Randolph Scott captures young killer James Best and intends to take him to Santa Cruze to be hanged for murder, and collect the reward. Along the way he runs into two miscreants, Pernell Roberts and his sidekick James Coburn, who would like to take Best in themselves, in return for which they would received amnesty. ("Ain't that a great word?") They also provide protection to a woman, Karen Steele, who wears a pointed 1950s brassiere throughout and is there chiefly to stimulate the glands of Roberts. (Scott, after listening to Roberts praise the various physical and characterological properties of Steele: "She ain't ugly.") The conflict intrinsic to this arrangement is that Scott, on the one hand, and Roberts and Coburn on the other, seem to be at cross purposes. If Scott doesn't hand over the prisoner, then Scott gets the bounty but Roberts and Coburn don't get their amnesty. Roberts reluctantly informs Scott that, sooner or later, Scott will be shot. Meanwhile they must hang together under threats from Apaches and from Best's brother and his gang, who are in hot pursuit.
Of the several movies that Randolph Scott and director Budd Boetticher made together, I think I probably enjoy this one the most -- this and "Seven Men From Now." It's a leisurely travel story set among the stucco-textured rocks of Movie Flats, California. The story is simple, the location shooting impressive, and the dialog by Burt Kennedy sings with a kind of folk lyricism. (If you get amnesty, "You don't have to shiver every time you see a man wearin' tin.") Scott is his stalwart, taciturn self. Coburn's dim-wittedness provides some gentle humor. Pernell Roberts fakes a Southern accent and seems to be enjoying the camera a little too much, which turns him into a self-satisfied Hollywood actor instead of a sympathetic and colorful criminal.
The nicest performance may be that of James Best as the callow, somewhat sensitive, but doomed murderer. He's given the line that warns Karen Steele to stay away from the body of a man slaughtered by Indians: "Ain't nothing' for a woman to see!"
Yet, watching these collaborative efforts in sequence, as I've been doing -- why it sets a man to wonderin' what it is that keeps them entertainin' stead of a mite more than that. Of course the budgets were low, but some directors have been able to overcome such strictures. The musical scores were by Heinz Roemheld and they're pedestrian. The five scripts written by Burt Kennedy are better than the rest. And there's an awful lot of repetition. There's nothing wrong with quoting yourself. John Ford often had men splashing a glass of whiskey into a fireplace and having it flame up. Howard Hawks repeated himself often, including single lines like, "Good luck to you." Hitchcock had his cameos and Huston often dubbed his voice somewhere into the mix. But those were self-conscious tricks, a kind of joke, whereas here the repetitions seem to stem from a conviction that the audience doesn't pay enough attention to notice them.
Not to go on about it. It was an enjoyable series and this example is an exemplary one.
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