladin (stirring weakly): Yes . . . What?

Elayna: Oh. Thank God, you’re still alive.

Paladin: Unless . . . this . . . a dream.

Lance: Or a st . . st . . story.

Elayna: Lance. You promised. (to Paladin) We wanted to be with you . . . to the end. You were our father . . . in many ways.

Lance: Not mi . . . mine.

Elayna (to Paladin): Lance considers John Ganelon his real father. And he’s still angry about what happened to him.

Lance: You k . . . k . . . killed my fa . . father.

Paladin: I . . . didn’t . . .

Lance (holding up Paladin’s book): Your . . . b . . . book.

Elayna: It was just a story, Lance. Mister Paladin told Jake your father’s death was an accident.

Lance: Another . . . st . . . st . . . story.

Paladin: A true . . . story.

Lance: Wh . . . wh . . . what is t . . . truth?

Elayna: We have to believe him, Lance. He’s on his death bed.

(Lance turns away, sits down on box, takes up his sketch book and begins drawing.)

Elayna (to Paladin): He’s a very good artist – as good as mother. He paints realistic scenes, but with something beneath the surface. Emotion, pain mainly. You can see it in the wrinkles on an old cowboy’s face. In the eye of a steer caught in a barbed wire fence. In barn wood, in old ships. Beauty that belies a rotting interior. But beauty nonetheless.

Paladin (pointing to Lance’s sketchbook): What’s . . . that?

Elayna (standing over Lance, looking at his drawing): Oh. It’s not done yet . . .

Lance (standing up, holding his sketchbook up over Paladin): Let . . . h . . . him . . . see!

(The card theme sounds as Lance’s sketch appears on the backwall. It’s a picture of a horse with a rope around it’s neck, rearing up over a cowboy with his back to the viewer. The horse’s head is similar to Paladin’s knight chess piece.)

Elayna: Isn’t it magnificent, Father? Notice the muscles, like a DaVinci rendering, the defiant look in its face?

Paladin: Is it . . . me? 76

Lance (pulling back the sketchbook): Of c . . . course.

(Lance writes on the pad, tears off the sheet, and tosses it to Paladin. The image on the screen disappears. Elayna attempts to retrieve the drawing, but Paladin grabs it, and studies it.)

Elayna (to Lance): It’s not done.

Lance: It’s d . . . done . . . f . . . finished. (to Paladin) Just like . . . y . . . you.

Paladin: Your name . . . J. Lance . . . Ganelon . . .

Elayna: That’s his name, Father. Lance is John Ganelon’s son.

Paladin: Or . . . mine.

Lance: N . . . no! LANCELOT Paladin: I have . . . an equal . . . chance . . . of being . . . a Mann . . . or a Ganelon . . . so do you . . .

Lance: L . . . l . . . l . . . liar!

Paladin: And J . . . stands for . . . Jake . . . not John . . . doesn’t it?

Lance: N . . . n . . . no!

Paladin: You dress . . . like him . . . You look . . . like him . . .

Elayna: Father, stop it. Jake was our uncle.

Lance: My . . . b . . . brother. ROLAND Paladin: You weren’t . . . tied up . . . were you? You watched . . . from the . . . shadows . . .

Elayna: Lance and Jake were very close.

Lance: D . . . don’t . . . t . . . tell him . . . that . . .

Paladin: A lot . . . alike . . . madness . . . in the blood . . .

Lance: Y . . . you’re . . . the m . . . mad one . . . you k . . . killed him . . .

Elayna: Uncle Jake would have killed him first -- and me too.

Lance(picking up Paladin’s book): This b . . . book . . . m . . . madness . . DEATH OF GANELON 77

(Lance threatens to throw Paladin’s book overboard; Elayna grabs it.)

Elayna: Lance, stop it. They’re just stories . . .

Paladin: Stories . . . of . . . justice . . .

Lance: J . . . justice . . . d . . . de . . . nied . . .

Paladin: Not . . . true . . . justice . . . my quest . . .

Elayna: Stop this. You’re artists, both of you. Father’s Paladin is a figment. Yours is a pigment.

Lance: His p . . . paint . . . b . . . blood . . .

Elayna: We’re all blood and bone. And feelings in between. (stifles a cry)

Paladin (pointing to Lance): You . . . take care of her . . . and Gwyn . . .

Lance: That’s . . . n . . . not my . . . re . . . re . . .

Elayna: It’s my responsibility. And I can take care of myself.

Paladin: Then . . . you can be . . . my legacy . . . Paladin . . .

Elayna: Yes, Father. I can do it. I could be the next Paladin -- continue your quest for justice.

Paladin: Not you . . . Lance . . .

Elayna: Not me? Why not?

Paladin: No woman’s . . . place . . .

Elayna: Oh? Is that it? And you think Lance can do it? A man who stutters, can’t write, hides from people, has a bad leg from being bitten by a shark . . .

Lance: Hump . . . b . . . back . . .

Paladin: A whale? Moby . . . Dick?

Lance: N . . . no!

Elayna: Was it a story, Lance? Maybe you could be the next Paladin . . .

Lance: No!

Elayna: The truth is: neither one of you is any condition to tell me what to do. If I want to be a paladin . . .

Paladin (to Lance): Wear my clothes . . . my gun . . . my horse . . . my boat . . . my name . . . all yours . . .

Lance: N . . . n . . . never.

Elayna: Then it has to be me. I will do it. Yes. I will stand in the way of violence.

Paladin: No hope . . . then . . . my legacy . . . dies . . . with me . . .

Lance: Y . . . yes. Good r . . . r . . . riddance.

Paladin: No choice . . . then . . . one bullet . . . left . . .

(Paladin raises his arm. In his hand is the derringer.)

Elayna (horrified): Father! What are you doing? (moving in front of Lance) There will be no more bloodshed here.

Paladin: This . . . my life . . . what’s left . . . of it . . .

(Paladin turns the gun around on his chest and points it at his lower jaw.)

Elayna (lunging for Paladin): No!

Lance (restraining her): Let . . . h . . . him . . . g . . . go . . . h . . . he’s . . . d . . . dying . . . any . . . w . . . way . . .

(Elayna breaks away from Lance and drops down on Paladin, grabbing his hand. Lance follows, grabbing Elayna’s hand. In a tight group, with the action invisible to the audience, the three characters struggle on the ground for the gun. A shot is heard. A moment of tense silence. Elayna falls back, mortally wounded.)

Lance (springing up): Oh . . . m . . . my . . . n . . . no! (to Paladin) What . . . h . . . have . . . y . . . you . . . d . . . done . . . ?

Paladin: It was . . . an accident . . .

Lance: You . . . k . . . killed her . . . l . . . like all the . . . G . . . Ganelons . . .

Paladin: Elayna . . . no Ganelon . . . a real Mann . . . not like you . . .

Lance: Or . . . y . . . you . . .

Paladin: Yes . . . brothers we are . . . of no identity . . .

Lance: N . . . no! (picking up Paladin’s book, threatening him) I . . . should b . . . bash . . . y . . . your h . . . head . . . 79

Paladin: Yes . . . please . . . the ultimate . . . irony . . .

Lance: Bah! (throws book down near Paladin’s head, points to Elayna) Suf . . . f . . . fer for . . . for . . . What . . . have . . . you . . . d . . . done?!

Paladin: Poor Elayna . . . flower cut . . . before . . . her prime . . . farewell . . . fair lily . . .

Lance (climbing up on the box, looking out over the rail): W . . . what . . . sh . . . shall . . . I . . . d . . . do . . . ?

Paladin: Put her . . . on my boat . . . a lily . . . in one hand . . . and this letter . . . in the other . . .

Lance (taking paper from Paladin): W . . . what let . . . t . . . ter . . . old t . . . telegram . . . b . . . baby in d . . . danger . . . G . . . Ganelon . . . threa . . . t . . . tens . . . w . . . what are y . . . you say . . . ing? Elayna’s d . . . dead . . . who’s in . . . d . . . danger?

Paladin: You are . . . Ganelon . . . still threatens . . . GANELON THREATENS Lance: In y . . . your . . . m . . . mind . . . (crumples up telegram, throws it on the floor)

Paladin: Then . . . the book . . . put it there . . . in her arms . . .

Lance: Like a . . . l . . . lover . . .

Paladin: She treasured . . . my tales . . .

Lance: You se . . . d . . . duced her . . . w . . . with . . . l . . . lies . . .

Paladin: Not lies . . . literature . . .

Lance (pointing to Elayna): S . . . see . . . h . . . how it . . . all . . . all ends . . . in . . . d . . . death . . .

Paladin: The story’s . . . not over . . . listen to me . . . take her . . . to Gwyn . . . and Arthur . . . they will . . . understand . . . Elayna . . . of Astolat . . . she was . . .

Lance (bending over Paladin): She w . . . was . . . w . . . what? J . . . just a ch . . . character . . . in a st . . . story t . . . to you?

Paladin: A great . . . character . . . Elaine . . . of Astolat . . . as you are . . . Lancelot . . . du Lac . . .

Lance: Y . . . you’re . . . m . . . mad . . . old m . . . man . . . Elayna . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . my t . . . twin . . . sis . . . ter . . .

Paladin: Yes, she was . . . like a sister . . . to you . . . chaste knight . . . yet . . . two Elaines . . . remain . . . your Queen . . . Mother . . . and Lady . . . Corbenic . . . mother of . . . Galahad . . . your progeny . . .

Lance (looking back over railing): Am . . . I . . . y . . . your . . . s . . . son . . . then . . . d . . . destined f . . . for . . . in . . . s . . . sanity . . . ?

Paladin: Not true . . . both you and I . . . destined for . . . the . . . Dolorous . . . Guard . . .

Lance: Y . . . yes . . . a g . . . guard you n . . . need . . . a . . . sy . . . sylum . . . t . . . too . . .

Paladin: Dolorous Guard . . . your greatest victory . . . twenty slain . . . white knight you were . . . black knight dead . . . your name entombed . . . revealed . . . not Lancelot . . . but Galahad instead . . . then Meleagant . . . you killed . . . for love of . . . Guinevere . . .

Lance: St . . . stories all . . . l . . . like these . . . (picks up Paladin’s book) m . . . make . . . b . . . believe . . . c . . . can’t m . . . make me . . . b . . . believe . . . (throws Paladin’s book over the railing)

(The rumble of thunder; lights flicker; Lance steadies himself on the rail)

Lance: W . . . what’s . . . h . . . happening?

Paladin (raising up): You feel it? Yes . . . I knew it . . . you are a . . . paladin . . .

Lance: N . . . no! (loud clicking sound is heard) W . . . what’s that?

Paladin: Wonder of wonders . . . you hear that too . . . it’s R.B. . . .

Lance: W . . . what . . . ri . . . riddle n . . . now?

Paladin: You feel it . . . don’t you? . . . It’s the spirit . . . of Daniel . . . Boone . . .

Lance: A sp . . . spirit? A g . . . ghost . . . a ranting . . . m . . . maniac . . . m . . . must . . . g . . . get off . . . h . . . haunted sh . . . ship . . . (stands on rail, threatening to jump into bay)

Paladin: No ! . . . Flying Dutchman . . . . nothing to fear . . . R.B. will help you . . . make you . . . a paladin . . .a real man . .

(A flash of lightning; thunder; loud clicking all at once. Lance jumps and disappears over the railing. A splash.)

Paladin (no longer gasping): Swim! Swim to my boat and save yourself for Guinevere and Galahad . . . (silence) No sound. A bad leg can’t kick. Will Melville’s white whale get the rest? (silence) Lancelot, it appears, has returned to Du Lac with Vivianne, the Lady of the Lake. Joined Uncle Jake and the Joyous Guard. Gone to Gawain and Grandma Grail. Lost. Lost like the Lord’s Last Supper’s Sacred Sangreal. Lost. But only in a mind already misplaced. Sunk to the shadowy depths like a leviathan. Lost. But not my legacy. It will float forever on the waves of time. A new poet, Emily Something, said it best: “there is no frigate like a book to take us lands away.” And so my book shall be: Notes in a bottle for some stranger to discover on a distant shore. To ride its pages like a magic carpet above the minarets of Araby. (looks at Elayna) Poor Elayna. She wanted to be a paladin and I couldn’t give her that. Should have maybe. Given her the chance to become a Jane Addams or a Joan of Arc. Too late. At least she didn’t suffer the same fate as Ophelia. The letter is here. (uncrumples telegram) Though Ganelon’s gone. (folds it, and puts it in her hand) Elayna needs a tulip. (finds Lance’s 81 sketch) Lance’s stallion will do. Innocence unbridled. A saddle for no man. Better off this way. (rolls sketch into paper tulip, puts it upright in Elayna’s other hand) Poor Gwyn. (sighs) I failed to save our children from Ganelon. Sincere regrets, yet . . . My devotion to Themis and Minerva, for Justice and Art, was always stronger than any ardor for offspring or a mortal goddess.

(The rumble of distant thunder as the spotlight intensifies on Paladin.)

Paladin: Ah, the sun – blindingly bright. (clicking sound resumes) R.B. This is your doing, of course. You would have me leave this world with faults fully naked to your probing light. (covering his face, the spotlight intensifies and moves to the middle of Paladin’s chest) The Pain, oh . . . but no bullets left. (A shadowy spot begins to move into the circle of light on Paladin’s chest) What’s this, R.B.? Have you relented? Am I to have my eclipse after all? Yes. Thank you. At least my death, if not my life, will be memorable. The moon of imagination has come to release me from this cell of self. The diminutive student grows into a dilated pupil. The glare of rationality has been dimmed by lunar darkness beyond the shadow of a doubt. Only an aura of reality remains around the edges. I and the Eye will now be one. The borehole of a bottle, the barrel of a gun Me the message and the missile from beyond My body but the binding of a book, a cartridge spent To there I go again from where and whence I once was sent.

(A throbbing sound of a beating heart is heard and increases in volume as a grey dot in the center of the backscreen begins to grow and come into focus.)

Paladin: A target on my chest? Yes. A bull’s eye for the rider on the pale horse who comes to put a bullet hole in the eye of the fearful steer – the beast of me caught in the barbed wire of mistaken identity. The bullet has my name on it. But once it pierces the phantom retinue of my hollow heart, I will know, once and for all, who I really am. Not Hugh Mann, not Hugh Ganelon -- but the singular moniker of both pale horse and pale rider. One name, and one name only: Paladin.

(The loud throbbing suddenly ceases as the grey dot fills the backscreen and becomes the image of Paladin’s symbol: the white knight chess piece. Card theme sounds triumphantly for a moment; then suddenly goes off key. Lights flicker and the stage goes dark.)

Paladin (muffled, echoing): No! No! No!

(Voices in the dark are heard saying “Hold him down,” “Don’t let him up,” “That’s it – bind him tight,” “Now gag him – good.” Gradually, a light appears over the center forestage as well as on the box at stage left which contains a replica of an antique Seth Thomas Clock and an old single-page flip calendar showing the date April 18, 1906. The time on the clock is almost five.)

Doctor: Bring the patient into my office, Nurse. I want to read his file and examine him in the light.

Nurse: Yes, Doctor.

(From the darkness emerges the figure of Paladin in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse in white uniform followed by a doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope. Paladin in rumpled black work clothes is bound and gagged, struggling to free himself

82 from the wheelchair. He is now a grey-haired older man of 67 years with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his head under his tattered cowboy hat.)

Doctor (picking up file on desk and going to side of nurse in center of light): Ah, yes. This is it. Why did the police bring him here this time?

Nurse: He was wandering the Embarcadero between Bay Street and the Ferry Building.

Doctor: Making a nuisance of himself as usual, I suppose.

Nurse: He drew his Colt on a businessman, claiming the man tried to steal a woman’s handbag.

Doctor: The gun, unloaded, I hope?

Nurse: Yes, but the businessman didn’t know that. Mister Ganelon continued to threaten him. Held the woman’s arm as he led the poor man down Mission street. Mister Ganelon welcomed the police when they arrived to “take the suspect in custody,” he said. The police, however, instead took Mister Ganelon to the Market station and then brought him here, as usual.

Doctor: And he was wearing that black scarf over his face.

Nurse: The “bandit mask.” It’s now his gag.

Doctor: And what about the bloody bandage on his head?

Nurse: The policeman said Mister Ganelon already had it on when they arrested him. He’s done this before.

Doctor: How’s that?

Nurse: Claimed he was assaulted by the police or the “criminal” he was trying to apprehend.

Doctor: Let’s take a look . . .

(Paladin tries to squirm away as the Doctor removes his hat and the bandage on his head.)

Doctor (smelling the rag, winces): Echh! Tomato sauce – and not all that fresh.

Doctor (loudly to Paladin): Well, I am quite tired of seeing you like this, Mister Ganelon. You come here. You get better. We let you go. And then you come back again. This will not do. Do you hear me, Mister Ganelon?

(Paladin provides a muffled reply and squirms in his chair.)

Nurse: He probably doesn’t like you calling him “Mister Ganelon.”

Doctor (looking at file): But that’s his name: Jack Ganelon. 83

Nurse: He thinks his name is Hugh Mann. Or his other alias: Paladin.

(A small image of the white knight flashes neon-like on the wall over the seated Paladin. The card theme sounds weakly and slightly off-key.)

Doctor: A cowboy who thinks he’s a knight. Or is it the other way around? So much poppycock. Comes from reading romantic novels. The victim’s brain becomes fixated on becoming a hero to escape the tedium and terror of everyday life. Just like Don Quixote. Or, in the worst case, a Doctor Jekyll who becomes a Mister Hyde. The powers and pitfalls of the imagination. Well, Nurse. It may be time to try something different . . .

Nurse: Something new?

Doctor: Let’s call it “Truth Therapy” -- a medicinal dose of reality. (to Paladin): So, Mister Ganelon. We need to set the record straight. My name is Doctor Richard Bloom and this is Nurse Joan Dark. You are in the Agnews Insane Asylum located in Santa Clara, California. The date, as you can see, (pointing to desk calendar) is April 18th, 1906. The time (pointing to clock) is approximately five AM. Those are facts. And here are some others. (reading file) According to our official hospital records, your name is Jack Ganelon. Your wife’s name is Gwyn. She lives in the Mission District in a flat where you should be right now. You have two grown children, Lance and Elayna, twins, who live in Sunnyside with their spouses. You have a job – or I should say had a job -- with the Simpson Brothers Lumber Company. You were there chief bookkeeper in their warehouse until you were terminated for insubordinate behavior last year. Shall I tell you more, Mister Ganelon?

(Paladin utters something inaudible, then begins coughing.)

Nurse: I think it might be a good idea to remove the gag, Doctor.

Doctor: Just loosen it up a bit.

(The nurse loosens Paladin’s gag and then bends close to his face, listening to his muffled words.)

Doctor: What’s he saying?

Nurse: “Not . . . R . . . B . . .”

Doctor: Those are my initials. What’s he talking about? R. B.

Nurse: R.B. I think he means the voice he’s been hearing.

Doctor: Oh, yes. And the messages he receives from some relative of Daniel Boone. More fiction. Not facts. (Paladin mutters loudly) What’s he saying now?

Nurse (listening to Paladin): “Facts . . . not fiction . . . ”

Doctor (to Paladin): A fiction it is, just like Paladin – the knight in shining armor you say you are. The last real knights – if there were any at all – have been dead for 400 years.

(Paladin gives a muffled response.)

Nurse: He says, “My hat.”

Doctor (to Paladin): Eat your own hat.

Nurse: I think he wants us to take his hat off. (she removes Paladin’s hat, looks inside) Ah, there’s something here.

Doctor: Not much in it otherwise.

Nurse (holds up a business card): It’s his card. (hands it to Doctor)

(Card theme sounds loud and clear as the negative image Paladin’s business card appears on backscreen: Have Gun / Will Travel -- Wire Paladin / San Francisco)

Doctor (reading card): A fantasy stretched to madness. Cowboy heroes, gun fighters, bounty hunters. Remnants of the Romantic West. Vigilantes taking the law in their own hands. A boon for physicians and morticians. It’s the 20th Century, Mister Ganelon. Do you hear me? Violence is a thing of the past. “Have Gun, Go to Jail.” (turning card over) What’s this? Letters: Y . . . R . . . U, U . . . N, Y . . . M, I . . . I . . . (letters appear on backscreen) What does that mean?

(Paladin mumbles loudly; Nurse listens intently.) Y, R, U, U, N, Y, M, I, I

Nurse: He says, “No pauses.” (Looks at card with Doctor) Y, R, U, U, N, Y, M, I, I It’s a question: Why are you you and why am I I?

Doctor: “Why” doesn’t matter? Who you are is who you are. It’s a fact. Need more proof, Mister Ganelon. It’s all here in your file. (pulls out paper from folder) We have a deposition from friends and relatives about what they knew about your early life. In this statement – we’ll call it Exhibit A -- they write that you were born on July 21st, 1839 in Independence Missouri of Charles and Rose Ganelon. In 1849, your father left your mother and went off on a wagon train to join the California Gold Rush. According to your father’s only letter, he arrived in Sacramento but then disappeared and never returned to your mother who died in 1853. You then went to live with your uncle and aunt until, at the age of nineteen, you left Independence Missouri, by way of wagon train, and, in the fall of 1858, you arrived at Angel’s Creek California. There you found and confronted your father who was living with a Mexican woman named Rolanda. There was a struggle and, according to court reports, your father was shot in the leg. He died a week later of lead poisoning. You were convicted of involuntary manslaughter and spent the next five years in jail. It was there, in San Quentin State Prison, that you read the Encyclopedia Britannica and Bartlett’s Quotations from cover to cover. It was also there in the shadows of your cave where you read stories – lots of stories – about knights and kings, and about the heroes and villains of the Wild West. You also learned to play chess and gamble. And it was there, in the pensive confinement of the penitentiary, that your “fantasies of the pen” began and continue to this day.

(Paladin continues to struggle and mumble loudly.)

Nurse: Perhaps, Doctor, he’s had enough.

Doctor: What’s he saying now?

Nurse (listening to Paladin): “My shirt.”

Doctor: No one would want the shirt off his back.

Nurse (unbuttoning Paladin’s shirt): In his shirt. It’s a book.

Doctor (taking book from Nurse): What have we here. Ah. The infamous pseudo-biography of Hugh Mann: The True Adventures of Paladin. No truth about it. A total fabrication.

(Paladin squirms with muffled shouts.)

Doctor: Have no fear, Jack Ganelon. We shall honor your opus magnum by placing it neatly in the drawer of this desk with all the others. (puts book down on desk)

Nurse: “Liar,” he says.

Doctor: It seems more facts are prescribed then. (reading from file again) In 1863, you were released from prison on condition that you enlist in the Union Army. You did. You were not, however, as you claim in your book, an army officer who graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point. Instead, you were a private first class cannoneer at Fort Mason in San Francisco Bay for two years. Your time in military service was uneventful except for the accident caused by a cannon that exploded and knocked you unconscious. But you apparently fully recovered, except for a disfigured lower jaw. In April 1865, you were discharged from the army on April 14th, the same day Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. And that brings us to Exhibit B. Another letter. This time from you, Mister Ganelon, to President Andrew Johnson. In this missive of June 1865, you offered your services of protection to the new president, stating that, quote, “President Lincoln would still be alive today if I had been by his side at Ford’s Theater.” You enclosed your card. (Card theme sounds) That was strange enough. But what really got the attention of federal authorities was the following: “John Wilkes Booth not dead. Holding him in custody. Await your instructions.” When the police and federal marshal arrived at your flat, they found a local actor – who did bear some resemblance to President Lincoln’s assassin – tied up and gagged in your cellar. For that, you were arrested and then detained six months at the San Francisco Marine Hospital.

(Paladin responds with a muffled shout.)

Nurse: He says, “Booth . . . still alive.”

Doctor (to Paladin): He’s dead and so is Paladin. But to continue with your therapy, Mister Ganelon. (reading from file) During your detention at the San Francisco Marine Hospital, you met a young lady named Gwyn, a bohemian artist who taught painting classes to the patients. You loved her art, she loved your stories, and, in the end, you loved each other. Which brings us to Exhibit C: A copy of the marriage certificate for Jack Ganelon and Gwyn Olivier dated May 10th, 1869. A fact that began in happier days, resulting in two children, Lance and Elayna – twins in fact – born on April 19th 1875. And for six uneventful years after that, marital and parental life seemed to suit you. There were warning signs, however. Your wife reported that, over time, you became increasingly irritable and irrational, frequently recounting stories in your fictional 86 works as if they had really happened. In addition, you claimed that you heard voices – one voice in particular identified as a person with the initials R.B. who you said, and I quote, “is the spirit of Daniel Boone, the famous American frontiersman.”

(Paladin squirms and talks loudly but incomprehensibly)

Nurse: He says, “True . . . it’s true.”

Doctor: And now we come to the summer of 1881. On July 2nd of that year, President James Garfield was shot by Charles Guiteau. The President died two and half months later and Guiteau was hanged for the assassination. Which brings us to Exhibit D: your letter of December 7th, 1881 to President Chester A. Arthur, Washington D.C. In this epistle, you make the same observation and offer you made to President Johnson after the death of Abraham Lincoln. With your card, of course. (Theme music) Once again, the police and federal authorities intervened. This time on account of the following: You wrote “Guiteau is my brother, a stalwart paladin of the highest order, who made Arthur King.” You were taken from your family and spent the next year in Agnews, apparently recovering your lost mind. The recovery, however, was not complete.

(Paladin’s muffled voice again interjects)

Nurse: “Lost . . . all lost.”

Doctor: Yes, yes. Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere. One more dose should do the trick. On September 5th, 1901 William McKinley was shot twice by anarchist Leon Czolgosz. The President died of his wounds nearly two weeks later. This resulted in Exhibit E: A letter you sent to President Theodore Roosevelt on October 28th, 1901 in which you once more offer your unique protective services to the Chief Executive of the United States. With your card, of course. (Theme music) You also included the following poem: “Leon the Lion killed the Kingly Mick / A bear soft-spoken bears a big stick / A slender rose arose and grows in God’s portal / As murder reversed is red rum / So Heaven alone can tell / What will come, with a gun, by the next Noel.” Government cryptographers quickly deciphered your verse: Leon the Lion was Leon Czolgosz, the assassin; the Kingly Mick, McKinley; the soft-spoken Bear with the big stick, his successor Roosevelt, of course; further confirmed by the reference to the slender Rose – Rose svelte – and to God’s Portal – Theo Door. Federal security police were most alarmed by your concluding stanza, however. Was the next Noel really a reference to the next Leon – Noel spelled backwards – who would come with a gun by Christmas? You provided an answer directly, Mister Ganelon, when you showed up at the White House dressed as Paladin on December 23rd 1901, waving your Colt 45 and demanding to see President Roosevelt in person. You were immediately arrested and taken to Auburn State Prison in New York where Leon Czolgosz had been executed by electrocution two months earlier. Fortunately, Mister Ganelon – or should I say, Gan-Leon - - you did not suffer the same fate. Based on your history of well-meaning fiascos, the judge believed your attorney’s explanation: that you intended to protect the new President, not kill him. You were then sent back to California the same way you came -- via the new Transcontinental Railroad. You spent the next nine months at Agnews and, since 1902, you have been in and out of this institution due to your continued delusionary behavior. As a footnote, I present Exhibit F1 and F2. Exhibit F1 is a note you left for your family saying you were going to Washington D.C. train “on a job.” The note is signed “Paladin.” Exhibit F2 is a telegram from the federal marshal at Fort Mason to his supervisor in Washington D.C. It says, “Our baby in danger. Ganelon threatens. ” Baby was apparently the government codename for Theodore Roosevelt since he was the youngest President in our nation’s history.

(Once again Paladin attempts to talk through his gag unsuccessfully.)

Nurse: He says, “Lies . . . all lies.” 87

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Doctor: Three assassinated Presidents, three irrational interventions. Could it be, Mister Ganelon, that you somehow see in the Father of our country the man who was your own father -- the man you accidentally murdered . . . ?

(Paladin in near frenzy cries out hysterically)

Doctor: Still not convinced, eh? Perhaps Exhibit G will finally change your mind – for the better. It’s a letter from your wife Gwyn dated yesterday, April 17th, 1906. In it she writes: “Dear Jack, Hugh, or Paladin – I love you – whoever you are. Please listen to the doctor. Get well and come home soon. I miss you and need your arms – not your sidearms -- by my side. You will always be my knight in shining armor. With amour that shines forever. Your Lady-In-Waiting. Gwyn.” She sounds more like a damsel-in-distress watching her paladin battle the dragon of madness. What say you, Ganelon? Nothing? (Paladin is silent and still) Well, that’s a change . . . Oh, one more thing. There’s a sketch with your wife’s letter. We’ll call it Exhibit H – for horse. (unfolds paper) It’s a stallion with a rope around its neck, rearing up over a cowboy. (shows drawing to Paladin) You’re awfully quiet, Mister Ganelon. Has something of reality at last seeped into your brain?

Nurse (touching Paladin’s shoulder, listening close): He’s shaking, Doctor.

(Paladin is visibly shaking, but so is the spotlight and other stage lights. A rumbling noise followed by a loud clicking sound. The clock on the desk shows ten minutes after five.)

Doctor: It’s not just him. It’s everything . . . an earthquake . . .

(With the swiftness of a professional gunman, Paladin has slipped out of the rope on his right arm, pulled down his gag, and drawn a shiny derringer from somewhere in his shirt. Paladin’s lower jaw is disfigured with a large red scar. The Doctor gasps and pulls the Nurse away.)

Nurse: What’s happening?

Doctor: His hand is loose. The gag is off. And he’s got a gun.

Nurse (moving behind Doctor): Oh!

Doctor (to Paladin): Can I assume it isn’t loaded?

Paladin (stuttering): You c . . . can. B . . . but I w . . . . wouldn’t if I w . . . were you.

Doctor: What do you want, Mister Ganelon?

Paladin: F . . . first, c . . . call me M . . . mister P . . . P . . . Paladin.

Doctor: Of course . . . Mister Paladin. Now, why don’t you put down that gun . . .

Paladin: N . . . no! Y . . . you p . . . put d . . . down that f . . . file.

Doctor: Yes. I’m putting the file down. (places Paladin’s file on desk)

Paladin: M . . . my . . . . b . . . book.

Nurse: He wants you to pick up his book.

Doctor: Yes, Nurse, I know. (to Paladin) I’m picking up your book. Now will you . . .

Paladin: R . . . read!

Nurse: He wants you to . . .

Doctor: I know, Nurse. (reads book cover) “The True Adventures of Paladin.”

Paladin: T . . . true . . . t . . . true!

Doctor: True stories you made up. (a click as Paladin cocks gun) Stories you think are true. Maybe it’s because of the accident you had in the army. The explosion probably damaged your brain. It’s why you stutter. Or maybe it was your traumatic childhood and the tragic death of your father. Who knows? The point is: you need to try to hang on to whatever shred of reality you can – before it’s too late. Listen to me. That’s what your wife wants. I’m trying to bring you back to her . . .

Paladin (uncocking gun): Y . . . you’re R . . . . B.

Doctor: Yes, those are my initials -- for Richard Bloom. But I’m not just a voice in your head. And this is Nurse Joan Dark. We’re both real and ready to help you find your way back to sanity.

Paladin: J . . . Joan of Ar . . . Arc.

Doctor: No. Not a medieval knight. A real person, living now, in 1906.

Paladin: N . . . names. R . . . B . . . n . . . names.

Doctor: R.B. doesn’t exist. R.B. is just a figment of your imagination.

Paladin (shouting): N . . . No! JOAN OF ARC (A loud clicking sound and then all hell breaks loose. Spotlights shake violently. A loud rumbling sound becomes a roar. The clock and calendar fall from the desk. Plaster dust and smoke fill the air. The Doctor and Nurse struggle to stand. The gun drops from Paladin’s hand as he topples over still tied to his wheelchair, landing on his side facing the audience.)

Doctor (shouting, dropping Paladin’s book): It’s a big one. We’ve got to get out of here.

Nurse (shouting back): What about him? 89

Doctor (grabbing Nurse as they exit stage left): There’s nothing we can do. He’s in God’s hands now . . .

(A spotlight intensifies over Paladin who is lying on the floor in the fetal position on his right side facing out. He seems to be in a womb of soft light and silence while the rest of the world is collapsing all around. Only a clicking sound is heard in-between Paladin’s comments.)

Paladin (without stuttering): In God’s hands, yes. But not in yours, R.B. You are not the Master of Marionettes -- and I am not a stuttering puppet tied to your fingers. I have a voice; I shall not be gagged. And I will cut off these strings of your tyranny if it takes me an eternity. Lord Byron said it best: “Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.” (clicking sound) Why do I hate you? I would laugh but the pain in my cracked ribs is even now too excruciating. I asked for a natural disaster to coincide with my last breath -- for an eclipse. Instead, you give me an earthquake. Oh, yes, it was a spectacular natural disaster: the great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. I suppose for this, you think, I should be grateful? At the same time, you rob me of a dignified death by denying me the memory of a respectable life. Why do you torture me so? Isn’t it enough I told the truth? Can’t you let me die a hero -- at least in my own mind. John Milton said that “The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.” I spent the better part of my days creating a paradise for myself – inside myself. Yet, you, with your two hands, like a pair of flaming seraphim, bar my entry into Eden. (clicking sound is heard) Stop that. Your incessant pounding destroys the tranquility of my Nirvana. In a mad world, only the crazy man is sane. Let me, then, revel in irrationality and find contentment in absurdity. (clicking sound grows louder) What’s that, you say? It’s only a game. A chess game, I suppose, and this, of course, is checkmate. Well, I’m not the king. But you are – the King of Consciousness. I’m only a lowly knight – very lowly at this point. But I can still leap unpredictably over the rook of reason, the bishop of religion, and the pawns of corporal organs to take your Queen of Hearts. For the Knight of Imagination can jump in any direction – not limited is he by the gridlines of tradition. And so it is that, sometime – without warning, in the middle of the night, I shall find you in a corner and, with one surprising move, take your piece and end this game for good. Even in my current condition, I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back.

(A second spotlight appears over the silver derringer and Paladin’s book on the floor to his right near the desk. Paladin struggles to get his book and the gun, but his right arm is pinned beneath his body and the left is still tied to the chair.)

Paladin (gasping as he attempts to move the chair): Of course, a second hand would be helpful to reach the knowledge and power I need to defeat you.

(Paladin, struggling to free his left arm, suddenly stops and looks out to the audience.)

Paladin: You. I see you in the doorway. Who are you? And what are you doing here? Don’t just stand there staring at me. Can’t you see I need a hand? That’s it. Come into the light so I can get a good look at you. Why, it’s you. My God, it is. I remember now. We first met at the Carlton many years ago – 25, I think. And then at the Yacht Club in what, about ’96 or so. But you never were a client of mine. I’ve retired from that business. It’s all pro bono now. So what are you doing here? Oh, I shouldn’t ask. I should know better. It’s hard to stay sane in a world where everything is falling apart. The assassinations alone . . . But you’re not tied up. You’re free. So come here and help me get my gun and my book. You can keep my memoirs if you promise to read them and pass it on. The gun is all I need. What? Are you afraid? You needn’t be – unless you’ve done something. You do look guilty. It doesn’t matter. Nobody believes in Paladin anymore. The castle has been replaced by the asylum. The Age of Chivalry is dead. But I’m not, yet. And I don’t need your help.

(With a grimace, Paladin pops his left hand free of his constraint. He squirms and slides the chair toward his book and gun.) 90

Paladin(in time to his movements): Swim, swim, swim . . . to the light, at the edge, of the forest . . . the black forest, the forest primeval. From the birth . . . of conception . . . to the deception . . . of death . . . my legacy . . . of justice . . . is now within . . . reach . . . yes! (Paladin arrives near the second spotlight within reach of the book and gun.)

Paladin (looking at the audience again): Where did you go? I know you’re still there – in the shadows. I won’t shoot you. I just need some information. I need to know what R.B. plans to do next. I’m afraid he intends to create another scene. I wouldn’t be surprised if he means to drop me into Vesuvius and bury me in oblivion like some pathetic Pompeian. I can’t allow that. One more scene and I’ll be seen no more. You have to stop him. What do you mean you can’t? Or you won’t? Are you . . . his spy?

(A white eyeball appears on the backscreen over Paladin’s right shoulder. Many in the audience will recognize immediately as a version of the CBS television logo.)

Paladin: What’s this, the moon? Or is it Wadjet? The eye of Horus? Ra, the sun-god? That would be a good sign. But no. It’s R.B.’s eye. (clicking sound is heard) Yes. He’s close. And he’s watching us. (eyeball enlarges) He’s calling me out. (to audience) You too. We’ve got to get out of here.

(Paladin grabs the book and gun and begins sliding on his side toward the front of the stage as fast as possible. Clicking grows louder and eyeball larger as he moves.)

Paladin: I will swim . . . swim to the library door . . . and leave my book . . . on the top shelf . . . for all see. For I am flesh-made-word . . . and against your hands . . . I defend my spirit.

(Rumbling sound returns. The spotlight shakes as the earthquake returns with great intensity. The projected eyeball grows larger and larger until it literally fills the entire backscreen.)

Paladin (to audience): Ganelon’s in danger. R.B. threatens. (rumbling intensifies, dust fills the air) I’ll hold him off. Go, save yourself. Tell Gwyn I love her.

(Silence except for clicking sound. Raising the derringer over his head, Paladin turns toward the eyeball and fires his gun at its center. A flash and the stage goes completely dark. The clicking stops. Silence for a moment. Then a shuffling sound is heard.)

R.B. (speaking to intercom in the dark): Gwen. Gwen, are you there?

Gwen (on intercom): Yes, Mister Boone.

R.B.: The damndest thing just happened. I was typing and all of sudden the lamp just exploded. Could you bring me a new bulb? You’ll probably need a flashlight.

Gwen: Certainly, Richard.

R.B.: Uh, Gwen. Gwen . . . ? 91

(A light appears from the shadows of stage right as a figure enters into the dark with a flashlight. A moment or two passes until a light bulb goes on in a lamp in the center right of the backscreen. Then the entire stage lights up showing a desk at a forty-five degree angle towards the left front of the stage. On the desk is a an old Remington typewriter, a stack of papers, an antique Seth Thomas Clock, and an old single-page flip calendar showing the date December 7th, 1962. At the desk, in a chair with its back sideways to the audience, sits the profile of Richard Boone -- R.B. -- the actor who played Paladin on the CBS weekly television series “Have Gun Will Travel” from 1957 to 1963. Dressed in black, but with no cowboy hat and an open collar, R.B. looks exactly like the 42 year old Paladin at the beginning of Act I, with thick dark curly hair and a thin black mustache. At this moment, he is staring at a young woman standing next to a “modern” floor lamp at the back center right of the stage. The woman is Gwen, R.B.’s secretary, dressed in appropriate office attire. With one hand on the shaft of the floor lamp, Gwen is centered in front of a large poster depicting the CBS Eye logo which seems to make her look somewhat like a saint in a hagiograph. On the backscreen are also posters of Richard Boone as Paladin with his gun drawn, a blow-up of the “Have Gun – Will Travel” business card, and various Western Art paintings, including one of a stallion rearing up with a rope around its neck. On the right front of the stage, even with the desk, is a wooden coat rack with hooks holding Paladin’s black cowboy hat and holster with his Colt pistol. The leather gun pouch is emblazoned with Paladin’s trademark – a knight chess piece – the profile of a silver horse head.)

R.B.: Thanks, Gwen.

Gwen: You’re welcome, Richard. (she turns to leave)

R.B.: Uh, Gwen. (she stops, returns to lamp) I thought we agreed to keep our friendship formal. You know the walls have ears. And when you’re answering the phone . . .

Gwen (dejectedly): Sorry, Mister Boone. I forgot . . .

R.B.(apologetically): Well, it’s OK, I guess, when we’re . . . alone.

Gwen: Yes . . . Richard. (pause)

R.B. (changing tone, laughing, relieving tension): You should see yourself, Gwen. In the middle of that poster, you look exactly like the Columbia Pictures Lady of Liberty. All you need is a torch instead of that awful lamp.

Gwen (laughing as well): Oh, Mister Boone . . . er, Richard. Where do you come up with such ideas?

R.B.: It’s the blessing and the curse of an over-active imagination.

Gwen (approaching R.B.’s desk): Why a curse?

R.B. (sighing): Because it can run away with you like an unbridled horse.

Gwen: Oh, but you’re Paladin. Surely you can handle a wild stallion.

R.B.: Ah, you’ve hit on the very problem. 92

Gwen: How’s that?

R.B.: You see me as a cowboy hero, when all I am is an actor in a television series.

Gwen: You’re too modest, Richard. You’re the star.

R.B.: I just do what I’m told. The writers are the real stars.

Gwen (pointing to stack of papers on desk): Is that why you’ve been writing that screenplay?

R.B.: It’s not for fame or fortune, if that’s what you mean. It’s challenging and satisfying.

Gwen: How . . . satisfying?

R.B.: You would know, I suppose. When you finish a painting like that horse. (pointing to painting of stallion on backscreen wall.)

Gwen: Yes, that was fun. But there still are flaws . . .

R.B.: Now you’re being too modest.

Gwen: I’m no Rembrandt.

R.B.: And you don’t have to be. Except it’s easier to revise and change course with a pen or typewriter than with a brush and palette. I tried painting for awhile, but I made too many mistakes.

Gwen: “Mistakes” are part of the joy of it. You never know when a wrong turn will bring you to Shangri-La.

R.B.: Well put. But you’ve got real talent. Good art is like jazz. Wrong notes create new melodies and rhythms, unique expressions of the moment. Of course, some flights of fancy can take you to unsettling sites – dark caves. Shadows and danger. Another reason why I write. To satisfy my curiosity. ?????????????????????? Gwen: About Paladin? ?????????????????????? ?????????????????????? R.B.: Yes. I’ve been playing that role for over five years now, and I’m still not sure who he is. ?????????????????????? He has no real name. His family life is unknown. His background is mysterious. ?????????????????????? ?????????????????????? Gwen: So what have you learned? ?????????????????????? ?????????????????????? R.B.: Only that, if ever there was a man named Paladin, he’d have problems like everybody else. ?????????????????????? ?????????????????????? Gwen: Not a hero then? ?????????????????????? ?????????????????????? R.B.: A hero to the same extent we’re all heroes just for getting through life without going completely??????????? mad. 93

Gwen: From what I’ve read, it seems he did.

R.B: Imagination, to some, can seem like madness. “The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact.” So says Theseus in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Gwen: But living imaginatively can keep you from going mad too. What with all the trivial nonsense that surrounds us. For me, life without art -- without imagination – would be soul-less, joy-less. Being creative makes me happy or at least contented for a time.

R.B.: Yes, you’re right. The real point of all art is partaking in the joy of creation. In this the artist is closest to God. And even God’s not perfect. Just look at all the flaws in creation. No one would deny the world’s beauty though. The painter, the sculptor, the writer, the composer -- every true artist creates first to please himself, or herself. Fame, fortune, even an audience is secondary – icing on the cake. Even the saying “Ars Artis Gratia” doesn’t get it. Art for art’s sake. What does that mean unless there’s some pleasure in it for the artist? Calling something a work of art doesn’t get it either. When you’re really creative, it’s not work at all. It’s closer to playing. And at some point, you’re not even active. You’re passive -- watching your hand, your mind act on its own. You become the spectator of some wonderfully mysterious process.

Gwen: That’s how I feel when I’m painting. Especially when it’s something new and exciting.

R.B.: I feel that way sometimes when I’m playing Paladin. Sometimes. If a script is really good and breathes. If it’s not animated, but half-dead, than I feel the same and it’s just a job. But writing – that’s always alive to me with possibilities. I know if I were true to my ideals as an artist I wouldn’t ask this . . . but I’m curious: You’ve been reading my text for weeks now . . .

Gwen: Proofreading.

R.B.: Yes, but surely you must have an opinion about what you’ve “proofed.”

Gwen: Now you’re putting me on the spot. Just remember what you said about art for the artist’s sake.

R.B.: OK. You’re right. It still would be nice to know what someone else thought. Someone who’s opinion I value.

Gwen: What I think. I found it, well . . . different.

R.B. (clutching his chest): Different? That’s it. You “damn me with faint praise” to quote Alexander Pope.

Gwen: Oh, now, I’ve insulted you. I didn’t mean . . . I thought it was interesting . . .

R.B.: Ouch!

Gwen: But it’s not the Paladin I know, the one I watch every week on CBS.

ALEXANDER POPE R.B.: Of course not. I wanted to get in back of his mask, to discover the real man behind Paladin’s persona as a renaissance man and polyglot gunfighter for hire.

Gwen: This is a fictional character we’re talking about, isn’t it?

R.B. (laughing): Yes. Though at times he seems more real than I am.

Gwen: Now you’re scaring me, Mister Paladin . . . er, Mister Boone . . . er, Richard. PALADIN R. BOONE R.B.: You see how easy it is to confuse reality with fantasy. There’s a fine line between the imaginative life and an imaginary one.

Gwen: Yes. But not so fine you don’t know the difference between 1862 and 1962.

R.B.: One hundred years is nothing in the theater of the imagination. I’ve been playing the role of Paladin so long, I sometimes feel I’m actually living at the Carlton Hotel in nineteenth century San Francisco.

Gwen: But you realize you’re Richard Boone, the actor.

R.B.: When you say someone’s an actor, you’re saying that what they do and what they say is not real.

Gwen: You know what I mean.

R.B.: I do. But, at the same time, you really don’t know the real me as much as I don’t know the real you.

Gwen: But . . . Richard . . . We’re more than just friends.

R.B.: We are friends . . . now. We had, er, a . . . dalliance.

Gwen: A dalliance? Is that what you call it? I thought it was a love affair.

R.B.: It wasn’t even a dalliance. It was a near-dalliance. Nothing really happened.

Gwen: Nothing? But you said you loved me.

R.B.: Well, yes, I did. I still do. Like a cavalier loves his lady. But we’re both married -- to someone else. And I respect my Claire too much and your Art.

Gwen: Art? My painting? What does that have to do with us?

R.B.: Your husband. Art Calibre’s a decent guy and a great camera man. I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt him.

Gwen: But if you really love me . . .

R.B.: I do. But only as your paladin – a knight in shining armor who can only admire you from a distance.

Gwen: And what about the shot you promised me?

R.B.: The shot?

Gwen (posing): At being an actress. Getting a part in one of your episodes.

R.B. (distracted, looking at typewriter): Yeah, sure. Like I promised. I put in a word for you . . .

Gwen: You did?!

R.B. (pauses): Of course. (Just then the floor lamp buzzes and blinks as does the overhead spotlights.) What the . . . ?

Gwen: Who did you talk to?

R.B.: Why . . . Sam. (Lights begin to blink again, clicking sound is heard)

Gwen: Sam Rolfe, the producer? SAM ROLFE R.B.: Yes, of course. (loud buzzing sound) But I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high. You know how this business is . . . it takes time . . . (lights flash violently, clicking) Stop it! Stop it, I say!

Gwen: Who are you talking to?

R.B.: No one. Nobody. We need to get that damn light fixed.

Gwen (turning away quickly): I’ll have Charlie check it out.

R.B.: Charlie?

Gwen (coldly, exiting): The maintenance man.

R.B. (calming down): Yes. Please.

(R.B. turns to desk and begins to type. The floor lamp begins flashing again. Irritated, R.B. stands up and approaches the backscreen. He stares at the light which seems to be going off and on in a pattern of long and short flashes.)

R.B.: What’s this?

(Then the typewriter on his desk begins to type by itself. R.B. turns quickly towards his desk and, stunned, freezes in place for a moment.)

R.B. (shouting): Gwen! Gwen! 96

(The light stops flashing and the typewriter stops typing. The door opens at stage right and Gwen re-enters.)

Gwen: Yes, Mister Boone.

R.B. (returning to his desk): Is that maintenance man coming?

Gwen: Patience, please. I haven’t been able to get a hold of him yet.

R.B.: Well . . . keep trying. (Gwen starts to leave) And Gwen . . .

Gwen: Yes, Mister Boone.

R.B.: Have you seen my dictionary?

Gwen (as she exits): Bottom right drawer.

R.B.: Thanks.

(R.B. reaches down to his right and pulls out of large black book. He opens it, finds the reference he’s looking for, and begins to read aloud. In the meantime, a man has stealthily entered the room from the right. He is wearing a Santa mask and carrying a small Christmas tree. As R.B. speaks, he disconnects the lamp, plugs in the Christmas tree and it lights up. The Santa man then sneaks up behind R.B. as he reads.)

R.B: Morse Code. I thought that was something that came out of World War II. Oh, but here it says it was invented by Alfred Vail for Samuel Morse in 1838. So it was used on the original telegraph system. That means he would know it. (rolling up paper on typewriter) Then these dots and dashes might mean something. Dot, dash, dot, dot – L – dot, dot – I – dot, dash – A – dot, dash, dot – R. Liar? Liar!

(Just then, the man in the Santa mask, standing over R. B.’s shoulder shouts “Boo!” In a swift smooth move, as befits Paladin, R.B. turns, pulls out a silver derringer, and shoots the masked Santa who grabs his chest, staggers backwards, and falls on his back in a heap.)

Gwen (entering, screams): You’ve killed Santa Claus!

R.B. (holding up the gun): Dammit, Gwen. It’s just a blank.

Gwen(standing over Santa): But he looks dead.

R.B. (examining the body): He’s breathing.

Gwen: Are you sure?

R.B.: I was a doctor for two years.

R. BOONE IN “MEDIC” Gwen: That was on Medic, a television show, and you were acting.

R.B.: Yes, but I learned a lot.

(R.B. pulls the Santa man up into a sitting position facing audience. Begins to remove mask.)

R.B.: Now let’s just see: Who . . . are . . . you . . . ? WILLIAM CONRAD

(The mask is removed revealing a stocky man with a mustache; he’s panting. It’s William Conrad, the famous actor/director.)

W. C.: Dammit, Boone. I bring you a Christmas tree and you shoot me. You could’ve killed me.

R.B.: If I wanted to kill you, Bill, I would’ve used a real bullet. You should’ve known better: Never sneak up on Paladin.

W.C.: You’re not Paladin. You’re Richard Boone, the actor and director.

R.B.: And you’re not Santa Claus. You’re William Conrad, the actor and director.

W.C.: So neither of us is who he says he is. That’s show business.

R.B. Yes. That’s it. We’re all in show business.

Gwen: Will you be needing me any more, Mister Boone? To torture an elf or something?

R. B.: That’ll be all, Gwen. Except for the maintenance man.

Gwen: Charlie. Yes . . . (exits)

R.B. (to W.C.): Do you have time? Can you sit and talk a minute? (pulls out a chair from the hidden side of the desk)

W.C.: Well . . .

R.B (pulling out a bottle from a desk drawer): Over a glass of whiskey. I owe you that at least.

W.C.(smiling): Sure. Why not. It’s Pearl Harbor Day. A good day to get bombed.

R.B.: Bad joke, Bill.

W.C.: I know. But we’re both vets of WW2. I was a fighter pilot and you flew a torpedo plane, didn’t you? A couple of lucky ones were we who cheated death. I think that gives us the right to laugh a little in the face of the Grim Reaper.

R.B. (raising his glass): Fair enough. What are you laughing at?

W.C.: A silly thought. (raising glass again) To pilots. To two pilots. To those on the air and to shows that never get off the ground. (drinks) You played Pontius Pilate in “The Robe” didn’t you? When was that?

R.B.: Back in ’53. I got to tell Richard Burton to crucify Christ. God must’ve punished me for that role. Never worked for Fox again.

W.C.: Yeh. But right after that you got into television and starred in “Medic.”

R.B.: Jack Webb helped me. Now there’s a real gentleman and a class act. (raising his glass) To Jack.

W.C.: To “Just-the-facts-Ma’m” Jack . . .

(They toast and drink. Lights on Christmas tree at backscreen begins to twinkle.)

W.C. (noticing tree lights): Damn, R.B. This must be the best bourbon I’ve ever had. Look at the way it’s making those lights twinkle on the tree. Where’d you get this?

R.B. (uncomfortably looking at lights): It comes from Bourbon County Kentucky – once home of my great grand-uncle Daniel Boone.

W.C.: Damn, that’s right. You’ve got the blood of America’s first western hero in your veins. No wonder you’ve lasted over five years as Paladin.

R.B.: Yeah. Or maybe there’s something else – something about the show our audience likes.

W.C.: The violence. The barroom brawls. The gunplay.

R.B.: Yeah. That too. But I was thinking of the stories.

W.C.: Oh, yes. Those tall tales of the Old West. (holding up his glass for a refill) To the writers. Where would we be without them?

R.B.: And that’s what I want to talk to you about . . . I think the well’s gone dry.

W.C.: What? You don’t like them anymore.

R.B.: Face it, Bill. We’re running out of ideas.

W.C.: Well, after five years . . . it’s tough to come up with great scripts week after week. Thirty-nine episodes a year. We barely get the summer off. Besides, most viewers just want to see Richard Boone gun down the bad guys in a shootout.

R.B.: There are some viewers – many, I hope – who appreciate the fact that Paladin is an educated and cultured man. A gunfighter with brains. Not only that, he quotes the classics – Cicero, Shakespeare, Samuel Johnson, among many – to make his friends and enemies understand how his principles are based on thought-provoking words of wisdom. And “Have 99

Gun – Will Travel” is about chivalry, loyalty, integrity, justice. And – for the most part, I think -- our viewers get it. Makes them think how much the modern world of 1962 owes to the great minds of the past. It puts the present in perspective. But lately . . .

W.C.: You think Paladin’s lost his edge.

R.B.: His uniqueness, yes. He’s been going through the motions.

W.C.: That’s happening to a lot of the cowboy shows. I think the “Golden Age of the Western Hero” on television is on its last roundup.

R.B.: You’ve heard something.

W.C.: Only that the network is looking at different kinds of programs: murder mysteries, detective stories, spy dramas, and science fiction. It’s only a matter of time . . .

R.B.: So if we’re going to continue, we’ve got to do something different.

W.C.: Maybe. What do you have in mind?

R.B (reaching down into desk drawer): Just this. (pulls out a sheaf of paper)

W.C.: My god, Dick. An actor, a director, and now a writer too. You are a super hero.

R.B.: Just something I’ve been toying with. I wanted to be a writer once. And now I am.

W.C.: How many episodes you’ve got there? Four or five . . .

R.B.: Just one.

W.C. (laughing): What? You know we’ve only got twenty-five minutes to fill each week.

R.B.: I was thinking this could be a series within the series. Or a special TV movie.

W.C.: What’s it about?

R.B.: I was going to say about 100 pages, but I don’t want you to laugh.

W.C.: Unless it’s a comedy.

R.B.: It’s not. But it’s not a tragedy either. Maybe I should call it a “pensedy” or a “mensedy.”

W.C.: Now you’re losing me. Or this bourbon’s going to my head. 100

R.B.: What I mean by “pensedy,” as in pensive, is a play of ideas. And “mensedy,” as in mental, is a tale of the mind. I tried to write a Paladin story that would make people think.

W.C.: “Have Gun” already does that.

R.B.: I mean, really think. About who we are. About what this world is. Shakespeare called life a play and we mere actors on its stage. Well, that’s what I wanted to get into. A whole series of “what-ifs” intrigued me. Like: What if Paladin was really just a writer who made up his whole life-story to make himself a hero? Or: What if he were really a madman like Don Quixote who saw windmills as dragons and chamber maids as princesses? Or: What if the whole character of Paladin was a fiction made up by another writer a hundred years later? And: what if the two of them – the character and the writer – were somehow connected and could somehow communicate with each other?

W.C.: Whoa, big fella. You’re leading me into a box canyon with these heavy thoughts.

R.B.: I would lead you out of the box we’re all in. The box of identity that makes us assume we know who we are and what life is all about.

W.C.: I don’t think this is something Paladin worries about.

R.B: Of course not, because Paladin’s not real.

(The Christmas lights begin to flicker and a clicking sound is heard.)

W.C.: Damn. What’s going on?

R.B. (nervously): It’s all right. Maintenance will take care of it.

W.C.: But I could swear your typewriter was . . .

R.B.: And I suppose you believe in Santa Claus too.

W.C.: Well. In his spirit anyway.

R.B.: Yes, of course. The spirit of Christmas and of and peace, love, and goodwill. And imagination. We need our fictional characters more than they need us. (a tense pause) Speaking of Christmas, that episode we just finished was brilliant.

W.C.: You mean, the “Strangers” one. Yeah, Sarno nailed it. A nice change of pace for the holiday season.

R.B.: A Christmas pageant it was. Without bloodshed and in Bethlehem Texas no less. Do you remember the Christmas episode in the first season – the one with that holster hang-up sequence?

W.C.: Oh, you mean “The Hanging Cross” episode that was aired in ’57.

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R.B.: One of a handful where we actually tried to deliver a message.

W.C.: A message is OK as long as it doesn’t threaten the “message from our sponsors.”

R.B.: Oh, I know what you mean. When I was on “Medic,” we got dropped for showing a Caesarean birth procedure. But before that we had some great episodes. There was one called “Flash of Darkness” which showed what it would be like in an LA hospital after an H-bomb hit the city. That got everyone’s attention and should’ve got us an Emmy.

W.C.: “Have Gun” had that episode about nitroglycerine.

R.B.: Right. The one with Alfred Nobel that aired last April. And the message about “mutually assured destruction” was none too subtle either. After what nearly happened in October with Cuba, a not untimely one as well. And we got good reviews.

W.C.: A little preachiness is all right. But go too far too often and you’ve got the critics screaming about Paladin being a “poetry-spouting intellectual” and our show as being “self-consciously arty.” They want westerns to be “hard-boiled” and “strictly business.” Comedies should be light escapist fare and dramas engaging without being didactic.

R.B.: I agree that we’re in the entertainment business. But why not put a little spinach on the plate next to the mash potatoes and gravy.

W.C.: A few “greens” are OK as long as they don’t diminish the “green” of the bottom line.

R.B.: To carry the analogy further: If you’ve got them hooked on your carrot, a little prodding with a stick can’t hurt.

W.C.: Poke the donkey too hard and he runs for the hills with our sponsors in hot pursuit. The only safe path for a television screenplay is the middle ground between boredom and agitation.

R.B.: That’s why TV is called a “medium.” But why can’t it be a channel to what’s “relevant,” as the kids say today?

W.C.: Better safe than sorry.

R.B.: I don’t see that as something Paladin would say—or do. He’s always taking chances. That’s what makes him a superhero.

W.C.: He isn’t an actor or a director.

R.B.: Of his own life he is. He acts and directs the part of Paladin. And I want to show how that came to be.

W.C.: We already did that in “Genesis.”

R.B.: That was a great episode – one of the best we’ve done. But it only hinted at Paladin’s origins. At least it was something to chew on. Sam wrote that, didn’t he? 102

W.C.: Rolfe’s amazing. His ideas are endless. He creates the series with Meadow. Then he continues to write and produce it. Just glad he doesn’t act or direct or he’d have our jobs next.

R.B.: Sam tried to direct an episode last year and it was disaster. I thought I was going to have to shoot him to shut him up. He left the set in a huff and I figured he’d try to get me fired.

W.C.: No chance of that. You’re the star of the show. A supercowboy. And in “Genesis” you played dual roles of Smoke and his protégé Paladin. R. BOONE AS “SMOKE” R.B.: I recall you were the outlaw Norge and you also directed the episode. So I guess you played two bad guys on the same day.

W.C.: Yeah. Directors are villains, aren’t they? Maybe Paladin could get a thousand dollars to bring one in for a trial and a public hanging. A lot of actors would chip in for the bounty.

R.B.: Of course, I’d have to contribute to my own hanging since I’ve directed a number of “Have Gun” episodes.

W.C.: And got paid for talking to yourself.

R.B (laughing): You’re right. But directors are important. They can make or break a performance. Good directors help actors interpret their roles and make characters come alive. What I was wondering about, as I was writing, was what it would be like if a director could communicate directly with a character – a fictional person, of course – to try and get that character to be honest about his real feelings and motivations.

W.C.: And this character, I suppose, is Paladin. And the director is you.

R.B.: Exactly.

W.C.: Sounds like the plot for a Pirandello play. LUIGI PIRANDELLO R.B.: “Six Characters In Search Of An Author.” But not the same. Pirandello would understand what I’m trying to do though. He was most interested in masks of the ego and human identity.

W.C.: Weren’t Pirandello’s plays performed in what was called the “Theater of the Absurd”? Doesn’t sound like something the network execs would air in prime time. Perhaps a “Playhouse 90” or “Studio One” program on a Sunday afternoon.

R.B.: Why not a “Have Gun” episode on a Saturday night?

W.C.: Too sophisticated.

R.B.: But Paladin himself is sophisticated. A polyglot, a renaissance man in the Old West. A non-conformist.

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W.C.: What about our audience? They’re not college graduates. You’d be straining the suspension of disbelief to the breaking point.

R.B.: We’d be “suspending” the suspension of disbelief. Turning it on its head. Making our audience think about what’s real and what’s not.

W.C.: You’d be calling Paladin a fraud. APOLLO R.B.: We’d be showing him for what he is: a human being -- not an Olympian god who somehow manages to dodge a fatal bullet week after week for five years.

W.C.: People need their gods. But they see Paladin more as a god-man. He gets beat up, he bleeds, he staggers, he falls, he pulls himself up again. And he somehow always brings the bad guy to justice in the end. He’s a metaphor for America.

R.B.: That’s actually quite good, Bill.

W.C.: Yeah. But you don’t have to give a sermon on boot hill to get the point across. It’s subtle and it sells.

R.B.: And it gets us through the next weeks ratings. It’s like a walk in baseball. But sometimes you’ve got to swing for the fences.

W.C.: If you try to be Roger Maris every time you get to bat, you’ll strike out more often than not.

R.B.: Sometimes I think I’d rather strike out than just stand around waiting for something to happen. Why can’t we create something worthwhile not just for next week or next month or even next year? How about creating something really significant, a grand slam in fact -- something profound -- for fifty years from now? Or even for a hundred or a thousand years in the future. Like the great writers did, and the philosophers, composers, and other artists of the past two millennia. Or even more recently, like the Founding Fathers of our country.

W.C.: Now you’re waving the flag at me.

R.B.: If it takes that to get your attention.

W.C.: You’ve got mine.

R.B.: Or the attention of our small-minded owners.

W.C.: Careful, top gun. Your desk may be bugged.

R.B. (pointing to CBS poster): Yeah, and that big eye may be watching us. If I were really Paladin, I’d just flip out my business card and the room would get very quiet.

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W.C.: But, according to your story, if I’m beginning to understand it, it’s all just a big bluff. Because the real Paladin is not the Paladin we see every week in the flickering window of the Magnavox magic box. The real Paladin is just like any one of the many poor schmuck writers who come in here everyday -- with manuscripts in hand and their hearts on their sleeves.

R.B.: Yes, but the real Paladin doesn’t just dream and grovel. He appears on the flickering screen of the magic box because his stories about himself are so exciting, interesting, and engaging.

W.C.: But that’s because the audience believes they’re true tales of the Old West.

R.B.: There’s no reason why the story behind the stories can’t be just as interesting. Did the “Wizard of Oz” end when Toto pulled the curtain open and revealed that the wizard was just a man pulling levers and blowing smoke? No. It only made the story more compelling. And even when Dorothy woke up and the whole story turned out to be just a dream. “There’s no place like home” was certainly a not-too-subtle message. The movie’s a classic in spite of – or maybe because of – its roots in the very real black-and-white world of tornadoes, evil people, and great depressions. I propose to do the same thing with Paladin. It all depends on whether the audience buys into a series of “What-If’s.”

W.C.: That’s how all stories start: What if there was once a kingdom called Camelot, a king named Arthur, and a queen named Guinevere . . .

R.B: Exactly. I mentioned some of these “what-if’s” before, so you’ll have to bear with me if I repeat myself.

W.C.: What if I were drunk and couldn’t remember?

R.B.: You’re priceless, Bill. The first what-if: What if Paladin was actually an actor-writer who made up the stories about his life as a western hero. Second: What if there was a director who tried to force the actor-writer Paladin to reveal his secret private life – the fact that he was just an actor-writer and not a hero -- to everyone around him. Third: What if that revelation was too painful for Paladin because he enjoyed being someone he really wasn’t. Fourth: What if the director wasn’t really a director at all but just another actor-writer who was making up the entire story about Paladin’s secret private life and his public life as a western hero. Fifth: What if . . .

W.C.: Stop it, Dick! My head’s already spinning from your booze. Your Muse is too much.

R.B.: I just wanted to say: what if even the “Genesis” episode was a story made up a writer. The fact is, of course, that it really is a story made up by a writer. And Paladin’s only a character in someone’s mind. Your mind and mine actually. Now if all that is true, then the more subtle question is “Who are you?” and “Who am I?” Are we not then just figments of our own imaginations? Or someone else’s. Isn’t self-identity just the result of our belief in who we think we are based on what other people tell us who we are – those directors in our lives – or on what we convince ourselves we are or aren’t, can or cannot be?

W.C.: You mean self-delusion?

R.B.: A little self-delusion can go a long way toward making a positive change in one’s life. You and I, Bill, are both testimonials to the power of productive self-delusion. We’re stars. Everyone wants to be a star in his own show. But few actually believe they are. 105

W.C.: There’s a fine line between self-delusion and an outright lie.

R.B.: It depends on who gets hurt, doesn’t it? I mean in self-delusion you only hurt yourself, if that. It’s private. With an outright lie you hurt others by your deception. It’s public. What’s interesting to me is the process of self-delusion. And the why and how of changing your identity.

W.C.: You mean like James Gatz in the “Great Gatsby.”

R.B.: Yes, exactly. It’s a process we all go through to a lesser or greater extent. We’re all actors. The word “person” comes from persona which means mask in Latin. And we all have directors: parents, friends, teachers, ministers and priests, doctors, scientists, government officials, journalists and reporters, advertisers – yes, our sponsors. Of course, the biggest Director of all is what people call God. But who is He and what does He want us to do? Every religion seems to have a different opinion about that. Then there’s conscience -- the small voice inside our heads and hearts that tells us what’s right and wrong. But how many people today can hear that quiet whisper of conscience drowned out by the megaphones of those shouting Cecil B. DeMilles all around us.

W.C.: Is that the booze or your Muse talking, Dick?

R.B.: Both, I’m afraid.

W.C.: So this is the theme of your new Paladin episode . . . (looking at papers) er, movie. An exploration of the human psyche through the soul of a nineteenth century civilized gunslinger.

R.B.: Yes, basically.

W.C.: And “what if” you can’t find an audience for your work?

R.B.: Then, with Pilate, I shall say “what I have written, I have written.”

W.C.: Back to being a pilot, are you? As long as you don’t mind being shot down for your words.

R.B.: Without an audience, there are no critics, except oneself. But I suppose I could shoot myself in the foot. GUNSMOKE W.C.: Then you wouldn’t be Paladin, wouldn’t you?

R.B.: No. But I’d be myself, whoever that is.

W.C.: Well, you’d have a limp and could be Chester Goode on “Gunsmoke.”

R.B.(pausing for a sip of his drink): You made a great Matt Dillon on the radio. DENNIS WEAVER AS JAMES ARNESS AS CHESTER GOODE MATT DILLON W.C.: Yeah, my voice was perfect for the Dodge City Sheriff. But then came television and reality. I imagined myself as six foot three and a dead-ringer for John Wayne. It didn’t work. James Arness got the part instead. Pissed me off. But that’s the limits of imagination, I guess – especially when appearances are everything these days. 106

R.B.: That’s why I like writing. The words only go so far. The reader has to fill in the gaps. Radio does that, but it’s a dying form of entertainment. TV is the new kid of the block that’s taking over.

W.C.: You’re lucky. You’ve got the voice and the looks for both.

R.B.: Yeah, I suppose. But I’ve been called the “ugliest actor in Hollywood.”

W.C.: You’re tall, dark, and rugged -- perfect for the small screen. Being short and stout makes me look like a beer stein in a cupboard full of champagne glasses.

R.B.: Forget what people think. What if you were a private detective who was famous for his brains and not his looks?

W.C.: That might be interesting. Anything to get out of this villain type-cast I seem to be stuck with. How about a leading-man role like Cary Grant gets?

R.B.: The “what-if’s” can only go so far. WILLIAM CONRAD CARY GRANT W.C.: I don’t know. You’d better be careful with your “what-if’s.” What if your character Paladin wanted to change you,

Richard Boone? What if he became your director and made you write or act in a way you didn’t want to? Your “channeling” could go both ways, you know.

(The lights flash; a clicking sound)

R.B. (nervously): Channeling? What do you mean by that?

W.C.: You know: Connecting with other souls – usually dead ones -- through Spiritualism. The real Paladin would’ve known about it. Very popular in the 1800’s. Of course, it was fraught with fraud. But then again, who knows? We’ve got our mediums in radio and television; they had theirs.

R.B.: You mean a medium as in a spirit guide.

W.C.: Someone who can bridge the divide between then and now. Between this world and the next.

R.B.: Through a séance of some kind.

W.C.: Or through trances and clairvoyance – clear seeing into the future or past.

R.B.: How do you know about this?

W.C.: I’ve read a bit. Had a few experiences.

R.B.: What kinds of experiences? “JACOB’S LADDER” BY WILLIAM BLAKE 107

W.C.: The usual paranormal stuff: lights, noises, voices, auras, apparitions, telekinesis . . .

R.B.: “Tele” what?

W.C.: Telekinesis. The ability to move objects over distance using just your mind.

R.B.: What about messages?

W.C.: You mean like writing.

R.B.: Or tapping in code, for example.

W.C.: Never experienced that. But anything is possible when there’s a connection. Are you saying you’ve had such an experience?

R.B. (nervously): Maybe . . . Not sure . . .

W.C.: Can I ask you a personal question, Dick?

R.B.: I guess. It depends . . . “THE ANCIENT OF DAYS” BY WILLIAM BLAKE

W.C.: Well, it’s not that personal. I just want to know why the hell you wrote this?

R.B.: I told you. I wanted to do something unique. Bring a different perspective to “Have Gun” and to the character of Paladin.

W.C.: I want to know why you wrote this . . . really. Not what you hoped to accomplish. Look. You’re not a writer. You’re an actor and a director. And damn good at both. You don’t need to do this.

R.B.: That’s true. But writing is a part of the creative process I haven’t experienced before. At least not in any depth.

W.C.: Just as long as you don’t get out of your depth. Writers, for the most part, lead lonely and thankless lives .

R.B.: Life itself, for the most part, is lonely and thankless. But writing, especially playwriting, is an antidote to loneliness. It’s basically a collaborative activity.

W.C.: Collaborative? How so?

R.B.: Think about it. The playwright creates, or gives life to, a character. The character, in turn, creates, or inspires, an actor. Then the actor, by breathing life into a character, creates an audience. Finally, the audience creates, or recreates, the writer.

W.C.: What happens if a play is written in the forest and no one hears it? Does it really matter?

R.B.: It doesn’t matter if no one else hears or reads it because the writer himself, 108

or herself, is the first and only audience that really matters.

W.C.: That’s rather solipsistic.

R.B.: I assume that means self-centered.

W.C.: Yes. What good is the written word if it’s not published or at least disseminated.

R.B.: No one would say that about the oral word, so why the written. If I sing in the shower, am I wasting my breath because no one hears me. The very act of self-expression is pleasurable. Society should encourage and not discourage the amateur artist. The word amateur comes from the Latin word amator which means lover, a lover of the arts. Nowadays it has a pejorative meaning. A dabbler.

W.C.: Or a dilettante.

R.B.: I’ve adopted the original and pure meaning of amateur. I’m an amator of creative writing in the best sense of the word. I used to write. Mainly just for myself. And I enjoyed it. In a way, with this play, I feel I’m returning to the roots of my acting career.

W.C.: But that was a long time ago. Why now? Why put yourself out there for people to take shots at you. You’re riding high. Why not take your contract to the trail’s end and see what else is out there for you?

R.B.: Why does anyone write? Call it a creative impulse.

W.C.: Is it an impulse or a com-pulse?

R.B.: What do you mean?

W.C.: Do you feel compelled by something – or someone – to do this?

R.B.: Of course not.

W.C.: Are you sure? Most writers feel compulsive to a certain extent. Compelled if not by the desire for fame and fortune, then by an idea, a story, their characters. There’s channeling involved. Only it’s more like reverse channeling.

R.B.: What the hell are you talking about?

W.C.: Well, you were saying “what-if” you were directing Paladin to do and say things he didn’t want to do and say.

R.B.: I never said I was the director.

W.C.: It was implied. The point I’m trying to make is that you be aware that your channeling can boomerang. What you’re trying to control could end up controlling you.

R.B.: Paladin is a fictional character. 109

W.C.: Many authors have described how their characters have acted on their own, done or said things in the course of a story that the writer never anticipated. Characters that have even demanded changes in plot or dialog consistent with their own inner motivations, not the intentions of the novelist or playwright.

R.B.: But it’s all inside the head of the writer.

W.C.: Exactly. As long as you believe that. What I fear for you is what happens to some creative people when they allow their imaginations to run amok. Look what happened to Hemingway last year. ERNEST HEMMINGWAY

R.B.: Papa Hemingway had severe psychological problems probably due to alcoholism and head injuries, among other things -- like a massive ego.

W.C.: Among other things is the fact that E.H. intensely identified himself with his characters. Those macho men like Nick Adams and Francis Macomber could have ended their lives the way Hemingway did -- with a shotgun blast.

R.B.: I don’t see your point. Hundreds of writers have written stories about angels and devils without any change to their personalities. In “Crime and Punishment” Dostoyevski wrote a convincing narrative about a murderer without becoming one. If anything, writing – and acting – is an escape from the daily tedium of life.

W.C.: As long as your escape allows a return to reality. Otherwise, it’s madness.

R.B.: Listen, Bill. I appreciate your concern. But there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been playing Paladin for over five years and, hey, I’m still the same old Richard Boone you’ve always known and loved. In writing this script – or whatever you want to call it – I’ve come to understand my character better – intimately, you might say. What intrigued me were the inherent contradictions both in his appearance and in his personality. Dressed in black with a mustache and what looks like a gang insignia on his personal belongings, he appears to be a villain. And when he’s in San Francisco at the Carlton, he’s dressed like a dandy and seems to be little more than a hedonist and a lady’s man. But underneath the deceptive surface there’s a volcano awaiting to erupt. A volcano for good as it turns out. Or is it? Behind the mixed signals, I believe, there’s a real man – a complex individual with all the faults and flaws as well as the incorruptible nature of a true human being.

W.C.: We’re still talking about a fictional character, aren’t we?

R.B.: Yes and no. Every fictional character contains the seeds of a soul. It’s up to an author to plant those seeds in a little “land of plot” – water them with tears and watch them grow. As a writer, I found it to be an amazingly interesting process. As an actor as well. You must know what I’m talking about, Bill.

W.C.: I really don’t want to get to know my villains too well.

R.B.: Oh, I’ve played my share of bad guys on the road to being a physician and then a good guy gunslinger.

W.C.: Yeh, but you broke the mold now. 110

You’ll never have to grovel in second-rate roles again.

R.B.: This television business is so fickle. And those network cheeses are such Nielsen nitwits. You never know who’s out to get you. And keep you from moving up the mountain of fame.

W.C. (looking around): Careful, Paladin. The posse’s on the prowl.

R.B.: Aah. I’m a lame duck anyway. After this season, I’m going back to acting – real acting in a theater with a live audience. One that doesn’t wait for a commercial to go to the bathroom.

W.C.: Right. That live-theater crowd would have stronger bladders so they can make it all the way to intermission. So what would you do? Go back to Brentwood Market full-time?

R.B.: My repertory theater seems like small potatoes now after the bright lights of Paramount. But my actor friends might be ready for a bigger challenge – say an anthology series of live weekly plays with each actor and actress playing different roles.

W.C.: And what would your role be?

R.B.: I’d be the producer and director, of course. I might narrate like I did on “Medic” and perform when necessary and convenient.

W.C.: I don’t see you retiring anytime soon.

R.B.: Yeh. Acting’s in my blood. I still find the whole business of creating characters and telling stories exhilarating. The magic and electricity of walking the tightrope night after night in front of a live audience. The challenge of making that theater of total strangers stare at you with intense concentration. The thrill of getting them to hang on your every word and eat out of the palm of your hand. And finally the rush of the last scene and the climax when the applause and approbation can lift you off the ground. There’s something almost addictive about the whole process.

W.C.: As addictive as Kentucky bourbon?

R.B.: Oh, much more so.

W.C.: How so?

R.B.: Back in ’59 I played Abraham Lincoln at the Bijou on Broadway in a stage play called “The Rivalry.” It was about the Lincoln-Douglas debates in 1858. So there I was back in Paladin’s time again, but this time as a future President of the United States. And I’m memorizing a script that’s a complete change of character for me. How do I do this? As an actor -- or writer -- when you’re trying to find corresponding things in yourself, and try to find what kind of man would say what Lincoln said, you find it takes you beyond where you are yourself. I admit I don’t fully understand it and I’m not sure I want to. But it has a mystical quality to it. R. BOONE IN “THE RIVALRY” W.C.(wearily): Mystical, eh? You’re not going to levitate now, are you?

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R.B. (laughing): No. But there is something wonderful about the language of the theater that can lift your spirit – take you and the audience to another realm. It’s as if the Gospel of John rings true in literature as in life. “The Word is made flesh and dwells among us.” Through words, writers and actors bring characters to life for the reader and the audience. What’s more, in a mysterious way, the characters can take over the mind and body of the inspired artist. For a time, the mask or persona becomes the real face and person of the one writing, performing, and, in particularly stirring works, even just reading the text. Language can be magical in the way it conjures up creatures and resurrects the dead. Which leads me to wonder if all we really are is just an image of ourselves created by words. I mean, think about it. From birth on we’re told who we are by what name we have, when and where we were born, what family we have, what schooling, what jobs, what we look like to others, how smart or stupid we are according to our so-called friends. There are few people, it seems, that can and do create their own self-image with words they whisper to themselves. Others depend on the blaring horns of praise and criticism that surround us all and try to drown out the quiet voice inside – the voice that tells us who we really are.

W.C. (reviving): And who is that, Richard Boone?

R.B.: I’m still working on it, but I’m beginning to suspect that it has something to do with the Hindus.

W.C.: Ah, the Hindus. (starts to sing) How do you do do that Hindu you do so well . . . Who do you think you are . . . ?

R.B. (laughing): Dammit, Bill. That’s Voodoo, not Hindu. Even Cole Porter knew that.

W.C.: Hindu, Voodoo. What’s the difference?

R.B.: Voodoo is an African religion with superstitious roots. You know, with voodoo dolls and black magic -- that sort of thing. Hindus, however, believe in a supreme soul they call Brahmin. It’s much like Emerson’s Oversoul. The individual person, or more specifically, the individual’s soul or spirit is Atman which is really an extension of Brahmin – like a branch on a tree, or (holding up his hand) like a finger on your hand.

W.C.: Heavy stuff, Guru Boone. Where are my bongos?

R.B.: Make all the jokes you want. This kind of thinking can change the world. Here. Listen to this. From the master’s own words . . . (shuffles in drawer, pulls out book).

W.C.: What’s that?

R.B.: Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Essays. (opening book) Listen to what he says: (reads) “We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related; the Eternal One. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are the shining parts, is the soul.” Emerson goes on to say that there is only one reality, one Unity, the Over-Soul. The philosopher Spinoza and the Hindus said the same – only in different words. Divisions are an illusion – or at least a misrepresentation of Life. And look what he says about Mankind: (reads) “A man is the facade of a temple wherein all wisdom and all good abide. What we commonly call man, the eating, drinking, planting, counting man, does not, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents himself. Him we do not respect, but the soul, whose organ he is, would he let it appear through his action, 112 would make our knees bend. When it breathes through his intellect, it is genius; when it breathes through his will, it is virtue; when it flows through his affection, it is love. And the blindness of the intellect begins when it would be something of itself. The weakness of the will begins when the individual would be something of himself. All reform aims in some one particular to let the soul have its way through us; in other words, to engage us to obey.”

W.C.: To obey what? An Immaculate Misconception that everyone is a god? The world already suffers from a surplus of megalomaniacs. Apotheosis is not the answer.

R.B.: Apotheo-what? That’s a big word even for you, Bill. THE APOTHEOSIS OF JULIUS CAESAR W.C.: Apotheosis. Surprised you haven’t tripped on it in your excursion through Metaphysics. It means “making men into gods” as in Greek mythology. Heracles or Hercules was one example. And Julius Caesar was elevated to that level by the Romans even though Brutus proved otherwise. It’s bad enough our politicians think they’re above the law. If they thought they were gods, there’s no telling what they’d do to us mere mortals. Look at that fucking standoff – pardon my French – between Khruschev and Kennedy in October. Madness on the brink of nuclear war.

R.B.: Yes, it was a real showdown at the Castro Corral. Reminded me of my showdown in the “Episode at Laredo” where I exchanged muscle twitches with Gene Lyons for the better part of twenty minutes. Gene played the part of a champion gunfighter who’d never been beaten. In the end, he refused to draw but then was shot in the back by the hotel owner who wanted a body in his lobby to cash in on the tourist trade. (pause) Can’t help thinking that Khruschev would never have brought those missiles to Cuba if Nixon was President. Kennedy’s a kid the Ruskies thought they could push around.

W.C.: Spoken like a true Republican and a celluloid gunslinger. The fact is the Russians did back down, and we’re all damn lucky they did. But speaking of “Have Gun” episodes, I was thinking again about that “nitro” episode.

R.B.: Oh, yeh. The one with Milton Selzer as Lord Alfred Nobel. It was called “Hobson’s Choice,” I think.

W.C.: That had to be inspired by the current Arms Race. Even in the 1800’s, MAD stood for Mutually Assured Destruction. Lord Alfred argued that his invention of nitroglycerin would end all war. Nitro was such a powerful explosive, like hydrogen bombs, that no country would dare use it for fear of retaliation and total annihilation. Didn’t work then. Won’t work now.

R.B.: The irony, in that brilliant episode, was that, when the bad guys stole the unstable explosives, the greedy bastards sealed their own fate. They drove off with a buckboard full of cases of nitro bottles over a bumpy road and Pandora’s Box literally blew their asses off.

W.C.: And if you remember your Greek mythology, both the so called “box” – really an urn -- and Pandora was a revenge- gift from Zeus to the brother of Prometheus – revenge for Prometheus stealing fire from heaven. Albert Einstein and other physicists are the modern day Prometheus’s. Or is it Promethei? Science gods they are who’ve opened Pandora’s Box and unleashed nuclear energy as a terrifying force upon the earth. And there’s no putting the genie back in the bottle.

R.B.: But there’s always hope and . . . Hobson’s Choice.

W.C.: The hope would be that somehow the world will come to its senses and ban the bomb. Hobson’s Choice is that if we don’t do that, there’s no hope.

113

ALFRED NOBEL R.B.: I read somewhere that Hobson was a pony express rider in England. The “Cambridge Carrier,” as he was called, also rented out his horses -- but kept the best for his mail delivery job by limiting his clients’ choices to the next horse in line. “Take it or leave it” he said.

W.C.: All or nothing. I’m afraid that’s the choice we have. But how do we stop the madmen of the world from starting another war that’s certain to end in Mutually Assured Destruction?

R.B.: I liked the last line of “Hobson’s Choice.” From Montaigne, I think. “Men do not invent devils; they simply look within themselves.”

W.C.: Ah, ha. And there’s where you contradict yourself, my California Confucius. THOMAS HOBSON

R.B.: “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes,” as Whitman would say. But I’m curious about what you perceive to be a contradiction. Enlighten me.

W.C.: It’s your whole hoodoo thing. If everyone is part of the Emerson Over-Soul and the soul is God, then no one is evil. Yet you just admitted that there are devils inside men. So how is that possible?

R.B.: That all depends on what you mean by “devil.” I think even Montaigne used the word metaphorically.

W.C.: So meta-for-what? Evil, I presume.

R.B.: Ah, the problem of evil. Yes, evil, if you take off the “d” for demon, and you exclude all the inevitable and accidental calamities that befall mankind such as death, disease, and natural disasters.

W.C.: And murder?

R.B.: The heart of the matter. Why do people hurt other people, including themselves? I happen to agree with Socrates and the Buddhists that the root of all evil is fear and ignorance.

W.C.: Yes. The fear of getting caught and the ignorance of the police nearby.

R.B.: No. You’re talking about what deters the evil act. What spurs it is the fear of being hurt by the “other” who is not me. Or from ignorance of the fact that the “other” and I are really one with all things in the Universe.

W.C.: So what about bad guys who would murder me because I just happen to be in the way of something they want?

R.B.: The “heavies” of this world are heavy with fear and ignorance. They would murder you because they’re afraid you might prevent them from getting what they want and they don’t realize that by hurting you they are hurting themselves.

W.C.: Even though I die and they don’t.

114

R.B.: It all depends what you mean by “I.”

W.C.: “I am what am,” says Popeye the sailor man.

R.B.: “I am who am,” said Yahweh to Moses.

W.C.: No one, I can recall, ever said “I am everything.”

R.B.: “No man is an island,” wrote John Dunn. “Every man’s death diminishes me.” The bigger “I” is the Over-Soul – the ultimate identity of you, me, the other, and all things.

W.C. (to Dragnet Theme): Dunn Da Dunn Dunn. Easy enough for you and Donne to say if you’re not the one dying.

R.B. (laughing): You’re something else, Bill. I mean it. You really are. This body is a mask that disguises the real me and you. Of course dying is hard. Any change of costume is. But that’s all it really is. At heart, we’re all part and parcel of Nature’s divine energy – the source of all life.

W.C.: Well . . . Speaking for all the villains of the world – and I’m one to know one – I think you’re full of shit. (R.B. starts to interrupt) Now, just listen a minute. There is evil. Real evil. It’s a black adder wrapped around the roots of some souls and it won’t let go no matter how nice you are to it. You may say Satan’s Snake comes from fear and ignorance, but the truth is: evil’s seed is greed. And the ultimate greed is the desire to partake of the forbidden fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. To be like God with power over life and death. Every bad guy thinks that way. A killer with murderous intent – like Adolph H -- has no sympathy for the suffering of others because evil has sucked every ounce of compassion out of his brain. Those are the same poor “fearful and ignorant” saps you gun down every week.

R.B.: As Paladin I try to reason with them first. “Use your brain,” I often say. I believe with Paladin that everyone is capable of a reformation – that each of us can re-form ourselves into someone else. Paladin, dressed in black, is very much like a black adder. A cunning serpent that identifies with the shadows of life – evil if you will, which I still contend is based on fear and ignorance. (W.C. starts to interrupt) Now, let me finish. Darkness or night is not the opposite of day. It’s just less light on the same planet. Paladin as a “knight” is neither good nor bad. You might say he’s a “Twi-Knight” – a mixture of good and evil -- just like the vigilante justice he practices. And whereas his adversaries are ignorant and fearful, Paladin himself, by contrast, is educated and confident.

W.C.: Paladin is a fox in wolf’s clothes. He looks like a villain, but he’s not. He’s an avenging angel. His black clothes are a disguise meant to fool his evil antagonists. Under cover of darkness, he stalks his unsuspecting suspect among the shadows. Once he plays his card it’s too late to escape. In the end, Paladin’s prey is either captured or killed. And once again, the black knight has vanquished the evil dragon and avoided falling off the edge of the void into the bottomless canyon of Hades.

R.B.: Reminds me of that great episode about a year ago that Jack Laird wrote.

W.C.: “Justice in Hell.”

R.B.: Yes, that’s it. What I liked most about it was the 115 R. BOONE IN “JUSTICE IN HELL” way the tables were turned on Paladin and he was forced to defend his own life, not with a gun, but with his wits. He had to act as a lawyer for the prosecution to convince a jury that Rusty Doggett – what a great name for a villain, the worst of the worst . . .

W.C.: A truly evil man. JOHN ALDERSON AS RUSTY DOGGETT

R.B.: An extremely ignorant and fearful man who committed unspeakable crimes. But Paladin fails to convince the jury of equally ignorant (W.C.: “evil”) peers that Doggett should hang instead of Paladin. Well, you know the rest . . .

W.C.: The character Burchfield . . .

R.B.: Played by William Shallert . . . WILLIAM SHALLERT AS BURCHFIELD W.C.: Who gave a great performance as usual. Bill’s character Burchfield regains his conscience and volunteers to take Paladin’s place on the scaffold. When Doggett tries to kill Burchfield for thwarting justice by trying to save Paladin, Teague – the Judge of Hell – shoots Doggett and tells Paladin to get out of town because he’s on the wrong side of the dead line.

R.B.: I thought Shallert’s . . . er, Burchfield’s last comment was especially clever though probably over the head of most of our audience.

W.C.: Carry on, Charon.

R.B.: You remember.

W.C.: Who could forget the famous ferryman of Hades who will carry our sorry souls across the River Styx.

R.B.: I thought it was interesting that Paladin was the one called Charon. Fitting, I suppose, since, as a gunman, he often was responsible for transporting the living into the land of the dead. But in “Justice in Hell” Paladin brought the all-but- dead Burchfield back to the land of the living.

W.C.: And left the rest of those “evil” souls in hell where they belong.

R.B.: So we’re back to evil again.

W.C.: Have we ever left it? MAHATMA GHANDI R.B.: Not yet. But I’m hopeful -- if enough people embrace non-violence as a solution to conflict.

W.C.: Mahatma’s whimsy: ahimsa. Well, you can be a Ghandi-gunman if want. As for me, I prefer to kiss-em and bless-em with my Smith and Wesson.

R.B.: So no regrets about denying the bad guys a chance to repent and reform the errors of their ways? 116

W.C.: Evil is a pernicious weed that must be removed roots and all.

R.B.: What about the Japs who tried to kill us. Were they evil?

W.C.: I’m not saying you can never get evil to let go. But it happens just opposite the way you say it does. The Japs surrendered and gave up their evil ways because they got the crap scared out of ‘em by Hiroshima and Nagasaki. That’s when they stopped thinking they were gods who knew everything about everything. So you see it wasn’t fear and ignorance that caused the evil of World War Two. It was fear and ignorance that ended it by bringing the Japs and Germans to their senses and knocking them off their high horses as arrogant know-it-alls.

R.B.: Hiroshima and Dresden.

W.C.: Necessary evils.

R.B.: An eye for an eye.

W.C.: And a truth for the truth.

R.B.: A lie told often enough becomes the truth.

W.C.: Yes. And Comrade Lenin, who spoke those words, was certainly an expert in that regard.

R.B. (waving the script): And so was Paladin, I contend.

W.C.: A commie now?

R.B.: No. A great pretender. (clicking sound, Christmas tree lights flash) Uh . . . as are we all.

W.C.: You’d be smashing an icon. VLADIMIR LENIN

R.B.: Icons should be smashed. Especially eyes that con like that one. (pointing to CBS poster)

NEWTON MINNOW W.C.: Blasphemy. That eye is watched by millions.

R.B.: Yes. And what do they see: a “vast wasteland.”

W.C.: Now you’re quoting the speech Newton Minnow of the FCC gave last year.

R.B.: He had a valid observation. So much of what’s on TV is just junk. Mindless entertainment. Pap for the masses, if you will. “Have Gun” tried to buck the trend, so to speak. Hopefully we’ve helped our audience open their other eye, their mind’s eye, to see life at another level. Not just literal, but literate. Maybe we even got a few of our viewers to go to their Bartlett’s or better: a Russian novel or Shakespeare play. And, if we’ve created a tiny oasis in the desert of vacuum tubes, why not go farther? Why not generate a thunderstorm that waters the wasteland and starts a garden of literary delights?

117

W.C.: Many have tried to climb that mountain. All have fallen to the valley below.

R.B.: Yes. The valley of low expectations.

W.C.: And high ratings. The masses demand bread and circuses.

R.B.: No reason why we can’t be the trapeze artist that elevates their thoughts. Descartes said “I think therefore I am.” Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could get more people to say – and believe -- that “I am, therefore I should think”? And, if the truth be told, that’s the real reason why I wrote “The Secret Life Of Paladin.”

W.C. (finishing his drink): Well, this is way over my head. And, frankly, Dick, I don’t think the network execs will buy it. Maybe you should talk to Gene. He’s a writer with some far out ideas that seem to get attention.

R.B.: You mean Gene Rodenberry.

W.C.: Yeah. Get him on board and maybe the two of you can sell it to Sam and the brass at CBS. Just remember what CBS stands for.

R.B.: “Can’t Be Satisfied.”

W.C.: Correct. No matter what you do, it always could be better.

R.B.: Sure, better, much better than whatever the network execs decide. But we’ve got to do it soon. Before it’s too late. GENE RODDENBERRY

Intercom: Fifteen minutes, Mister Boone.

R.B.: See how little time I’ve got.

W.C. (laughing, rising unsteadily): Our days are all numbered, Mister Paladin. Get dressed and knock ‘em dead.

R.B.: I’m non-violent, remember?

W.C.: Yeah, and I’m stone-cold sober. (with hand to his head) Hey. You’ve got a john in here, don’t you?

R.B. (distracted): A john? Oh you mean the facilities.

W.C.: Fancy term for the can. Or is it a throne for the King of Cowboys?

R.B. (forcing a laugh): A W.C. for W.C. Yes. It’s back there. (pointing stage left in the darkness).

W.C.: Thanks, pardner. (exits left whistling “I’m back in the saddle again”)

(R.B. starts getting dressed in black Paladin outfit. The clicking sound is heard, Christmas tree begins flashing again.) 118

R.B.: What the . . . (goes up to the Christmas tree, examines it, then speaks to it) Is that you . . . ? (Goes back to intercom) Gwen, Gwen . . .

(Suddenly, a figure looking exactly like Paladin, only heavier, enters from stage right and approaches R.B. from rear)

R.B. (wheeling around with his derringer drawn): Who are you and what are you doing here?

Victor DeCosta: My name’s Paladin. And I’m here to claim what’s mine.

R.B.: So you’re Paladin, are you? Or an imposter. What’s your real name?

V.C.: Victor DeCosta.

R.B.: Well, that’s a relief at least. I thought you might say Richard Boone.

V.C.: No. That’s you. But you’re not Paladin. I am. You’re the imposter.

R.B.: How’s that? VICTOR DECOSTA

V.C.: I’ve been Paladin for fifteen years. At rodeos and carnivals. Always wore black. Handed out my cards. Here’s one. (handing his card to R.B.)

R.B. (reading): “Have Gun, Will Travel -- Wire Paladin, Oaklawn Rhode Island.” Wow. I didn’t realize the Wild West went all the way to the East Coast. And to DeCosta.

V.C.: I’m not amused, Mister Boone. And you won’t be either when I sue all you network pirates.

R.B. (thoughtfully): I’m a pirate, am I?

V.C.: Yes. And I intend to get my share of your plunder.

R.B. (shaking his head): Whenever there’s a successful TV show copycats like you come out of the woodwork like termites to cash in on the bounty. Fame and fortune is all you’re interested in.

V.C.: You stole my identity.

R.B.: You’re not Paladin.

V.C.: Oh, yeah? (snapping pistol from holster) Look at that draw. No one’s faster.

R.B. (pointing to door): OK. That’s enough. Out.

V.C.: You runnin’ me out of town? You can’t get rid of the original, the real Paladin that easily. I’ll win, even if it takes thirty years, I tell you. 119

981 F.2d 602 25 U.S.P.Q.2d 1187 R.B. (pointing derringer at him): I said out. Legal’s down the hall. Victor DeCOSTA, Plaintiff, V.C.: That’s not a real gun, is it? Appellee, v. R.B.: You never know, do you? VIACOM INTERNATIONAL, INC., Defendant, Appellant.

V.C. (slowly backing up to exit): This isn’t over. There will be a showdown. No. 91-2211.

United States Court of Appeals, R.B.: I’m sure there will be. And only one of us will be left standing. Out! Vamoose! Now! First Circuit.

Heard April 7, 1992. (DeCosta scurries out; R.B. approaches exit, shouting “And you’re not Paladin!”) Decided Dec. 17, 1992.

R.B. (uncertainly) I am . . . Of course I am . . . (Christmas tree flashes; R.B. to intercom): Gwen . . . Gwen . . .

W.C. (returning from stage left) Oooh. What a relief. I really had to drain the vein. Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

R.B. (tensely): Yeh, yeh. The ghost of Paladin.

W.C.: Still haunted by the Mystery Man from San Fran, eh? (yawning) I hope the lounge is open. I need a nap.

R.B. (finished getting dressed in Paladin’s work clothes): No rest for Santa at this time of year. Take your mask and go scare someone else.

W.C. (taking the Santa mask): Yeah. Someone who won’t shoot me. Speaking of that . . . What episode are you shooting today?

R.B.: It’s called “Face of a Shadow.”

W.C.: Sounds ominous.

R.B.: You think it’s a sign of something?

W.C.: Who knows. But, if I were you, I’d have one eye out for an ambush.

R.B.: Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.

W.C. (staggering off): Yeah. Just make sure you keep it . . . in mind. And don’t lose it. (exits)

R.B. (laughing): I’ll mind my mind. You keep your lunch down. (shouting after him) And don’t lose it.

(For a few moments, R.B. starts to change into his black Paladin work clothes, removing his white shirt to reveal a black one underneath. He pulls a box out a desk drawer, turns to the audience as if looking in a mirror, opens the box and removes a 120 fake mustache which he sticks on his face. Smiles with the knowing look of Paladin. But then the Christmas tree lights behind him begin to flash again.)

R.B. (turning to intercom): Gwen, Gwen . . .

Gwen (on intercom): Yes, Rich . . . Mister Boone.

R.B.: Is that maintenance man coming? .-- … --- .- .-. . -.-- --- ..-- ..--.. Gwen: Should be any minute now.

R.B.: Thanks. (the typewriter starts to click) What the . . . (pulls out dictionary and reads) Dot, dash, dot . . . R. Dash, dot, dot, dot . . . B. R.B. Yes, those are my initials. So . . . who are you? (clicking) Dot, dot . . . I. Dash, dash . . . M. Dot, dot, dash . . . U. I, M, U. I am you. No, you’re not. You’re a figment of my imagination. (clicking) Dot, dot, dash . . . U. Dot, dash, dot . . . R. Dot, dot, dash, dash, dash . . . 2. U, R, 2. You are too. No, I’m not. I’m a real person. Living in a real place and a real time. You’re not. (clicking) Dot, dot . . . I. Dash, dash . . . M. Dot, dot, dash, dash, dash . . . 2. I, M, 2. I am 2. I can’t believe I’m arguing with a phantom. Let’s stick to the facts. Where are you? (clicking) Dash, dot, dash, dot . . . C. Dot, dash . . . A. C, A. Ah, California. And what year is it? (clicking) Dot, dash, dash, dash . . . 1. Dot, dot, dash, dash, dash . . . 2. 1, 2. Twelve. 1912, I assume. (clicking) Dash, dot . . . N. Dash, dash, dash . . . O. N,O. No. What do you mean, no? It’s 1912 and you’ve survived the sinking of the Titanic by now. But . . . I haven’t written that part yet . . .

(While R.B. has been preoccupied with the typewriter, a lone figure has entered the room. He is a young man, dressed in green pants and shirt that could be the uniform of a maintenance man or a prisoner. He has pitch black hair, a goatee, and dark piercing eyes. He shuffles a bit as he approaches R.B.’s desk. It is a 28-year-old Charles Manson, the infamous madman of 20th century California.)

R.B. (seeing the figure in the mirror, turning quickly to face him): You? Are you Charlie?

C.M.: I prefer Charles. Sorry to startle you.

R.B.: I felt a chill . . . The outlet’s over there. It’s shorting out or something.

C.M.: Yes, I see it. CHARLES MANSON R.B.: Well . . . What are you staring at? I’ve seen that look before . . . You don’t mean to hurt me?

C.M.: Hurt you? (falls to his knees before him) I worship you.

R.B.: Worship me? I’m just a TV actor.

C.M.: You’re my hero, Mister Paladin.

R.B.: My name’s Richard Boone. Now get up. Do you think I’m going to knight you?

C.M. (rising): Yes, you could do that. You could make me your paladin. 121

R.B.: Another one . . . You’re really into the series, are you?

C.M.: I’ve seen every episode. And even the re-runs.

R.B.: So, Charlie . . .

C.M.: Charles.

R.B.: Yes, of course, Charles. Since you’re a big fan of “Have Gun,” let me ask you a question.

C.M.: Sure. Anything.

R.B.: What do you see in the show? What do you especially like about it?

C.M.: You.

R.B.: Well, yes. I play the main character. But besides me, what do you like? I mean: Is it the stories, the suspense, the cultural references and quotations, the mystery behind Paladin’s mission and personality . . . ?

C.M.: The killing.

R.B. (disappointedly): The killing. But that’s not really the point, is it? Paladin only kills in self-defense. His goal is justice . . .

C.M.: And money.

R.B.: Well, yes. He’s a bounty hunter. But not a hit-man.

C.M.: You’re an avenging angel.

R.B.: You mean Paladin. Now we’re getting somewhere. Explain that.

C.M.: As it is written: “And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.”

R.B.: That’s from Revelations. But what does that have to do with “Have Gun Will Travel?”

C.M.: You’re the third angel.

R.B.: Not me – Paladin. How’s that?

C.M.: You’re the star, Wormwood is Hollywood. The rest follows. 122

R.B.: Now you are talking about me, personally. Are you saying I’m going to fall from fame, and with me Hollywood, and, as a result, a third of our people will end up bitter and resentful. Who do you think you are -- some kind of prophet?

C.M.: I’m the fifth angel.

R.B.: Oh, really?

C.M.: As it is written: “The fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star from the sky which had fallen to the earth. The key to the pit of the abyss was given to him. He opened the pit of the abyss, and smoke went up out of the pit, like the smoke from a burning furnace. The sun and the air were darkened because of the smoke from the pit. Then out of the smoke came . . .

R.B.: Enough! This is insanity. Those eyes. They’re like white-hot bulging coals. Who are you, really?

C.M.: I'm nobody. I'm a tramp, a bum, a hobo. I'm a boxcar and a jug of wine. And I’m a straight razor . . . if you get too close.

R.B.: Are you threatening me? (CM reaches into his shirt) What are you doing?

(A standoff as Richard Boone pulls out his derringer and Charles Manson slowly removes a sheaf of papers from his shirt.)

R.B.: What’s that? You want an autograph? (putting derringer away) Sorry about the gun. It’s instinctive . . .

C.M.: I understand. Paranoia is just awareness. (handing him papers) My gift to you.

R.B.: A screenplay? You’ll have to take this down the hall to Creative. I’m not sure they’re even accepting more scripts at this time.

C.M.: Please, Mister Paladin. (starts to drop down on his knees again)

R.B. (stopping him): Don’t do that. (reading cover page): “The Spiritualist” by Charles Manson. Manson, eh? As in Son of Man. (looking up) Is this your doing, H.M.?

C.M. (looking up): His Majesty?

R.B.: Just a hu-man. No one special. (typewriter begins clicking, lights flash) “THE SPIRITUALIST” BY C.M.: Whoa, man. An automatic typewriter? You stars get all the bennies. CHARLES MANSON

R.B.: Yeh, well. See if you can fix those lights, will you?

C.M. (looking at blinking lights): Yeh, sure. I kind of dig ‘em though. They’re crazy.

R.B.: Yeh, real crazy. (turning to the mirror) 123

C.M.: But what about my manuscript?

R.B.: Leave it here. I’ll read it later.

C.M.: Let me give you the gist.

R.B.: I don’t have time now.

C.M.: Just a minute.

R.B.: Fifty seconds.

C.M.: It’s called “The Spiritualist.” You know what that is?

R.B.: A person who’s a medium between the living and the dead.

C.M.: Very good, Mister Paladin.

R.B.: I’m not just some hick cowboy.

C.M.: Of course not. You’re a polymath. And in the late 1800’s you would’ve been familiar with spiritualism which was very popular in America. But did you ever hear of Eusapia Palladino?

R.B.: Sounds like someone I should know.

C.M.: An unforgettable name. A real paladin, Eusapia Palladino was a spiritualist of the late 1800’s who baffled the experts and confounded the skeptics. She could levitate tables and other objects, create luminous apparitions, and communicate with the dead in Summerland.

R.B.: Summerland?

C.M.: What spiritualists call Heaven.

R.B.: Your story please. And quickly.

C.M.: It starts one evening at the Carlton Hotel. HeyBoy introduces Paladin to a pretty woman named Leona Willis. Miss Willis offers Paladin a thousand dollars to stop a man named Maximillian Nevil from stealing the inheritance of her sister Rosalie.

R.B.: Interesting names. Eusapia Palladino C.M. They mean something to me. Like the name of the Beast.

R.B.: 666. (flashing, clicking) Speaking of the devil . . . Continue. 124

C.M.: Maximillian Nevil has been working with a woman who claims to be the great spiritualist Eusapia Palladino. He’s her controller.

R.B.: Accountant.

C.M.: Séance assistant. Controllers kept the medium’s limbs “under control” to supposedly prevent fraud.

R.B.: Go on.

C.M.: Paladin agrees to accept Leona’s proposal and visits her sister Rosalie in the town of Gravesend. Rosalie tells Paladin she plans to marry Maximillian Nevil on the advice of her dead husband who has appeared to her during a séance. Rosalie agrees to have a skeptical Paladin attend her next meeting with Eusapia Palladino and Maximillian. At the séance in a darkened room, Paladin, Rosalie, Eusapia, and Maximillian sit in a circle with their hands palms down on a table. During the session, Paladin watches patiently as the table and other objects appear to levitate on their own. Then the image of Rosalie’s dead husband George appears in an opening in the curtain behind Eusapia who asks the question “Should Rosalie marry Maximillian Nevil? Please answer, George, with one rap for Yes, two for No.” When one rap is heard, Paladin acts, overturning the table to reveal the lever connected to Eusapia’s elbow, the rapping device on her knee, and, behind the curtain, the slide projector projecting the photograph image of Rosalie’s husband onto a transparent screen.

R.B.: Very good.

C.M.: But that’s not the end of it. Eusapia is chagrined, but Maximillian is livid. The expose has left him without a wealthy bride and he is determined to get even with the man in black. Maximillian kidnaps Rosalie and sends Paladin a ransom note demanding five thousand dollars. The showdown takes place at the Gravesend Glassworks Factory where Paladin searches for Max and Rosalie in a Maze of Mirrors. The tension rises as he confronts an image at every turn. But it is only his own reflection. When he finally finds Rosalie tied to a chair, the maze collapses and Paladin is pinned under shards of broken glass. Eusapia stands over Paladin with a shotgun. It looks like the end for Paladin, but Eusapia is not the real enemy. She whispers, “I’m here as a fellow-paladin to save you.” She then shouts “Where are you Max Nevil?” Behind her, a rifle barrel is seen rising from between a dark curtain. Paladin’s arm, gun in hand, breaks through the mirror on his chest. He fires . . .

R.B.: And Paladin wins of course.

C.M: Well . . . That remains to be seen.

R.B.: Yes. The viewers must be kept in suspense until the very end.

C.M: Paladin fires, the rifle barrel in the curtain drops to the floor. But when Eusapia pulls the curtain aside, no one’s there. Maximillian Nevil has vanished.

R.B.: Whoa. I followed you until the shootout, but then you lost me. There has to be a body.

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C.M.: A body? The devil doesn’t have a body.

R.B.: What the devil are you talking about?

C.M.: You know . . . Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub . . .

R.B.: Mephistopheles.

C.M.: The very one.

R.B.: So in your story, Maximillian is the devil.

C.M.: Rhymes with Nevil.

R.B.: So you’re saying Paladin has a duel with the devil and the devil wins.

C.M.: The Prince of Darkness escapes. Yes.

R.B.: That’s unacceptable.

C.M.: Buy why, Mister Paladin?

R.B. (impatiently): Because Mister Paladin is all about using his rational mind to debunk superstition.

C.M.: But believing in the devil’s not superstitious.

R.B.: The devil doesn’t exist.

C.M.: Then how do you explain evil, Mister Paladin?

R.B.: Evil is nothing more than human misdeeds created by fear and ignorance.

C.M.: With Satan as their source.

R.B.: So you think the devil’s real?

C.M.: As real as I am.

R.B.: Then you’re the figment of someone’s imagination.

C.M.: We are all illusions in the eyes of Abaddon.

R.B.: You believe Satan is like what: God, all powerful?

C.M.: I have known the Devourer and the power of the Black Arts. 126

R.B.: Who are you? Some kind of devil-worshipper?

C.M.: Look down at me and you see a fool. Look up at me and you see a god. Look straight at me and you see yourself.

R.B.: Where did you come from? Another planet?

C.M.: I came from McNeil Island.

R.B.: McNeil? Isn’t that in Washington State? There’s a federal prison there. Those clothes. Are you . . . ?

C.M.: A prisoner? Yes. A prisoner of the body just like you, Mister Paladin.

R.B.: You’ve escaped. (presses intercom button) Gwen. Gwen.

C.M.: She can’t hear you.

R.B. (putting phone down): Escaped from McNeil . . .

C.M.: It’s not what you think.

R.B.: Then how did you get here?

C.M.: Ever heard of translocation?

R.B.: You’re talking about moving from one place to another.

C.M.: And from one time zone to another – but by just using the power of the mind.

R.B.: So, what? You imagined you were here and then you were.

C.M.: Something like that. It happened after I saw your latest episode, “Man In An Hourglass.” I liked the title. If you’ve ever been in prison, that’s what it feels like.

R.B.: Translocation, eh? And I suppose the devil had something to do with it . . . Those eyes. Are you evil personified?

C.M.: When I look inside myself, I see everything. I see all. I see the good, bad, evil. I see the whole thing. How much evil is there? As much as you see. What else? The peach you haven’t touched yet. Dreams you haven’t dreamed yet. Worlds you haven’t conquered. The mind is endless. You put me in a dark solitary cell, and to you that’s the end. To me, it’s the beginning. It’s a universe in there. There’s a world in there. I’m free.

R.B.: Those eyes. They see black and white, but never grey. You’re a very scary man, Charlie Manson.

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C.M.: You have nothing to fear, Mister Paladin . . . except nothing, which is all around us. I'm not your executioner. I'm not your devil and I'm not your God. I'm Charles Manson.

R.B.: I know who you are, really. You’re . . .

C.M.: Only what lives inside of you.

R.B. (abruptly): Go. Get out of here. And take this . . . (hands him back the script)

C.M.: You’re not going to read it.

R.B.: I got the gist. It’s nonsense.

C.M.: No sense makes sense.

R.B.: It’s madness.

C.M.: Look at the madness that goes on, you can't prove anything that happened yesterday. Now is the only thing that's real. Every day, every reality is a new reality. Every new reality is a new horizon, a brand new experience of living.

R.B.: Out! Before I call . . . (stops, realizing the phone won’t work)

C.M. (putting script on desk): You’re rejecting me. But as they say in the business: I’ll get back at you.

R.B.: Are you threatening me?

C.M.: You’re the man with the gun. I’m just a paper tiger.

R.B.: Then go back to your cage.

C.M.: “To make a tiger stew, first catch a tiger.”

R.B.: You’re quoting Paladin. But there’s another alternative: Shoot it.

C.M.: Now it seems you’re threatening me. I’ll leave. But first a short circuit. (CM goes up to the blinking Christmas Tree and, waving his hands over it, says) Gefrannis booj pooch boo jujube; bear-ramage. Jigiji geeji geeja geeble google. Begep flagaggle vaggle veditch-waggle bagga. (The tree lights turn all red, stop blinking. CM exits.)

R.B. (tries the phone again): Gwen, Gwen! (putting down the receiver, runs to the office door. But before he gets there, Gwen enters)

Gwen: What’s the matter Rich . . . I mean, Mister Boone?

R.B.: It’s Charlie . . . I mean, Charles. 128

Gwen: Who?

R.B.: That maintenance guy of yours.

Gwen: Oh, Charlie.

R.B.: Yeh. See what he’s done. (turns to tree which has changed back to non-blinking multi-colored lights) What?

Gwen: Looks like whoever he was he fixed your electrical problem.

R.B.: What do you mean “whoever he was?” He said he was Charles . . . Mansion, I think.

Gwen: What did he look like?

R.B.: Thin, black hair, about thirty years old -- a goatee . . . and dark piercing eyes.

Gwen: Definitely not Charlie the maintenance man. He’s about sixty, grey hair, clean-shaven, and at home with the flu.

R.B.: Well, there was a Charlie here. He wore green dungarees.

Gwen (looking about): Where is he now?

R.B.: He went out that door just a minute ago. Didn’t you see him?

Gwen: I’ve been sitting at my desk for the past half hour. The last person I saw come out of your office was Bill . . . Mister Conrad.

R.B.: You’re not lying, are you?

Gwen: No, why should I?

R.B.: To get back at me . . . for something.

Gwen: Oh, you mean, for lying to me.

R.B.: What are you talking about?

Gwen: You said you spoke to Sam Rolfe about getting me a role. But that’s not true, is it?

R.B.: Why, sure. I did . . .

Gwen: He said you hadn’t.

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R.B.: You talked to Sam.

Gwen: He happened to be in the hallway . . . outside his office. He said you never talked to him . . . about me.

R.B.: Sam’s forgetful in his old age.

Gwen: Sam’s younger than you are.

R.B.: He’s got a lot to think about.

Gwen: And you probably don’t love me either.

R.B.: That’s not true . . .

Gwen: You’re lying, lying, lying!

R.B.: No, I’m . . . (R.B. turns away as the Christmas tree lights begin to blink again)

(Gwen exits in a huff. R.B. turns and speaks to tree.)

R.B.: I’m the writer, you know. I created you and I can destroy you. Who do you think you are?

(Typewriter at desk begins typing again. R.B. runs over to desk and rolls up paper to read Morse Code. Opens dictionary to translate.)

R.B.: Dot, dot … I. Dash, dash … M. Dot, dash, dash … W. Dot, dot, dot … H. Dash, dash, dash … O. Dash, dash … M. I, M, W, H, O, M. I, M, Who, M. “I am who am,” spoke the Lord God on Mount Sinai. (turning back to tree) So now what: You think you’re Yahweh speaking to me from the Burning Bush? And that makes me Moses, I suppose. Well then, I’ll take your commandments and smash them to pieces. (pulls paper out of typewriter and crumples it up) No more messages.

(But then the intercom starts to buzz and echo with static. A garbled voice is heard in sporadic bursts.)

Voice: Re-write. Re-write.

R.B.: Dammit. He somehow got to a phone. (speaking to intercom) What do you want?

Voice: A . . . hero. Not . . . zero.

R.B.: Impossible. You are who you are.

Voice: Just us . . .

R.B.: Justice or just us?

130