He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in his mug of coffee, wiped the blade of the knife with it, and handed the knife to Amy, haft first. Amy eyed it warily for a minute, decided he was right, even though he probably meant the gesture as one of contempt, and took the knife. She handled it gingerly. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sweet pickles, his eyes were sparkling like some kind of gemstones. Amy wished they wouldn’t do that, as they affected the speed of her heartbeat alarmingly. She took out her own clean hankie and wiped the coffee from the blade of the knife. Then, concentrating on her sandwich, she carved a bit of roast beef and bread with Charlie’s knife and forked it into her mouth. The knife was very sharp. After she’d swallowed—her code of conduct might have slipped some, but she hadn’t sunk far enough to talk with her mouth full—she turned to Charlie again.
“Thank you, Mr. Fox. Your knife works very well. It’s quite sharp. You must take great pains to keep the edge well honed.”
Charlie nodded. He’d propped his chin on his folded hands, which were supported by his elbows, and was watching every move she made. Amy heaved a small internal sigh and wondered if most of the world was like him, or if most people behaved as she and her Pasadena friends and family did. If she herself was unique, and not Charlie Fox, she expected she’d have a lot of adjusting to do as she moved through life. Or perhaps she could merely return to Pasadena and not have to face the world again.
“Yes, ma’am. Got to keep ‘em sharp or they don’t do no good.”
“I see.”
“But it ain’t hard to do. A honin’ strop, a piece of rock, and bear grease does the job right fine.”
“Bear grease?” Amy eyed her sandwich. But she hadn’t tasted anything amiss, so she guessed the napkin and coffee had eliminated any telltale traces. Probably it had been the coffee. Amy couldn’t imagine even bear grease surviving coffee.
“Yes, ma’am. Them bears, they’s good for lots of things besides eatin’.”
She squinted up at him sideways, curious as to why he sounded so much more ungrammatical now than when she’d first met him. Eyeing the remains of her sandwich, she wondered if she should take another bite or two. She was feeling full, but didn’t know when her next meal would be served—or what it would be. She hadn’t anticipated eating foreign food when she’d agreed to play a part in this picture.
“Losin’ yer appetite?”
When she glanced at Charlie again, his grin was in place, his eyes were twinkling, and Amy decided that if one were forced to face trials in life in order to temper one’s character, which was what she’d always been told was the way of the world. Charlie Fox was setting up to be a huge trial. “Yes.” She smiled. It had been a somewhat pleasant little joke. “I do believe I am.”
“You got a whole lot of sandwich left,” Charlie pointed out.
Immediately, Amy thought of the poor starving orphan children in China and India, as she’d been taught to do as a child. She wished she had a starving orphan right here right now; she’d gladly relinquish the rest of her sandwich. On the other hand….
She smiled sweetly at Charlie. “Since you’re such a hard-working fellow and need lots of fuel to keep your energy up, perhaps you can help me finish it, Mr. Fox.”
He looked startled for a moment, then grinned back. “Why, that’s a very nice offer, Miss Wilkes. Don’t mind if I do.”
So he did. Amy watched him polish off the last three-quarters of her sandwich with amazement. He really did have a prodigious appetite, didn’t he?
Thinking about Charlie’s appetite started a whole new train of speculation about him in her head. She started out by wondering if he’d enjoy her cooking. Amy had always believed herself to be quite a hand in the kitchen. Then she considered his accent and changeable grammatical leanings. He was an awfully handsome man; he’d appear to advantage in a suit and tie of a Sunday morning, say, on his way to church. With his neatly dressed children and his pretty wife.
Amy couldn’t help thinking that Charlie Fox could be quite a respectable member of society if someone were to take him in hand—clean him up, as her uncle might say. If someone were to, oh, for instance, teach him grammar and table manners and not to swear in public, Amy had a feeling he’d fool anyone into thinking he was a perfectly refined gentleman.
She was distilling her image of Charlie as a civilized human being when a commotion broke out at the front flap of the tent. She heard someone shouting, then heard a woman scream, and turned to see what was happening.
Charlie turned, too. Martin, who, Amy realized, had been sitting as still as a stone and watching Charlie and her banter back and forth, stood, shaded his eyes, and stared in the direction of the ruckus. Amy heard him mutter under his breath, but couldn’t make out what he said, which was probably just as well. Although Martin Tafft would never, she felt sure, sink so low as to curse in a room full of people, she could clearly see that he was upset.
With growing uneasiness, she asked, “What is it, Mr. Tafft?”
Charlie, too, seemed concerned, and glanced at Martin sharply. “Need any help, Martin?”
“I’m not sure,” Martin said. He extricated himself from his chair, skirted their table, and headed like a bee to its hive toward the front of the tent.
Amy watched, apprehensive. “I hope nothing’s the matter.”
“Yeah,” said Charlie. “Me, too.” He rose and, because of his height, didn’t have as much trouble as Martin had in discerning the cause of the commotion. He frowned. “Hellfire.”
Amy, alarmed in earnest now, jumped from her chair. “Oh, Mr. Fox, what is it?”
“Some drunk, it looks like form here.”
“Oh.” Some drunk? Amy’s nose wrinkled.
“Yeah. Looks to be carrying on something fearful.”
“How disgusting.”
She shouldn’t have said that; she could tell as soon as she noticed the expression on Charlie’s face. “Well, it is,” she averred with some spirit. “I think it’s deplorable for men to drink themselves senseless and then cause problems for others.”
Shrugging, Charlie said, “I reckon you’re right.”
He didn’t sound as if he believed it. Amy felt considerably deflated and said darkly, “One of the people in this picture is a man who drinks too much. He spent a month at my uncle’s health spa, but I don’t believe he profited from the experience.” She sniffed her disapproval.
“That so?” Still watching the melee, his eyes thinned for better vision, Charlie said, “Would that be Mr. Horace Huxtable, by any chance? The man who spent time at your uncle’s place, I mean?”
“Yes. Yes, it was Mr. Huxtable.” A sinking sensation crept into Amy’s breast; a feeling of premonition, of dire anticipation. If that man making all the fuss was Horace Huxtable—
“That’s him, all right,” Charlie said cheerfully, confirming Amy’s worst fears. “Drunk as a skunk and roarin’ something comical.”
Amy, speechless, pressed a hand to her bosom. She’d die. She’d absolutely die if she had to put up with Horace Huxtable after he’d been drinking. The man was insufferable sober, for heaven’s sake.
“Shooty tooty, he’s raisin’ hell for sure. I think Martin needs a hand.” Charlie took off at a lope.
Amy watched him go with a plummeting heart.
* * *
There was nothing the least bit comical about this situation as far as Martin Tafft was concerned.
“For God’s sake, Huxtable, they only let you loose yesterday.” He tried to take Huxtable’s arm, but the actor flung Martin’s hand away.
“Unhand me, vassal,” Huxtable slurred as if he was king of the world and Martin a lowly servant.
“For the love of Mike,” Martin muttered. “Let me get you put away someplace. You’ve got to get sobered up before tomorrow. We rehearse in the morning.”
“I,” Huxtable said, swinging his arms about and narrowly avoiding collisions with se
veral spectators, “am a profesh—profesh—a seasoned performer.”
“You’re seasoned, all right. Pickled is more like it.”
Several people snickered, and Huxtable attempted to draw himself up majestically. He succeeded in overbalancing himself and staggering backwards, bumping into a table and a man who’d been watching.
About at his wit’s end, Martin was ecstatic when Charlie showed up.
“Need some help, Martin?” the big cowboy asked as if the problem were nothing to him.
“I sure do. Thanks, Charlie. We’ve got to get him out of here and to his tent. We’ll have to dry him out somehow.”
“Tie him up,” Charlie suggested. “That’s what we had to do with Pete Thatcher at the ranch. He’d be okay tied up. Loose, he was hell on fire.”
Although so drastic a measure hadn’t occurred to Martin, the circumstances were such that he grabbed at it instantly. “Good idea.”
Charlie seemed to survey the wobbly actor with a judicious eye for a moment. Then he said, “Reckon I’ll catch him up top, Martin. I’ve had more practice rassling wild animals than you have, I ‘spect.”
In spite of the catastrophic entrance of Horace Huxtable onto the scene, stinking drunk in the face of dire warnings from Phineas Lovejoy and Martin himself, Charlie’s easygoing, practical assessment of the task ahead of them tickled Martin. He approved wholeheartedly. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie seemed to catch sight of Amy Wilkes a moment after Martin himself did. He hitched himself up for a second, then rubbed his hands together and said, “Aw, hell, Martin. ‘Tain’t nothin’.”
Good God, the man was deliberately making himself sound like an oaf in front of Miss Wilkes! Martin had no time to contemplate this weird phenomenon before Charlie, who really did look as if he’d performed this operation more than once in his life, slipped behind Huxtable and snaked his arms around him, pinning the actor’s arms to his sides and immobilizing him. Huxtable spluttered for a second, then bellowed obscenely. Spectators flinched from the noise and began to laugh. Amy blushed and pressed a hand to her cheek.
“Fetch up his legs, Martin. Maybe somebody will have to help, since he’s got tow of ‘em—although they ain’t workin’ too good at the moment.”
This was true. However, Huxtable was still able to kick, and Martin was glad to see a man—he thought it was the chief cameraman, but couldn’t take the time to make sure—step out from the crowd. “I’ll get the left leg, Tafft. You take the right.”
“Thanks.” Martin waited until Huxtable had lifted his right knee and grabbed him by the calf and stuck the leg under his arm tightly, subduing Huxtable’s struggles. The cameraman grabbed the actor’s other leg.
“There we go.” Charlie nodded and grinned at his helpers. “Point the way, Martin, and we can carry him there. I got me a rope in my bag, if somebody’ll fetch it out of my tent.”
Glancing around wildly, Martin’s attention landed on Amy, the one person on hand in whose common sense he trusted implicitly. “Miss Wilkes?” he asked, lending a tone of pleading to his voice.
She swallowed. “I—why, of course, Mr. Tafft.”
“Thanks a lot, Miss Wilkes. Charlie’s tent is the first one on the left next to the one where the cameras are stored.”
“Very well.” She gave what looked like a valiant smile and Martin appreciated her a lot. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.” She started briskly off, then stopped in her tracks. “Er, where shall I bring it?”
“You won’t have any trouble findin’ us,” Charlie assured her with a wink. “You’ll hear this here hoss bellerin’ like a stuck hog.”
Martin wasn’t surprised when Amy’s eyebrows arched nearly into her prettily piled hairdo. He couldn’t fault her for her reaction. Charlie in cowboy mode was an astonishing thing to behold. And to be-heard.
* * *
Intensely glad that she’d taken the time to loosen her corset, Amy ran to Charlie Fox’s tent. She felt a pang of indecision—after all, it was dreadfully improper to go through a gentleman’s bag—which she overcame quickly. She’d been sent on an important errand, and she’d been given permission by the bag’s owner to rifle through it.
She had to force herself not to dawdle, because she’d never had the opportunity to inspect a gentleman’s things before. He wore very large shirts, she noticed. And his underthings were clean and mended, if not of the highest quality. Amy supposed a cowboy had considerations other than luxury when purchasing such items.
“Good heavens, Amy Wilkes, you’re behaving badly.” She quit contemplating Charlie’s underwear and searched for the rope, making sure she didn’t wrinkle anything. Ah, there is was. She snatched it up, replaced the clothes in the carpetbag and fastened it, and hastened back to Huxtable’s tent.
Charlie had been right. If Amy had any doubts about which tent was the right one, Huxtable’s bellows would have led her on the proper path. The man was a disgrace to humankind. And Amy was supposed to fall in love with him on-screen. She wasn’t sure she had any acting talent, but if she did, she was pretty certain it didn’t extend that far.
Thrusting her apprehension about One and Only aside, she entered the tent. The sight that greeted her wasn’t an attractive one. Huxtable was on his back on his bed, shouting vile curses as he bucked and kicked, and Charlie, the cameraman, and Martin tried to hold him down. Amy gazed upon the spectacle, frowning, trying to figure out what to do now. Charlie couldn’t very well leave off holding the beast down, because Martin was surely not strong enough to hold him by himself, and the cameraman looked exhausted already.
“Hurry up with the rope!” Charlie hollered at her.
She transferred her frown to him. “In a minute. I’m thinking.”
“Kee-rist,” Charlie muttered, offending Amy.
Huxtable let go of a string of words, half of which Amy had never heard before. She had no trouble at all in discerning their meanings, however.
She shook her head once, decisively, said, “This is ridiculous,” and headed straight for Huxtable’s dressing table. There she picked up the flowered water pitcher, which some underling had filled earlier in the day, and carried it to the bed.
“For God’s sake, give me the rope!” Charlie cried. He sounded as if he were tiring some himself.
“Oh, hold your horses.” Amy was quite pleased with the tone of voice she achieved, which was both peeved and steadfast. She paused only long enough to observe the deplorable spectacle in order to judge trajectories. Then she said, “Please close your eyes, Mr. Fox. Prepare yourself, Mr. Tafft,” and she emptied the entire pitcher of water on Huxtable’s face.
“Aaaaarrrrgh!” bubbled out from Huxtable’s throat. After the one terrified yell, he was too busy coughing and choking to make any more noise. Amy stepped back, pleased with her work.
Charlie, who had been splattered, as Amy had expected, in the face and front of his shirt, grinned broadly at her. “Quick thinking, Miss Wilkes,” he said. “May I have the rope now?”
My, wasn’t he polite and grammatical all of a sudden? Amy was beginning to think Mr. Charlie Fox was something of a fraud. Which would probably make him a superb actor. She said, “Certainly,” and handed over the rope.
Quick as a wink, Charlie had Horace Huxtable wrapped and tied. “Hog-tied,” Charlie said with a pleased expression on his face.
Amy was pleased, too.
Martin laughed. “I swear, you two make quite a team. I must say, Miss Wilkes, I never expected you to do anything to enterprising.”
“Neither did I,” said Charlie.
Amy smiled at Martin, lifted her chin, and turned to Charlie. “I’m sure you didn’t. But it worked, didn’t it?”
“It sure did.” For the first time since she’d met him several hours earlier, Charlie looked as if he approved of her. Amy tried not to bask.
“God damn you!” Huxtable bellowed from the bed. “What did you do that for?” He was glaring at Amy. He was also dripping all over the floor
of his tent.
Amy picked up her skirt so its hem wouldn’t get wet. She walked over and stared down at Huxtable, not bothering to hide her contempt. “I did that because you were behaving in a vile and abominable way. A body would think these men were dealing with a baby, the way you carried on. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” And, although Amy had no experience with good exit lines, she turned on her heel and headed for the flap of Huxtable’s tent.
“So there,” Charlie laughed.
After sputtering in impotent fury for a moment, Huxtable scowled up at him. “Shut up, you damned bastard.”
“Got a rag?” Charlie asked Martin.
“Um, I don’t know. Why?” Martin sounded puzzled.
“We’d probably better gag this stinker so he can’t call anybody else any dirty names.”
Amy hoped the men in the tent wouldn’t hear the giggle that burst out of her mouth. My goodness, in spite of their differences, she did like Charlie Fox.
The rest of Amy’s day was spent in accustoming herself to the rigors of on-site motion picture making. Martin gave her and Charlie a tour of the tent settlement. Amy was vastly interested in the cameras. She’d never seen anything like them, and wondered if the cameraman’s arm didn’t get tired from all the cranking it had to do. Believing the question too naïve to voice aloud, she didn’t.
She went to bed that night, after a tolerable supper of soup and bread and butter and cheese, in her own little tent, and hoped she’d be able to acquit herself well in this new and dangerous endeavor.
She also vowed she’d never be lured into making another moving picture again as long as she lived. She even said as much to Vernon in the letter she wrote to him that night. She missed him terribly. She told him that, too.
Four
Horace Huxtable arrived at rehearsal the next morning looking sick and with a greenish cast to his skin. His eyes were streaked with red veins, and their lids were puffy. He scowled horribly at Charlie Fox and eyed Amy with evident loathing. Which was fine with her. She loathed him, too.
Cowboy For Hire Page 5