by Denise Dietz
No sir, at age nineteen Ruthie wasn’t a child.
Fools Gold would be seventeen. Cat had searched for her in Cripple Creek, but she’d vanished, and it didn’t pay to ponder her fate. He’d be better off finding a way out of this damnfool bulldogging stunt.
Absently, he kissed Ruthie and sent her toward the arena while he headed for the barn.
He had arrived in Canon City eight weeks ago, given a demonstration of his skills and been hired. Because of his dark hair and sun-darkened skin, he frequently played an Indian. Having learned to ride Comanche-style from Percy, Cat could hang from the back of his horse for long periods of time. Lonnie Higgins taught him how to ride like a Cossack.
Lonnie, a sixteen-year-old “extra player” in their motion picture, Mountain Gold, was the son of a local citizen who rented the production horses and other equipment. “Riding Cossack ain’t easy,” he’d said. “You’ve got to pass from one side of your horse to the other, underneath his belly.”
“Shoot, Lon, I’ve dogged bulls with my teeth,” Cat had boasted, then repeated his boast at the Hell’s Half Acre Saloon.
It was just a matter of time before he got himself in big trouble. “Braggin’ sits on your tongue as easy as a horsefly ridin’ a mule’s ear,” Percy would have said.
Cat had never bulldogged with his teeth. Percy wouldn’t let him — too risky. But was Cat in any more danger bulldogging than performing film stunts?
There were no trick cameras on Colonel Selig’s set. If a scene called for a runaway team to be halted, Cat or Lonnie would rein-whip their horses into pursuit. Sometimes they would be trapped between the frenzied team, escaping death by a hairsbreadth.
Atop Dorado or a spotted paint, Cat would ride at full gallop, mingling with the sharp-horned steers for a stampede scene, climbing a steep mountainside, jumping from a cliff into a river. And for all this, he was paid five dollars a day.
Many of the hired cowboys had sustained injuries. A few horses had broken their legs and been shot. Fearing Dorado might suffer the same fate, Cat had demanded the paint for stampede scenes and mountain stunts.
After filming wrapped, usually at sunset, Cat and Lonnie would gather with the other cowboys inside the Hell’s Half Acre Saloon, where they displayed their skill at roping and marksmanship. Cat never missed the lemons arranged in a row of empty shot glasses. Hell, he could shoot the pit from a cherry.
Sometimes it was more dangerous off the set than on.
Colonel Selig used women for the saloon and street scenes. Quite a few were willing to meet Cat in secluded glens, and he finally had his first inexperienced girl. She had wept with the pain then begged for more.
Danger was Ruthie Adams. Because of Ruthie, DuBois wanted Cat fired, but “the McDonald kid” was too valuable, usually standing in for the great Tom Mix himself.
The stunt rescheduled for tomorrow morning involved Cat riding two horses Roman-style, his boots planted on each horse’s back while he reined in a runaway team separated from the buckboard. At the same time, Tom Mix would chase the loose wagon, scoop Myrtle Steadman from her jouncy perch, and transfer her to the back of his horse, Tony. The scenes would be spliced so that it looked as if Mix had stopped the team before he saved Myrtle.
No, they wouldn’t fire Cat, not unless they found him with Ruthie. Morality was maintained on the set. You could vamoose for a few hours, but if discovered it meant instant dismissal.
As he saddled Dorado, Cat conjured up each of Percy’s dogging motions. First you wrestle the horns, then sink your teeth, then fall to the ground with the steer. Wrestle the horns, sink your teeth—
Maybe he should admit he lied and give a roping demonstration. He’d twirl his riata and make jokes, like Will Rogers did. What had Rogers said the last time they were together? “I tell you folks, all politics is applesauce.” Cat had laughed his damnfool head off because Papa called books and movies applesauce. “Invest in inflation,” Rogers had said. “It’s the only thing going up.” The noise from the arena was going up, too. Cat had a feeling Selig’s guests wouldn’t cotton to a rope demonstration, no matter how many jokes he told.
He recalled the Joe Wolfe Bullfights. Wolfe’s bulls had been untrained and confused. Hopefully, that would be the situation this afternoon. Cat pictured Fools Gold at the fights, how she’d almost fainted in the aisle. “It’s the men who have no souls,” she’d cried.
Leading Dorado by the reins, approaching the fairgrounds, Cat saw that every bit player, every actor, the entire production team and all the locals, including Lonnie’s father, Woody, were gathered at the sidelines. Many were placing bets.
“Give ’em hell, McDonald!” Lonnie shouted.
Ruthie stood next to Lonnie. She untied a bow from her Pickford curls, wended her way through the crowd, and met Cat at the arena’s entrance. “My schoolmaster once told me how ladies would give knights ribbons and such,” she said, handing him the red strip of satin. “That ol’ bull won’t stand a chance against you, Cat. Guess what Colonel Selig and Claude DuBois named him?”
“Honey, it doesn’t matter what his name—”
“Titanic, after the ship that hit an iceberg last April.”
“Canon City’s too damn hot for icebergs.”
“If you think Canon City’s hot or Titanic’s fierce, wait till we meet tonight.”
As Cat braided Ruthie’s ribbon through Dorado’s mane, a thrill coursed through him. This was his chance to prove he was a hero, like Tom Mix.
He felt a grin stretch his face. His bull had been named for a ship that had floundered on its maiden voyage, and that was almost too portentous.
“Titanic’s probably some runty vest-pocket cow,” he told Dorado.
The palomino buck-jumped like a huge golden grasshopper, and sidestepped into the ring.
Eighteen
Not a breeze stirred. Atop a high pole, an American flag drooped in desolate folds. Three shades lighter than the flag’s blue bunting, the sky was cloudless, disturbed only by the spread wings of one red-tailed hawk.
Circling the arena, Cat waved toward the faceless assemblage. Sweat blurred his vision. All he could see were Stetsons, bonnets, handkerchiefs and beer bottles.
The door to the stock chute swung open.
Cat gave chase, but inadvertently overrode the bull. Dorado just missed being gored as Cat slid down the palomino’s tail, pivoted, grabbed Titanic’s horns, and stared into a pair of pink-rimmed eyes.
Titanic was untrained, confused, and furious. He slammed Cat’s body against the arena fence while spectators scrambled for more distance. Tossing Cat left and right, up and down, Titanic tried to dislodge him.
Cat hung on. His mouth opened, gasping for breath, but any thought of sinking teeth into that saliva-smeared upper lip had taken wing with the hawk.
Eye to eye, Cat continued grasping Titanic’s horns, afraid to let go, afraid he’d be impaled. His hat fell to the ground.
Titanic pawed the hat then folded to his knees, driving sharp horns into the dirt, battering Cat against the hard-packed earth.
Lord, get me out of this and I’ll never brag again, Cat prayed, maneuvering his bruised body until he sat atop Titanic’s sweat-lathered haunches. I’ll cut down on my gal-poking, too.
“Amen,” he said, and made an irrefutable decision. Forget dogging. He’d ride the damn bull. To hell with the crowd! To hell with Selig and DuBois!
Weaving his fingers through Titanic’s short mane, Cat leaned forward. “Wouldn’t you rather snoozle some pretty lady cow, amigo? Let’s head for the chutes.”
Titanic nodded vigorously, and Cat just missed being epauletted by clumps of nasal mucus.
He looked toward the stands. Folks were throwing beer bottles into the ring. Were they trying to be helpful? Not hardly. They’d seen Titanic tire and were goading the bull into a renewed frenzy.
Titanic bucked. Cat rotated through the air like a flipped flapjack until his backside hit the dirt. He stood up and tried to run but his
legs were as shaky as a sapling in a wind storm.
Powerless, he shut his eyes. He pictured Fools Gold and remembered how he had wanted to kiss her and make her smile. Too bad he’d never get another chance. Soon Titanic’s horns would pierce his heart. If those crested spikes propelled him over the fence, Cat hoped he’d land on one of the bastards who’d thrown beer bottles.
He heard a roar from the stands and opened his eyes. Tom Mix circled the ring, riding his horse Tony. The former rodeo star waved a Colorado flag in front of the disoriented bull.
Hobbling to the side of the arena, Cat felt hands lift him over the fence. Hauled to safety, he watched Titanic eye the flag’s red ball, snort, paw the ground, joggle his horns, turn, wiggle his haunches like a fat fan dancer, and trot sedately toward the chutes.
Tom Mix tugged at Tony’s reins.
The black horse reared up, his hooves flailing at the sky.
Mix tipped the brim of his ten-gallon hat and galloped around the ring again, the Colorado flag streaming out behind him.
The crowd cheered.
Seated smack-dab in the middle of the stands, Mrs. Tuttle removed her straw bonnet and wigwagged it toward the ring. But her friends couldn’t determine whether she was paying homage to Tom Mix or Tony.
*****
Mrs. Tuttle was a comfortably curved widow who ran a boardinghouse for gentlemen. She had two strictly enforced rules. Her gents must keep their doors shut while changing clothes, and no females — except, of course, Mrs. Tuttle — were allowed on the premises.
With the arrival of Selig’s motion picture cowboys, Mrs. Tuttle visualized the scratchy ink on her ledger pages pulsating with profit. To that end, she had converted her sitting parlor into a bunkhouse, charging twelve dollars a month for bed and breakfast.
She’d managed to squeeze fifteen mattresses between her sofa’s clawed feet, her stuffed armchairs, her molded footstools and heavy credenzas. Pewter lamps with tasseled brown shades provided a dim glow. An ornately framed painting above the fireplace depicted a ship atop choppy, green-tinged waves.
“Mr. Tuttle loved the sea,” she’d tell her gents. “A shame he died up in a tree, killed by lightning during a heat storm.”
Tonight Mrs. Tuttle was at the home of a friend, another widow, drinking beer and chatting about this afternoon’s performance. Both women agreed that Tom Mix was magnificent but they preferred Cat McDonald’s anatomy.
Inside Mrs. Tuttle’s boardinghouse, the subject of her discussion was trying to find a less lumpy spot on his mattress. “Leave me be, Ruthie,” he moaned. “There’s not one part of my body that doesn’t throb with pain.”
“My body’s throbbing too, Cat.”
“Are you plumb loco? The men’ll be returning soon from Hell’s Half Acre.”
“Eyewash! They’ll drink and brag yet a while. You just lay there and let me—”
“No. This afternoon I promised I wouldn’t . . . I swore I’d cut down on my . . . forget it. God won’t hold me to my word since it was Tom Mix, not God, who saved my hide.”
“Wasn’t Tom peachy?”
“Don’t forget who tired the bull for him, first.”
“Lucky Myrtle. Tomorrow Tom’ll lift her from that buckboard seat and set her on Tony. I get all shivery thinking about it.”
“You get shivery thinking about what you’ll eat for breakfast.”
“Will you be able to perform your Roman stunt?”
“Sure.” Ignoring the pain from his bruised ribs, Cat struggled to his knees and lowered his mouth to Ruthie’s breasts. “Unbutton my pants, honey. My hands are bandaged.”
“You don’t need hands. Just keep doing what you’re doing with your mouth.”
“My mouth wasn’t much good this afternoon. I wonder how Percy sets his teeth in the snout.”
“You were so brave, Cat. Most others would have run from those horns at the very beginning.” She began writhing.
“Slow down, Ruthie, and let me play toreador.” He nudged her legs apart with his face and licked the inside of her thigh.
She giggled.
“Still think Tom’s so peachy?”
“Your tongue, Cat, faster. Oh, I’m gonna die.”
“Don’t die yet, or you’ll miss the best part.”
“Well, well, what a pretty sight,” said a familiar voice. “Colonel Selig sent me here to see if you’d be able to perform your stunt tomorrow. I’ll tell him yes and no.”
“DuBois!” Cat rolled over on his back.
“Mister DuBois, kid.”
Sitting up, Cat covered Ruthie with the blanket. “This is all my fault, sir,” he said. “Miss Adams came here to see how I was feeling and I pulled her down onto the mattress.”
“Is that true, Miss Adams?”
“It’s the truth, sir,” Cat replied earnestly. “Miss Adams wanted to leave. She knows the rules. I made her stay.”
“I suppose you tore her clothes off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“With your bandaged hands?”
“No. My teeth.”
Fingering his small, clipped mustache, DuBois smiled. “Oh, I get it. You bulldogged Miss Adams.”
“Yes, sir.” Cat nearly groaned out loud. Eight cowboys now stood behind the assistant director, gaping at the scene inside Mrs. Tuttle’s parlor.
DuBois said, “Your story’s so good, I’m tempted to let you off. But you must know how Colonel Selig feels about maintaining moral standards. Cat McDonald and Ruthie Adams, you’re both fired.”
*****
Cat walked down the 300-block of Main Street, then entered Selig’s headquarters. He was ushered into an office immediately. The director, who resembled Teddy Roosevelt, sat behind a scarred wooden desk.
Squeezing his Stetson between his bandaged hands, Cat finished his explanation. “So you see, sir, it wasn’t Ruthie’s fault. You can fire me, but she has no place to go.”
“I’ve heard she has a family. Her father’s a minister, I believe.”
Cat blinked with surprise; he hadn’t known that. “Her father would never let her return, sir. Besides, Miss Adams wants to be a movie star.”
“Miss Adams will never be a movie star.”
“Why not? She’s beautiful and she works hard.”
“Didn’t she tell you about her screen test?”
“No, sir.”
“We had her play a girl sending a soldier off to war, the War Between the States. It was a sad scene, very tender. The actor knelt at Ruthie’s feet, his arms around her waist. The scene was supposed to end with a kiss. Do you know what happened?”
“Ruthie giggled?”
“Correct. We tried the scene three times.”
“Ruthie’s ticklish but laughter could be an asset. What about comedies?”
“Claude had witnesses.”
“I’ve explained all that, Colonel Selig. It was my fault.”
“I admire you for trying to protect Miss Adams. I admired your courage yesterday, too.”
“Do you mean the bulldogging? I’m sorry, sir. I could have hurt somebody bad, including my horse and Mr. Mix. It sure cured me of fibbing.”
“You’ve never bulldogged with your teeth?”
Cat shook his head. “A friend, Black Percy, does that stunt. Percy would say that to prove my lies, I’d fight with you till hell freezes over then skate with you on the ice.”
“Stubborn as well as courageous. I like those qualities in my actors.”
“I’m not an actor, sir. Is there any chance . . . I mean, Ruthie Adams?”
“No chance at all, son.”
“Would you allow me to buy the paint I’ve been riding?”
“I thought you owned a horse. A golden stallion.”
“The paint would be for Ruthie. I’ll let her stay at my ranch until she recovers. She was plumb scared last night. In fact, she’s bawling her eyes out. If you tested her now, she wouldn’t giggle.”
Selig walked away from the desk and stretched out his hand. “
If you ever want to work for me again, Cat McDonald, give me a call. Selig Polyscope is spreading out, severing all ties with Chicago. We’ll film more in Colorado, but we’ll be based in California. And the paint’s yours, payment for yesterday’s performance.”
“But I didn’t dog your bull.”
Selig chuckled. “After that business with the bull, Myrtle is giving Tom the kind of looks that would melt snow from the top of your Pikes Peak. We’ve added more love scenes.”
Stumbling from the building into bright sunshine, Cat smiled. The interview hadn’t gone badly. He had money in his pocket, along with Colonel Selig’s California address. Now he’d find Ruthie and help her pack her bags. It was a long ride to the ranch and she would insist they stop along the way so that he could change her sobs into giggles.
*****
Cay halted Dorado and looked over at Ruthie. Her nose and eyes were redder than his bandanna. Even her curls drooped.
“Stop bawling,” he said. “You’ve been crying ever since we left Canon City and I can’t take it anymore.”
“But I’m dead, finished forever in the movies.”
“That’s not true, honey.”
“Yes, it is. I’ll never get another job, not even if I give the great Tom Mix himself sugar. My daddy tells everyone I’m dead and I’ll be staying at your ranch as your mistress, not your wife.”
“Do you want to marry me, Ruthie?”
“I want to be in the movies.”
“You can work on the ranch as a cook.”
“I can’t cook.”
“You talk French, don’t you? You said you could.”
“A little.”
“I’ll tell Mother you’re a famous French actress.”
“Actrice, Cat. That’s the French word.” Ruthie wiped her drippy nose with her sleeve.
“Mother will throw a big party for Mademoiselle Adams. Father will roast a steer, and we can eat its testicles.”
“Cat McDonald, don’t talk dirty!”
“After a while you can try movies again.”
“Do you really think so?” Ruthie smiled through her tears.