(A mountainside chapel or convent.)

LEONA
I have come to this place—
I have come to this place seeking refuge.
From what happened on the mountain.
From the truth.
I want nothing more
than to cover it up, block it out.
But you would have me remember, recount.

(LEONA’s memory of her journey with AMBROSE.
In the distance a man appears.)

Crossing Burnt Rock Pass
a man appears—
threadbare clothes, coiled rope.
Ambrose, always buried in his books,
doesn’t seem to see the stranger’s
ragged grin,
his rusted eyes cutting straight through me.

THE OUTLAW
“Greetings.
Just past the entrance to the mine
stands a grove of hemlocks—
buried there lies a cache of treasure,
left behind by some settler on the run.”

LEONA
And that’s all it takes.
My husband is entranced.

THE OUTLAW
“Moonstones, opals, silver filigree.”

AMBROSE
“Opals, like your eyes.”

LUTHER
He says.

LEONA
“Ambrose—
It’ll be dark soon. ”

AMBROSE
“I’ll be quick, I promise—”

LUTHER
He replies, with that look of his,
so I can’t help but give in, give over—
when the stranger’s sneer stops me cold.
“We don’t want anything to do with him,”
I whisper.
But Ambrose keeps on:

AMBROSE
“A windfall we could use—”

LEONA
“But why—?”

AMBROSE
“So I can keep you in finery—”

LEONA
“I don’t need to be kept.”

AMBROSE
“So I can provide— Protect against—”

LEONA
“Protect? Ambrose. Stay with me. Please.”

But my husband,
suddenly a stranger himself,
turns and goes—

(AMBROSE follows the man into the grove, leaving LEONA by herself, waiting.)

—disappears into the shadows.
He follows the drifter into the grove.

(Alone, LEONA sings a ditty to keep fear at bay.)

Smoke, ash,
smoldering ghosts—

AMBROSE
“No! Please, I—”

LEONA
—of looming trees,
once stands of aspen, juniper.

(We see THE OUTLAW making his way towards her.)

The man, emerging from the grove, alone
strides towards me.
Ugly, rough, he comes too close.

THE OUTLAW
“Hurry, come! Your husband, he’s—”
I follow, keeping my distance,
calling on the cedar relics for protection.

(Upon entering the grove, LEONA sees her husband bound and gagged.)

“Ambrose!”

(LEONA moves towards AMBROSE.)

The stranger cuts me off,
throws me,
holds me down.
His stench—
sweat, tobacco, metal, flint—
does not smother me,
I do not cry out.
I do not feel the hot damp of his breath
blasting in my face.
I hear nothing but
the sound of my own name.
Leona.
Leona.
Leona.
I twist out from under him,
hide behind a tree.

(A shift. The tension of quiet. LEONA, hiding behind a tree, grabs the knife from where it’s fallen on the ground. She picks up a stone and flings it at the OUTLAW.)

I hurl the stone.
It hits its mark.

(The rock cracks against his skull, the man staggers, crashing to the ground.)

I grab my knife from where it fell.
My husband’s wrists are bound,
mouth, crammed full of leaves—
I undo the blindfold, cut his ties.
“Ambrose,” I plead.
“Let’s leave this place. Come on. Let’s go.”

But Ambrose just spits the last leaves from his mouth,
he says nothing
as the man stirs—

“Ambrose, before it’s too late—
Take my knife.”

(LEONA presses the knife into his hand. AMBROSE takes it, but doesn’t move.)

But Ambrose just murmurs.

AMBROSE
“My heart.”

LEONA
“What did you say?”

AMBROSE
“My heart. I can’t—”

LEONA
“I don’t understand—”

AMBROSE
“My heart. It won’t—”

LEONA
“Ambrose! You brought us here,”
I lash,
as the man staggers to his feet.
“Go on! Go on!”

But Ambrose, still as a tree,
doesn’t move.
He just looks through me—

(AMBROSE spins around, entering into combat with the OUTLAW. As they fight LEONA grabs the rifle, aiming it at them both.)

Two smudges, slashing at the smoke—
I aim the rifle at their rabid strokes,
Ambrose, gaining now,
with a mettle I’d missed.

As his strength begins to wane,
I point the muzzle
towards the smoke-glutted sky—

(A gunshot. The echoing silence of its aftermath. The OUTLAW stumbles, flailing, thrusting the blade into his opponent’s side.)

“Ambrose—!”

(LEONA runs towards AMBROSE, dropping the gun.)

Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod
to stop the spilling blood.
I forage nettle, dock, pyrola
to staunch the wound—

I look up. The man is gone.

“Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod—
I know these things.
I can help him—
Crocus to blunt the pain.”

(With AMBROSE now, tending to him.)

“Ambrose. Look at me.”

AMBROSE
“I can’t.
How could you?
I heard, I saw.”

LEONA
“Nothing. You saw nothing.”

AMBROSE
“Moonstones, opals, eyes on fire—
Burning.
For him.”

LEONA
“Him?”

And in that moment I’m like a tree,
heartwood cracked.
What we had is gone.
All the good done in—

AMBROSE
“Erased.”

(AMBROSE breathes in, a strange sound.)

LEONA
“Ambrose. Ambrose. No.”

A hollow rattle,
and he’s dead.

Agrimony, yarrow, goldenrod,
nettle, pyrola, dock.

Stunned by his scorn,
his sudden, stony hate,
I faltered—
I failed to apply pressure to the wound,
to staunch his bleeding,
to keep death at bay.
I failed.
It was me. I failed.
I killed him.
It was me. Leona.

I ram myself against a rock.
I carve a crevice in my skin.
I turn back.
Sun streaming through the blackened grove,
lighting up the body—
Its pallor shines, it shone.

I run blindly through the woods,
hurtling down the steep,
flinging myself over ledge and precipice,
plunging into a black, bottomless pool,
weighed down with rocks.
I do not drown—
Stepping before a stampeding cart,
I endure,
bruised but breathing still.

I stand before you, a murderer—
Destroyed.

What am I to—?
What am I to—?
What am I—?