“That’s our neighbors over there,” Wes said. “Some of those houses go for upward of half a million dollars. Used to be an avocado farm. Now they call it Sagebrush Village Estates.” The way he said the words made it sound as if he wished Sagebrush were still an avocado farm.
Midway along the boundary fence, Wes pointed out a small cut stone and a well-tended patch of green grass. On the other side of the fence a bulldozer, like a sleeping dinosaur, sat beside a house under construction.
“Ever see Lonesome Pine Territory, Alec?” Wes asked.
“How about Six Guns at Midnight?”
Alec shook his head politely.
“No, I guess you’re too young to remember those pictures. Guess I’m showing my age.” He leaned out of the cart and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Anyway, the hero’s horse in those old Westerns was Sinbad, just about the greatest picture horse of all time. That’s his grave over there. Sinbad helped build Taylor Ranch into what it is today. There’ll never be another horse like him.”
The cart turned left onto the main driveway dividing the ranch. The burned hulks of a truck and trailer sat off to the side, both charred black. Barely visible letters on the side of the truck spelled out O’HENRY’S CATERING SERVICE.
“See that?” Wes said. A sour look crossed his face. “Some idiot put gasoline in one of the diesel generators a couple days ago. It provided the electricity to the food truck and Kramer’s trailer. When the generator caught fire, it burned them both up.” So that accounted for the odor of burned metal, Alec thought.
“It was a real mess. Put us behind schedule and knocked O’Henry’s out of commission for a few days. Jim’s been filling in for them until they can get outfitted again.”
They drove by the wide corral on the left. Wes nodded to the men inside. On the right was a lopsided shed housing two buckboard wagons and a hayloft. A small trailer, set on flattened tires, rusted beside the wagon shed. Alec learned later that the trailer was where Jim slept.
Past the trailer, and only about twenty yards from the kitchen door, stood a well-maintained tack shed. Part of it had been converted into an office. Through an open doorway, Alec could see a work desk set up next to a lounge area of tables and chairs. Beyond the tack shed, the herd of horses grazed peacefully in the pasture fronting Lingo Canyon Road.
The light breeze began to carry a fresh scent, the smell of country cooking. Wes pulled the electric cart to a stop in front of the ranch house. Actors and film crew milled around, waiting for lunch to begin. Alec wondered if the famous Paul Kramer was among them.
At the edge of the crowd, a girl stood talking to a tough-looking, heavyset man in overalls. Wes walked over to them and Alec followed. The man’s cap had the name BENBOW FEED COMPANY stitched to the front. The girl handed the man a check. “And tell ol’ man Benbow that if you guys don’t start getting the feed out here on time, this’ll be the last check he sees from us. He’s not the only supplier around.”
The deliveryman took the check and snarled, “Listen up, girl. You people are still three months late on your payments as it is. You’re lucky we came at all.” He stuffed the check into his pocket and stormed off to his truck.
“This is my granddaughter, Ellie,” Wes said proudly. “She’s my right hand around here these days. And Ellie, I want you to meet Alec Ramsay.”
She was about seventeen or eighteen, dressed in slim jeans and a loose work shirt. Her long, dark hair was pulled tight behind her head in a ponytail. She held a clipboard with a thick stack of papers pressed to it. Her blue eyes flashed as they connected with Alec.
“Hi,” Alec said.
“So you’re the one who rides the Black.” Her tone of voice sounded mildly curious, nothing more. She didn’t seem to be intimidated easily, or impressed, not by famous jockeys or hulking deliverymen.
Alec nodded. She was pretty enough to make Alec self-consciously straighten his shirt and run his hand through his hair. When she realized he was doing this for her, Ellie warmed a bit and gave him a smile.
“Pops told me he knew the Black’s trainer. I thought he was just feeding me another one of his stories. He has some real gems, believe me.”
Alec smiled back. “Thanks for the warning.”
A phone rang inside the office and Ellie excused herself. Wes followed her, pointing Alec to the kitchen. “I want to see who this is. Go ahead and get yourself some eats.”
Inside the kitchen, actors, production crew and wranglers lined up for their lunch. Jim hovered over an ancient stove. He dished up plates of beans and other vegetables and handed them out one at a time. Beside the stove was a counter cluttered with plates, an electric mixer and a can opener. Yellowing white wallpaper peeled from the ceiling. An oversize refrigerator wheezed plaintively in the corner.
The Drover Days crew on hand that day consisted of at least thirty people. The dining area of the kitchen was large enough to accommodate them all. Dozens of ladder-back chairs surrounded three long, rectangular tables. Plastic blue-and-white-checkered tablecloths covered each of them. Stacks of tortillas and biscuits steamed in straw baskets beside pitchers of iced tea.
The food line moved slowly ahead. In front of Alec waited two black-bearded young men. Light meters and camera lenses hung around their necks like medallions. Alec guessed they must be cameramen. They raised a forlorn chorus of “Beans again” as they picked up their plates. It was a good-natured protest and only half serious.
“Protein, boys, pure protein,” Jim replied. “You’re going to need it when you see what Frank’s planned for you this afternoon.”
Alec stepped forward and Jim handed him a plate of food. “Careful,” Jim warned. “It’s hot.” Alec followed the two bearded men to a half-empty table. Technicians and carpenters, work belts slung around their waists, sat alongside a wrangler wearing a cowboy hat and an actor in makeup. Alec recognized the actor as one of the stars of Drover Days.
Alec had seen the show just a few times, usually when he’d been stuck in a hotel room near a track somewhere. It was a favorite of Henry’s, about a gang of saddle tramps working their way across the old West and their adventures along the way. The good-looking horses and western scenery made up for the tired plots.
Alec eagerly dug into his food: bacon-flavored greens, beans, tortillas and hot biscuits. The room buzzed with shoptalk. Between mouthfuls Alec let his gaze wander. Ellie hustled from one table to the other, taking and delivering messages. When the phone rang again, she ran outside to answer it. She seemed to be constantly on the go. Obviously this wasn’t much of a lunch break for her.
After Jim had served the last person in line, he came over and took a seat beside Alec. “The Black get settled in okay?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
“He’ll like it here after that madhouse at Santa Anna.”
One of the bearded cameramen sitting beside Alec turned to his companion and said, “Wonder how much Jim is being paid to fill in for O’Henry?” He spoke loud enough to be sure that Jim overheard.
“Yeah,” chimed in the other cameraman. “This is the second time we’ve had beans for lunch in three days. He’s probably billing the production company for steaks, feeding us beans and pocketing the leftover cash.”
“That’s right, boys,” Jim snapped back. “I’m saving up for a trip to Disneyland.”
The cook and the cameramen joked back and forth. As they were bantering, Jim accidentally knocked over a salt shaker and spilled some salt onto the table. Reflexively, he picked up the shaker and tossed a dash of salt over his left shoulder.
One of the cameramen snickered. “Didn’t know you were so superstitious, Jim. I noticed someone nailed a horseshoe over the porch door after the fire the other day.”
Jim shrugged. “Can’t hurt, especially the way things have been going around here lately.”
“Hear anything new about how that fire started?”
“Nope. The generator guy still swears someone switched gas cans on him.”
“But what about that lamp shorting out and exploding last week? Don’t tell me you really think that was just bad luck too?”
The other conversations at the table tapered off for an uneasy moment of silence. The cameraman didn’t seem to be joking around any longer.
“You mean the fire wasn’t the only accident you’ve had here?” Alec asked. Some of the people chuckled.
Jim smiled. “Afraid not, Alec. But that’s the nature of the business sometimes. Accidents happen.”
“They certainly happen to us,” said the other cameraman. “And old guys like Kramer, I don’t know if they can take it. He really looked wiped out after his trailer caught fire.”
“Kramer’s not so old,” said Jim. “Besides, that fire gave us all a scare.”
A carpenter sitting at the other end of the table spoke up. “Think maybe someone torched the generator on purpose? Yesterday one of the grips told me that there’s been a lot of friction between the producers and the Transport Union.”
Jim picked up a spoon and shook it threateningly at the carpenter. “Where you been, son? That union beef was settled ages ago. You people should pay more attention to your jobs and less time spreading rumors around the set. If you did, we just might get through this shoot without any more surprises.”
The first cameraman nodded toward the doorway. “Just keep nailing up those horseshoes, Jim. I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”
Jim dismissed this comment with a grunt. He picked up a newspaper someone had left on the table and started thumbing through the sports pages. The others quietly resumed their conversations.
Alec stood up and took his plate to the sink. This was turning into one fine day, he thought. First the Black started balking at shadows. Then they had come to Taylor Ranch and met Wes Taylor, who acted like he learned horse training from Attila the Hun. And now Alec was hearing about some accidents that might not have been accidents at all.
He looked out the kitchen window to the horse van parked by the driveway. If things kept on the way they were going, he just might have to forget about this crazy idea of Henry’s and bolt.
CHAPTER 7
Tricks of the Trade
After lunch Alec took his glass of iced tea and went outside onto the porch. Wes leaned against the railing, a sleepy-looking black Labrador at his feet. Alec bent down to pet the dog. Wes nodded at the Lab. “That’s Ziggy.” Ziggy thumped his tail a few times but barely moved a muscle otherwise.
From inside his back pocket Wes pulled out a small, crumpled sack of chewing tobacco. He offered Alec a chaw. Alec shook his head.
“Henry still chew?”
“He quit years ago.”
“Gonna have to quit myself one of these days, maybe when things settle down around here a little.” Wes popped a wad of tobacco into the side of his mouth. “Guess it’s time to get moving. Frank scheduled two scenes for this afternoon up in the canyon. One of ’em could be a real headache. He wants a herd of horses to run to a water hole on their own. I can drive you up to the location site with me. Or you can bring the Black and ride out with the rest of the boys.”
Alec wasn’t so sure he wanted to go along with these guys at all, especially after some of the things he’d just seen and heard. Then again, the Black loved rough, open country. Maybe a little exploring would do them both some good. “Think I’ll ride out.”
“Fine.” Wes called to a broad-chested young cowboy standing by the tack shed. “Mike! Come here a second.”
The cowboy strode up the porch steps toward them. He was about Alec’s age but almost a foot taller. His arms and legs were long and muscular looking. Blond hair stuck out like straw from under a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that hid most of his face. A three-day beard shaded his chin, and a toothpick stuck out from the corner of his mouth.
“Take Alec here over to the little Air Stream out back and show him where to stow his gear, will you?”
Mike and Alec shook hands. After they collected Alec’s bags from the horse van, the young cowboy led the way to a small silver trailer. So this was the Air Stream. It was just right for one person, even roomy enough for two if they didn’t try to move around at the same time. Alec left his bag inside the door.
“How did you come to work for Wes?” Alec asked.
“I like working with horses.”
“Not easy finding a job where you can do that anymore.”
“Particularly if you want to eat regular.”
Alec laughed. “I hear you.”
“Most folks these days, you say mustang and they think you’re talking about a convertible.”
The blond cowboy told Alec that he’d grown up on a cattle ranch near Ojai, California. Ever since he was a kid he’d had a way with horses. A few years ago, after his father sold the ranch, Mike left home to follow the rodeo circuit. He picked up a job as a wrangler on a low-budget Western and met Wes. They kept in touch, and when Wes needed some extra help, he called Mike. Before long Mike started bunking at Taylor Ranch as well as working there.
“How about the other wranglers? Any of them live here?”
“Just me and Jim. Jim’s lived with Wes for years.”
“He’s a cook?”
“More of a caretaker. He looks after the place when Wes has to go on the road. Lately he’s been getting acting work. He played the part of a baseball manager in a beer commercial last week.”
“You ever done any acting?” Alec asked. Mike was good-looking in a rugged, rebel sort of way.
Mike shook his head. “Nah. Acting’s not for me. Stunts, that’s what I like. But the Stuntman’s Union is a tough one to break into.” His eyes narrowed with determination. “My turn’ll come.”
The sound of neighing and whinnying came from the pasture. “The boys are saddling up,” said Mike. “We’d better get going.” They set off to collect their horses for the ride up into the canyon.
When Alec brought the Black in from his corral, he found Mike talking to two men in denim and cowboy hats. The taller one, with hair nearly as red as Alec’s, crouched down to tighten the girth strap on his horse’s saddle. The other, a short, dark-eyed Latino, gave Alec a slight nod.
Alec stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Alec Ramsay.”
The Latino shook hands and flashed a toothy smile. “I’m Julio Garcia. Mike was just telling us about you.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Patrick Rabain.”
The big redhead stood up and pumped Alec’s hand. “A real pleasure,” he said with a smile. Alec smiled back.
Mike swung up into his saddle. “Okay, you guys. Let’s get rolling.”
Mike and the other wranglers escorted a dozen or so horses along the driveway: big Appaloosas, Standardbreds and Morgans. The wranglers themselves rode sturdy Quarter Horses colored chestnut, bay and roan. The Quarter Horses were built for speed and staying power, with broad, heavy hindquarters full all the way down to the hocks.
Turning left, Alec and the Black joined the wranglers as they set off for the Drover Days location site in the upper reaches of Lingo Canyon. The wranglers yipped and whistled, whooping it up as they rode herd on the unbridled horses. Their nimble Quarter Horses kept order easily.
The trail wound higher and higher, passing sloping granite walls and dusty boulders. Alec relaxed, letting his legs hang loose out of the stirrups. Riding with the wranglers, he felt like he could be living a scene right out of an old cowboy movie. He wondered what it would have been like to be a cowboy meandering along the dusty trail in the days of the old West. His gaze lingered on the dramatic-looking palisades, boulders and wind-twisted trees around them. No wonder this area attracted filmmakers.
The trail began to level off. Rounding a bend, it emptied into a box canyon hidden among the towering cliffs. The canyon floor spread into a wide plateau about a mile square. The crew had driven ahead of the herd in their Jeeps and four-wheel-drive trucks. They were already setting up at the location site, a small area lit by racks of powerful lights.
A truck carrying a portable power generator parked a short distance away. Black cables snaked across the ground between the humming generator and the lighting, sound and video equipment.
Unlike the leisurely trail ride, the atmosphere around the location site felt charged with energy. The crew didn’t walk; they ran. Men and women on ladders called back and forth as they adjusted camera tripods and stands of lights. With all the shouting and the noise of equipment being moved, the place sounded like a construction site.
Frank Meyer, the director, called out orders to the crew. Alec asked Mike what was on the agenda. “Two scenes,” said Mike. “The first one should be simple—just some dialogue between two actors on horseback. The other scene is the problem.”
Alec remembered that Wes had said something about a water-hole scene. He looked around but didn’t see any water. Mike nodded to where Frank and Wes were marking a spot in the dirt. Four production assistants quickly began to dig a wide trench. A truck carrying tanks of water parked close by. As no water hole existed here, Mike explained, the art department was making one.
Mike popped a toothpick into his mouth. “The trick’ll be getting the horses to run to the water.”
“How is Wes going to do it?”
Mike shrugged. “Good question. There’s no telling what’ll happen if we just turn them loose up here. They might just lie down and take a nap. You can bet Wes has something up his sleeve, though.”
“Mike!” Wes cried. “Stop jabbering and get your butt over here.”
Mike hustled over to where Wes stood with the director. Alec felt a little embarrassed about getting Mike yelled at by his boss. He jumped down from his saddle and silently pledged to stay out of the way.
Wes, Mike and Frank huddled together for a moment. Then Mike and another wrangler mounted up and began moving the herd away from the location site to the far end of the box canyon. A white pickup truck followed; the words LOS ANGELES HUMANE COUNCIL were painted on its door.
The Black seemed to sense the excitement in the air and perked up his ears. Alec looked for a place to stand that would be out of the way but where he could still see the action. He found a spot behind and to one side of the camera. Alec turned around to see if they were in anyone’s way. No one said anything to him.
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