by Zane Grey
Far south of the Tonto range, under the purple shadows of the Peloncillos, there lived a big-hearted rancher with whom Monty Price found a home. He did little odd jobs about the ranch that by courtesy might have been called work. He would never ride a horse again. Monty’s legs were warped, his feet hobbled. He did not have free use of his hands. And seldom or never in the presence of anyone did he remove his sombrero. For there was not a hair on his head. His face was dark, almost black, with terrible scars.
A burned-out, hobble-footed wreck of a cowboy! But, strangely, there were those at the ranch who learned to love him. They knew his story.
On Location
The tracks of Wesley’s strayed horse led up the cedar slope and over the windy ridge top into the pines. A roar of motor trucks heavily loaded came from the road down beyond the green slope. Wesley emerged presently at the edge of Bonito Park, where the forest thinned out and ended in the grassy oval shining like a silver lake under the black-belted, white-covered peaks.
A dark thread of road bisected the valley. Along it cars were moving, headed Wesley’s way toward the desert. Riders appeared to be rounding up a big drove of horses. Wesley halted to light a cigarette, his eyes studying this scene, so unusual for lonely Bonito Park. A truck without sides rolled along. Sight of it, loaded with gleaming airplane propeller and engine, recalled to Wesley that Meteor Pictures had been on location there filming a Western.
Then Wesley espied his horse, Sarchedon, cantering around near the other horses, raising the dust like a colt.
“He would, the son-of-a-gun,” soliloquized Wesley, as he rode on. “That darn’ hoss is shore ruined. Ever since I lent him to Lee for that last movie!”
Trucks loaded with camping equipment and supplies passed Wesley into the forest. Evidently the company was going down into the Painted Desert. By the time Wesley rode up to the cabins that marked the site where the company had camped, the two score and more of horses had been bunched. Some were tossing nosebags high and others were kicking and snorting for grain. This bunch of Thoroughbreds belonged to a friend of Wesley’s, Lee Hornell, an Arizonian who had made big money with the motion picture companies.
As Wesley approached the horses, he passed several parked automobiles, all occupied by actors, still with their make-up and costumes on. In the last car a striking beautiful blonde fixed flashing blue eyes upon him. Wesley stared back at her.
Then slim, hawk-nosed, red-faced Lee Hornell left a group at the roadside and called: “Howdy, Wes. Took you plumb long to find us here. We’re leavin’ for Red Lake.”
“Howdy, Lee. Didn’t know anything about it. What’s that airplane propeller for?”
“Say, you backwoods cowpuncher, that’s to throw up a dust storm.”
“Dog-gone! These movie hombres are shore queer. I reckon you could use an elephant.”
“You bet. Have you got one?”
“Shore have. A white elephant. That danged hoss of mine, Sarch.”
“Sarch? Is he gone again? I should think you’d rather count his ribs than his tracks. We haven’t seen him.”
“You’re a liar, Lee. Right there.” And Wesley stretched out a gloved hand.
“Aw, hell! Wes, lend Sarch to me, won’t you please, pard?”
“Not on your life. You damn’ near spoiled him last time. Why, Sarch is nuts on sugar ever since that movie dame fed him a barrel.”
A lanky cowboy in chaps approached Lee. “All grained, boss. Hadn’t we better rustle after the trucks?”
Lee addressed a tall hatless individual who was nervously pacing to and fro with gaze on the road. “Mister Hinckley, shall I shoot the horses along?”
“No. Wait till Brubaker gets here. If Pelham’s double doesn’t come, we’re sunk. You shouldn’t have let the trucks go on.”
“But, Mister Hinckley, “protested Lee, “we’re two days late on the Red Lake location. Rimmy Jim sent me word he had the Indians and a thousand mustangs waiting. Double or no double, Brubaker said we had to go.”
The director threw up his hands and gave Lee a wild look. Then one of the group called that Brubaker was coming. A car like the head of a comet with a tail of yellow dust appeared, speeding across the park.
Wesley swung a knee over the pommel and casually glanced in the direction of the dazzling blonde. She met his eyes with a subtle smile that quickened his pulse.
“We’ve been held up two days waiting for Bryce Pelham’s double,” Lee was explaining. “Got a wild hoss stampede to film tomorrow. Workin’ doubles for both stars. Hinckley is bughouse now.”
“Wal, Lee, it’s not skin off your nose,” drawled Wesley. “Didn’t you tell me once that these delays just lined your pockets?”
“Shore. But it’s hell to work with these directors even when everything clicks.”
In short order the dust-rolling car arrived with a roar and a clank. Out leaped a stout young man, his eyes popping, his collar open, waving a sheaf of telegrams.
“Where’s Pelham’s double?” yelled Hinckley.
“He’s not coming.”
Hinckley tore his hair and yelped and let loose a string of profanity. “Hell of a business manager you are,” he ejaculated bitterly.
Brubaker did not even trouble to reply. He thrust the telegrams under the director’s nose. It took a moment to force them upon Hinckley. “Ha!” he exclaimed, and ripped open a telegram to scan it contemptuously. Then with purpling visage he tore open another and another, all of them, suddenly to pitch them high and roar like a mad bull. “Retake . . . retake! Ha! Ha! Find double for Pelham. Ha! Ha! On no account let him risk life or limb! Ha! Ha! As if the conceited, sap-headed ass would! Hurry wild horse sequences! Budget overdrawn! Ha! Ha! . . . these squawking producers!”
Brubaker and several attendants surrounded Hinckley, and for a moment there was a discordant medley of voices. At length they quieted the distraught director, who emerged from the group, his face black as a thundercloud.
“Lee, line up your cowboys!” he ordered. “Bru, drag Pelham out here, so we can see if any of those ginks can match him.”
Lee ran shouting to his men, while Brubaker hurried up to the last car in which Wesley had observed the beautiful blonde girl star. In a moment Hinckley’s assistant appeared dragging a handsome young man. Booted and spurred, wearing blue jeans and a gun belt, this tall actor roused considerable interest in Wesley.
“What is it all about?” the actor protested, shaking himself free.
“Sorry, Bryce,” replied the director, meeting him. “They didn’t send Jerry or anyone. Not a double for you on the lot. I’ve got to pick one here.”
“Here? Out of this lousy line of gawks?”
“No help for it. I’m on the spot, too. Don’t rave now. All the shots are long shots, except the fight between you and the heavy. We’ll shoot that somehow.”
Whereupon Wesley had first-hand evidence of the blood pressure and high-strung temperament credited to actors. In fact, Mr. Pelham ranted like a tragedian, and Hinckley betrayed how rapturous murder would be for a director. He wheeled away from the gesticulating, emoting star to Lee’s line of eager-faced cowboys.
“No . . . No . . . No! Hell no!” he wailed, as he strode down the line. By actual count there were twenty-six riders of the range, all typical, lean, bronzed, rough. A number of them could, no doubt, have doubled very creditably for Mr. Pelham in the dangerous parts of the rôle he was supposed to portray. Not improbably in the eyes of the director, their bowlegs alone elected them to a discard. The star and camera had to be satisfied.
“Lee, round up more . . . ,” raved the director. Then his fierce gaze alighted upon Wesley. With three leaps and a lunge he reached Wesley to pull him out of the saddle, and with a shriek of relief and joy he attempted to line him up beside Pelham. But with a resounding thump on Hinckley’s chest the surprised Arizonian frustrated that move.
“Look out!” shouted Lee, almost choking, as he sprang between the men. He put his hands back to get hold of
Wesley. “Hinckley, you . . . he . . . this isn’t Hollywood.”
“Hell you say! I wish it was,” retorted the director hotly. “What’s eating you, Lee? This cowboy is the best double I ever saw for Pelham.”
“That might well be. But you’re not . . . approachin’ it proper,” panted Lee. “Mister Hinckley, this is Wesley Reigh, young rancher hereabouts. . . . Wes, old pard, shake hands with Director Hinckley of Meteor Pictures.”
“Lee, I reckon I ought to sock him,” drawled Wesley coolly. “Jerking me off Brutus that way! Why the hoss might have busted a laig for me.”
“Wes, if you sock anyone, it’ll be me,” yelped Lee, ready to weep. “Have a heart, old pard. Hinckley was beside himself. Big company on location. No double for the star. Enormous expense. . . . Wes, you’re the best sport in. . . .”
“Pardon me, Mister Reigh. I am a bit upset,” interposed Hinckley, whose brain had evidently begun to function. “Aren’t you a . . . a range rider? You’re togged out like a real cowboy.”
“No offense, Mister Hinckley,” replied Wesley easily. “I was just scared. Brutus might have piled me.”
“Ah . . . I’m sorry. But you’re a perfect double for Bryce Pelham. Same height. Only a little wider of shoulder. You’re made for it. . . . Help me out, Mister Reigh, and name your own wages.”
“Aw, I wouldn’t do that,” declared Wesley. His confusion might have been partly due to the blue flame of the blonde star’s eyes, which he happened to see bent upon him. She was close enough to have heard the conversation.
“Can’t you ride?” exploded Hinckley.
“Reckon I don’t fork a hoss so well any more.”
“Lee, what’s the dope? Will he do?” implored Hinckley.
“Say, Wes is stringing you,” burst out Lee. “He’s the best range rider in Arizona. Right up to date. His father is John Reigh, our biggest cattleman, running eighty thousand head. And Wes is foreman of six outfits. Ride! Say, he can ride any hoss, anywhere, any time. And that stunt you asked about. A cowboy ridin’ full tilt . . . bendin’ over to pick up a scarf or a dollar? Mister Hinckley, the Navajos won’t let Wes ride any more at their chicken-pulls.”
“Chicken-pulls. What are they?” inquired the director, seemingly greatly impressed.
“They bury a chicken in the ground up to its neck. They shave and grease that. The idee is for a rider to ride hell-bent-for-election and grab the chicken by the neck. Wes never fails.”
Hinckley turned to Wesley with a relieved and appealing smile. “See here, Reigh. We’ve got you with the goods. It’d be easy for you to race your horse and pick up a running girl . . . who weighs only a hundred and five pounds. I’d like to introduce you to the actress whom you are to rescue. If you don’t fall for a chance like that with Vera Van Dever, you’ll be the first man.”
Hinckley made for the last car, and engaged the blonde beauty in private conversation. Meanwhile, Wesley, feeling himself trapped in the interest of his friend Lee, and inexplicably weak, ventured to win some corroboration from the disgruntled actor.
“Mister Pelham, I’m shore you agree that I’d be a failure as your double?”
“You’d be a flop and a wash-out,” returned the star resentfully.
Lee interposed eagerly: “Aw, Mister Pelham, you’re daid wrong. If Wes looks the part, he’d fit it to a T. Why, he can act well. He’s so good that the Normal College girls in town had him in their play.”
“A hick actor, oh? That’s worse,” sneered Pelham, manifestly further alienated by this information. “I’m sick of insulting my public with doubles that a blind audience could see didn’t resemble me. Moreover, I want a double who is an actor.”
“But Mister Pelham,” protested Lee, holding tightly to Wesley’s arm when he started and reddened at these insulting remarks, “you movie stars won’t risk gettin’ crippled.”
The star fumed under that, and his obviously sharp retort must have been checked by Hinckley’s return. This, however, in no wise inhibited Wesley’s caustic remark: “Mister Pelham, if you’re afraid of busting a laig or marring your beauty, why don’t you insist on playing parts that don’t call for a real man?”
Hinckley broke up this little by-play by drawing Wesley toward the car. “Listen, Reigh,” he whispered tensely, “lucky break for you. Miss Van Dever likes your looks immensely. She’s a big drawing card. Lent to us by Paragon. She hates Westerns. I hope to God you’ll give her a kick in this one.”
Next moment Wesley found himself tongue-tied before the loveliest girl he had ever seen. Her wonderful eyes and her soft hand drew him irresistibly, while her liquid voice lingered music all over his name and the words of pleasure she used in greeting him. Hinckley shoved him into the car and, slamming the door, yelled for the driver to step on it. Pelham let out a yell, too, but its content was indistinguishable. The car started with a crack and a whir. Wesley fell almost into the actress’ arms which certainly opened to receive him.
“Rustled! Lee, the son-of-a-gun, “ cried Wesley aghast, sinking back helplessly.
Vera Van Dever clasped clinging hands round Wesley’s arm and leaned to him. “Shanghaied, you splendid cowboy!” she cried gaily. “But don’t blame me. Only I’m tickled pink. I saw and heard the whole show. I liked the way you took it all. It’s refreshing to meet someone who isn’t movie-struck!”
“Don’t jolly me . . . please,” rejoined Wesley, in an earnest effort to get his equilibrium. “It’ll be bad enough without that. I’d like to help Lee out. I’ll do my best, if only you . . . don’t. . . .”
“I won’t, but believe me, Wesley, this is a tough break for Bryce Pelham. He’s always scared to death some young extra or double will get his job. If you can act as well as a cigar-sign Indian, you’ll give him a run. . . . I’m fed up on Bryce. He’s hard to work with. You’ll inject some pep into these wild-horse sequences Hinckley puts such store in.”
“I’m supposed to rescue you . . . pick you up . . . or something like?” ventured Wesley.
“You’ll pick up my double, Betty Wyatt. Damn it, I’d do some of these stunts, if they’d let me.”
“Can you ride a hoss?”
“Indeed, I can. To be sure I wasn’t born on one, like Betty Wyatt, but I could pull these stunts well enough.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Listen to you! Wesley, my bosses would faint at such a suggestion. I’m a dancer, you know. That is insured for one hundred thousand dollars.” And lifting her skirt, she laid an exquisitely shaped silken-clad ankle over his knee.
“I . . . I reckon it’s worth it,” stammered Wesley, his gaze attracted as by a magnet. She left her little foot hanging over his leather-covered knee, and that, added to the soft warmth of her lissome body and the fragrance of her lovely head that had come imperceptibly on his shoulder, scattered his wits, as well as his reluctance to enter into this adventure.
The car sped on, up over the pine divide, down the grade into the cedars, and at last out upon the desert. Miss Van Dever murmured at the colorful vista in the distance, but her enthusiasm did not extend to disengaging herself from Wesley’s encircling arm. Still she asked many questions about the descent to the Little Colorado and the climb into the Painted Desert. After that she wanted to know all about Wesley—his ranch . . . his horses . . . his cattle . . . and his women.
“You mean my mother . . . sisters?”
“I meant your sweethearts. You must have some.”
“Wrong again, Miss Van Dever.”
“Call me Vera. . . . But haven’t you had sweethearts . . . been in love?”
“I reckon, after a fashion. But nothing ever came of it.”
“Aren’t you in love now?”
Wesley caught his breath at the subtle query, invested as it was with this alluring actress’s beauty. He wanted to tell her that if he was not, he pretty soon would be.
“I mustn’t know my stuff, Wesley,” she said cryptically, and whatever that was, she proceeded to fill that lack, to
his utter rout.
The car sped on. Wesley noted vaguely the bad lands below on Moencopie Wash. Beyond, at Tube, sight of silver-ornamented Navajos and bright blankets in front of the trading post intrigued Miss Van Dever to the point of stopping the car and dragging Wesley out. She clung to his arm and led him all over the post, evincing an interest in the Indians, especially the dusky little children, that enhanced, if possible, Wesley’s already exalted opinion of her. They were still in the post when Lee’s cars went roaring by.
At length, Miss Van Dever seemed inclined to resume the journey and her desire for conquest. She had just settled comfortably against Wesley when another automobile passed, and in this one he saw both Hinckley and Pelham peering at them. Miss Van Dever’s silver laughter rang out.
“Are all cowboys as slow as you?” she murmured presently.
“I reckon not. Some of them are pretty swift,” he returned boyishly.
“Wesley, in the movies, when the hero and heroine meet on the screen, some kid in the audience will yell . . . ‘Now for the clinch!’ ”
“Yeah. I’ve heard that yell myself.”
“Life is terribly short in this age,” she said with a sigh.
Wesley was conscious that he was slow and stupid, but what he felt for this gorgeous creature went beyond flirtation. Her proud blue eyes and the poise of her head, notwithstanding the fact that it lay upon his shoulder, made it impossible for Wesley to react as he would have done to a saucy little minx of the range.
The afternoon was far spent. As the car climbed the long grade to the mesa, a sandstorm swooped down upon it. Penetrating dust and cold put an end to Miss Van Dever’s sentiment, if that had been what it was. She drew on a veil, and, complaining bitterly of the cold and the horrid dust and rotten picture business, she had Wesley wrap her in a blanket, and she collapsed upon him. The driver had to proceed very cautiously through this yellow pall, so that they made but slow progress. When the dust cloud whistled by, Wesley could see a dull magenta ball low on the horizon. This was the setting sun.