B. M. BOWER: Historical Novels, Westerns & Old West Sagas (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
to death, and sass me when I say a word agin it—now I’m tellin’ yuh!”
He went mumbling rebellion that was merely the effervescing of a mood which would pass with the words it bred, to the store-room which Annie-Many-Ponies had called the prop-room. He found there, piled upon a crude shelf, many little bundles of wire folded neatly and with the outer end wound twice around to keep each bundle separate from the others. Applehead snorted at what he chose to consider a finicky streak in his secret idol, Luck Lindsay; but he took two of the little bundles and went and wired the wagon tongue. And in the work he found a salve of anticipatory pleasure, so that he ended the task to the humming of the tune he had heard a movie theatre playing in town as he rode by on his way home.
Chapter II. The Daughter of a Chief
In spite of Andy Green’s plea for delay until they knew what Luck meant to do, Applehead went on with his energetic preparations for a spring roundup of his own. Some perverse spirit seemed to possess him and drive him out of his easy-going shiftlessness. He offered to hire the Happy Family by the day, since none of them would promise any permanent service until they heard from Luck. He put them to work gathering up the saddle-horses that had been turned loose when Luck’s picture was finished, and repairing harness and attending to the numberless details of reorganizing a ranch long left to slipshod make-shifts.
The boys of the Flying U argued while they worked, but in spite of themselves the lure of the mesa quickened their movements. They were supposed to wait for Luck before they did anything; an they all knew that. But, on the other hand, Luck was supposed to keep them informed as to his movements; which he had not done. They did not voice one single doubt of Lucks loyalty to them, but human nature is more prone to suspicion than to faith, as every one knows. And Luck had the power and the incentive to “double-cross” them if he was the kind to do such a thing. He was manager for their little free-lance picture company which did not even have a name to call itself by. They had produced one big feature film, and it was supposed to be a cooperative affair from start to finish. If Luck failed to make good, they would all be broke together. If Luck cleared up the few thousands that had been their hope, why—they would all profit by the success, if Luck—
I maintain that they showed themselves of pretty good metal, in that not even Happy Tack, confirmed pessimist that he was, ever put the least suspicion of Luck’s honesty into words. They were not the kind to decry a comrade when his back was turned. And they had worked with Luck Lindsay and had worked for him. They had slept under the same roof with him, had shared his worries, his hopes, and his fears. They did not believe that Luck had appropriated the proceeds of The Phantom Herd and had deliberately left them there to cool their heels and feel the emptiness of their pockets in New Mexico, while he disported himself in Los Angeles; they did—not believe that—they would have resented the implication that they harbored any doubt of him. But for all that, as the days passed and he neither came nor sent them any word, they yielded more and more to the determination of Applehead to start out upon his own business, and they said less and less about Luck’s probable plans for the future.
And then, just when they were making ready for an early start the next morning; just when Applehead had the corral full of horses and his chuckwagon of grub; just when the Happy Family had packed their war-bags with absolute necessities and were justifying themselves in final arguments with Andy Green, who refused point-blank to leave the; ranch—then, at the time a dramatist would have chosen for his entrance for an effective “curtain,” here came Luck, smiling and driving a huge seven-passenger machine crowded to the last folding seat and with the chauffeur riding on the running board where Luck had calmly banished him when he skidded on a sharp turn and came near upsetting them.
Applehead, stowing a coil of new rope in the chuck-wagon, took off his hat and rubbed his shiny, pink pate in dismay. He was, for the moment, a culprit caught in the act of committing a grave misdemeanor if not an actual felony. He dropped the rope and went forward with dragging feet—ashamed, for the first time in his life, to face a friend.
Luck gave the wheel a twist, cut a fine curve around the windmill and stopped before the house with as near a flourish as a seven-passenger automobile loaded from tail-lamp to windshield can possibly approach.
“There. That’s the way I’ve been used to seeing cars behave,” Luck observed pointedly to the deposed chauffeur as he slammed the door open and climbed out. “You don’t have to act like you’re a catepillar on a rail fence, to play safe. I believe in keeping all four wheels on the ground—but I like to see ‘em turn once in awhile. You get me?” He peeled a five-dollar banknote off a roll the size of his wrist, handed it to the impressed chauffeur and dismissed the transaction with a wave of his gloved hand. “You’re all right, brother,” he tempered his criticism, “but I’m some nervous about automobiles.”
“I noticed that myself,” drawled a soft, humorous voice from the rear. “This is the nearest I ever came to traveling by telegraph.”
Luck grinned, waved his hand in friendly greeting to the Happy Family who were taking long steps up from the corral, and turned his attention to the unloading of the machine. “Howdy, folks!—guess yuh thought I’d plumb lost the trail back,” he called to them over his shoulder while he dove after suitcases, packages of various sizes and shapes, a box or two which the Happy Family recognized as containing “raw stock,” and a camera tripod that looked perfectly new.
From the congested tonneau a tall, slim young woman managed to descend without stepping on anything that could not bear being stepped upon. She gave her skirts a little shake, pushed back a flying strand of hair and turned her back to the machine that she might the better inspect her immediate surroundings.
Old Dave Wiswell, the dried little man who never had much to say, peered at her sharply, hesitated and then came forward with his bony hand outstretched and trembling with eagerness. “Why, my gorry! If it ain’t Jean Douglas, my eyes are lyin’ to me,” he cried.
“It isn’t Jean Douglas—but don’t blame your eyes for that,” said the girl, taking his hand and shaking it frankly. “Jean Douglas Avery, thanks to the law that makes a girl trade her name for a husband. You know Lite, of course—dad, too.”
“Well, well—my gorry I I should say I do! Howdy, Aleck?” He shook the hand of the old man Jean called dad, and his lips trembled uncertainly, seeking speech that would not hurt a very, very sore spot in the heart of big Aleck Douglas. “I’m shore glad to meet yuh again,” he stuttered finally, and let it go at that “And how are yuh, Lite? Just as long and lanky as ever—marriage shore ain’t fattened you up none. My gorry! I shore never expected to see you folks away down here!”
“Thought you heard me say when I left that the Great Western had offered to get me Jean Douglas for leading lady,” Luck put in, looking around distractedly for a place to deposit his armload of packages. “That’s one thing that kept me—waiting for her to show up. Of course a man naturally expects a woman to take her own time about starting—”
“I like that!” Jean drawled. “We broke up housekeeping and wound up a ranch and traveled a couple of thousand miles in just a week’s time. We—we ALMOST hit the same gait you did from town out here today!”
Rosemary Green came out then, and Luck turned to greet her and to present Jean to her, and was pleased when he saw from their eyes that they liked each other at first sight. He introduced the Happy Family and Applehead to her and to her husband, Lite Avery, and her father. He pulled a skinny individual forward and announced that this was Pete Lowry, one of the Great Western’s crack cameramen; and another chubby, smooth-cheeked young man he presented as Tommy Johnson, scenic artist and stage carpenter. And he added with a smile for the whole bunch, “We’re going to produce some real stuff from now on believe me, folks!”
In the confusion and the mild clamor of the absence-bridging questions and hasty answers, two persons had no part. Old Applehead, hard-ridden by the uneasy consciousness of his treason to Luck, leaned against a porch post and sucked hard at the stem