The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Get over there outa range of the camera!” he commanded them sharply, “then you can spout Mex. till you’re black in the face, for all I care. I’m busy.” To make himself absolutely understood he repeated the gist of his remarks in Spanish before he turned his back on them to finish his interrupted scene.

  Whereupon one swore in Spanish and the other in English, and they both declared that they would take their cattle right now, and reined their horses toward the shifting herd.

  “Hold on thar, Ramone Chavez!” shouted Applehead, striding forward. “Didn’t you hear the boss tell ye to git outa the way, both of yuh? Yuh better do it, now I’m tellin’ yuh, ’cause if yuh don’t, they’s goin’ to be right smart of a runction around here! A good big share uh them thar cattle belongs to me. Don’t ye go messin’ in there amongst ’em; you jest ride back outa the way uh that thar camery. Git!”

  At Applehead’s command they “got,” at least as far as the camp fire, where the bright shawl of Annie-Many-Ponies caught and held their interest. Annie-Many-Ponies, being a woman who had both youth and beauty and sensed instinctively the value of both, sent a slant-eyed glance and a half smile toward Ramone, who possessed more good looks and more English than his brother. The Happy Family eyed them with a tolerant indifference and moved aside with reluctant hospitality when Ramone dismounted shiveringly and came forward to warm his fingers over the blaze.

  “She’s cold day, you bet,” Ramone remarked ingratiatingly.

  “She ain’t what you could call hot,” Big Medicine conceded drily, since no one else showed any disposition to reply.

  “We don’t get much snow like this. You live in Albuquerque, perhaps?”

  There was really no excuse for snubbing these two, who had been well within their rights in making an investigation of this unheralded and unauthorized gathering of all the cattle on this range. Andy told Ramone where they were staying and where they came from, and let it go at that. The less Americanized brother dismounted and joined the group with a nod of greeting.

  “My brother Tomas,” announced Ramone, with a flash of white teeth, his eyes shifting unobtrusively toward Annie-Many-Ponies, who wore a secret, half-smiling air of provocative interest in him. “Not spik much English, my brother. Always stay too much at home. Me, I travel all over—Denver, Los Angeles, San Francisco. I ride in all contests—Pueblo, San Antonio—all over. Tomas, he go not so often. His head, all for business—making money—get rich some day. Me, I spend. My hand wide open always. Money slip fast.”

  “There’s plenty of us marked that way,” Weary made good-natured comment, turning so that his back might feel the heat of the fire.

  “Shunka Chistala!” murmured Annie-Many-Ponies in her soft contralto to the little black dog, and moved away to the mountain wagon, with the dog following close to her moccasined heels.

  Ramone looked after her with frank surprise at the strange words. “Not Spanish, then?” he ventured.

  “Indian,” the Native Son explained briefly, and added, perhaps for reasons of his own, “Sioux squaw.”

  Ramone very wisely let his curiosity rest there. He had a good excuse, for Luck, having finished work for the time being, came tramping over to the fire. At him Ramone glanced apologetically.

  “We borrow comfort from your fire, señor,” he said indifferently. “She’s bad day for riding.”

  Luck nodded, already ashamed of having lost his temper, yet not at the point of yielding openly to any overtures for peace. “Soon as we eat,” he said to Weary and those others who stood nearest, “I’ll have you cut out that poor cow and calf and drive ’em down the flat here, so I can get that other scene I was telling you about.”

  “Wagalexa Conka, here is plenty hot coffee,” came a soft voice at his elbow, and Luck turned with a smile to take the steaming cup from the hand of Annie-Many-Ponies.

  The Native Son poured a cup and offered it to Tomas Chavez. “Quire cafe?” he asked.

  “Si, señor; Gracias.” Tomas smiled, and took the cup and bowed. Annie-Many-Ponies herself, with a sidelong glance at Luck to see if she might dare, carried the biggest cup of coffee to Ramone, and smiled demurely when he took it and looked into her eyes and thanked her.

  In this fashion did the social sky clear, even though the snow continued to drive against those who broke bread together out there in the dreary wastes, with the snow halfway to their knees. The Native Son, being half Spanish and knowing well the language of his father, talked a little with Tomas. Ramone made himself friendly with any one who would give him any attention. But Applehead scowled over his boiled-beef sandwich and his coffee, and kept his back turned upon the Chavez brothers, and would not talk at all. He eyed them sourly when they still loitered after the meal was over and the remains packed away in the box by Annie-Many-Ponies, and Luck had gone to work again with Bill Holmes at his heels and the boys helping to place the cattle to Luck’s liking.

  When the Chavez brothers finally did show symptoms of intending to leave, Luck beckoned to Tomas, whom he judged to be the leader. “Here,” he said in Spanish, when Tomas had come close to him. “I will pay you for using your cattle. When I am through, my boys will drive them back to the mesa again. For my picture I may need them again, señor. I promise you they will not be harmed.” And he charged in his expense book the sum, “to use of locations.”

  “Gracias,” said Tomas, and took the five dollars which Luck could ill afford to give, but which he felt would smooth materially the trail to their future work. Cattle he must have for his picture; cattle he would have at any cost,—but it would be well to have them with the consent of their owners. So the Chavez brothers rode away with smiles for their neighbors instead of threats, and with five dollars which had come to them like a gift.

  “Yuh might better uh kicked ’em outa here without no softsoapin’ about it, now I’m tellin’ yuh!” Applehead grumbled when they were out of earshot. “You may know your business better’n what I do, but by thunder I wouldn’t uh give ’em no five dollars—ner five cents. ’S like feedin’ a stray dog; yuh won’t never git rid of ’em now. They’ll be hangin’ around under yer feet—”

  “At that, I might have use for them,” Luck retorted unmoved. “They’re fine types.”

  “Types!” old Applehead exploded indignantly. “Types! They’re sneak-thieves and cutthroats ’t I wouldn’t trust fur’s I could throw a bull by the tail. That’s what they be. Types,—my granny!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “PLUMB SPOILED, D’ YUH MEAN?”

  Luck came out of the dark room with the still, frozen, look of a trouble that has gone too deep for words. Annie-Many-Ponies eyed him aslant and straightway placed the hottest, juiciest piece of steak on his plate, and poured his coffee even before she poured for old Dave Wiswell, whom she favored as being an old acquaintance of the Pine Ridge country.

  Once when her father, old chief Big Turkey, had broken his leg and refused to have a doctor attend him, and had said that he would die if his “son” did not make his leg well, Luck had looked as he looked now. Still, he had set chief Big Turkey’s leg so well that it grew straight and strong again. Annie-Many-Ponies might be primitive as to her nature and untutored as to her mind, but she could read the face of her brother Wagalexa Conka swiftly and surely. Something was very bad in his heart. Annie-Many-Ponies searched her soul for guilt, remembered the smile she had given to Ramone Chavez whom Wagalexa Conka did not like, and immediately she became humbled before her chief.

  Shunka Chistala—which is Sioux for little dog—she banished into the cold, and hardened her heart, against his whining. It is true that Wagalexa Conka had not forbidden her to have the little dog in the house, but in his displeasure he might make the dog an excuse for scolding her and for taking the part of Rosemary, who hated dogs in the house, and who was trying, by every ingratiating means known to woman, to make a friend of Compadre. Rosemary was a white woman and the wife of Wagalexa Conka’s friend; Annie-Many-Ponies was an Indian girl, not
even of the same race as her brother Wagalexa Conka. And although her vanity might lead her to believe herself and her smile the cause of Luck’s mask-like displeasure, she had no delusions as to which side he would take in an argument between herself and Shunka Chistala on the one side, and Rosemary and Compadre on the other; and in the back of her mind lived always the fear that Wagalexa Conka might refuse to let her stay and work for him in pictures.

  Therefore Annie-Many-Ponies crouched humbly before the rock fireplace, until Luck missed her at the table and told her to come and eat; she came as comes a dog who has been beaten, and slid into her place as noiselessly as a shadow,—humility being the heritage of her sex and race.

  No one talked at all. Even Rosemary seemed depressed and made no attempt to stir the Happy Family to their wonted cheerfulness. They were worn out from their long day that had been filled with real hardships as well as work. In the general silence, Luck’s deeper gloom seemed consistent and only to be expected; for hard as the others had worked, he had worked harder. His had been the directing brain; his hand had turned the camera crank, lest Bill Holmes, not yet familiar with his duties, might fail where failure would be disaster. He had endured the cold and the storm, tramping back and forth in the snow, planning, directing, doing literally the work of two men. Annie-Many-Ponies alone knew that exhaustion never brought just that look into Luck’s face. Annie-Many-Ponies knew that something was very bad in Luck’s heart. She knew, and she trembled while she ate with a precise attention to her table manners lest he chide her openly before them all.

  “How long do you think this storm will last, Applehead?” Luck asked, when he had walked heavily over to the fireplace for his smoke, and had drawn a match sharply along the rough face of a rock.

  “We-ell, she’s showin’ some signs uh clearin’ up tonight,” Applehead stated with careful judgment, because he felt that Luck’s question had much to do with Luck’s plans, and was not a mere conversational bait. “Wind, she’s shiftin’, er was, when I come in to supper. She shore come down like all git-out ever since she started, and I calc’late she’s about stormed out. I look fer sun all day to-morrer, boy.” This last in a tone of such manifest encouragement that Luck snorted. (Back by the table in the kitchen, Annie-Many-Ponies paused in her piling of plates and listened breathlessly. She knew that particular sound. Wagalexa Conka would presently reveal what was bad in his heart.)

  “That would be my luck, all right,” her chief stated pessimistically.

  “What’s the matter with the sun, now?” Big Medicine boomed reprovingly. “Comin’ in, you said you had your blizzard stuff, and now if the sun’d jest come out, by cripes, you’d be singin’ songs uh thanksgivin’—er words to that effect. Honest to gran’ma, there’s folks that’d kick if—”

  “But I haven’t got my blizzard stuff,” Luck stated, harshly because of the effort to speak at all. “All that negative I took today is chuck full of ‘static.’”

  Annie-Many-Ponies, out in the kitchen, dropped a granite-iron plate, but the others merely stared at Luck uncomprehendingly.

  “Well, say, by cripes! What’s statics?” demanded Big Medicine pugnaciously, as though he meant to ward off from his mind the realization of some new misfortune.

  Luck’s lips twitched in the faint impulse toward a smile that would not come. “Statics,” he explained, “is that branch of mechanics that relates to bodies held at rest by the forces acting on them. In other words, it is electricity in a stationary charge, the condition being produced by friction, or induction. In other words—”

  “In other words,” Big Medicine supplied glumly, “I can shut up and mind my own business. I get yuh, all right!”

  “Nothing like that, Bud,” Luck corrected more amiably, warmed a little by the sympathy he knew would follow close upon the heels of understanding. “Static is a technical word used a good deal in motion-picture photography. In this case it was caused, I think, by the difference of temperature in the metal parts of the camera and negative, and the weather outside the camera box. I’ve been keeping it here in the house where it’s warm, and I took it out into the cold and started work—sabe? And the grinding of the bearings, and the action of the film on the race plate, generated static electricity in tiny flashes which lighted up the interior of the camera and light-exposed the negative, as it was passing from one magazine to another. When it’s developed, these flashes show up in contrasty lights, like tiny grape vines; I can show you that part; I’ve got about a mile of it, more or less, there in the dark room.”

  “Plumb spoiled, d’ yuh mean?” Big Medicine asked, his voice hushed before the catastrophe.

  “Plumb spoiled.” Luck threw his cigarette stub viciously into the blaze. “All that drifting herd, all that panoram of Andy and Miguel—all—everything I took today, with the exception of those last scenes with the cow and calf. The one where the cow is down and the snow drifting over her, and the calf huddled there by the carcass,—that’s dandy. Camera and negative were cold as the outside air by that time. That one scene will stand out big; it’s got an awful big punch, provided I had the stuff leading up to it, which I haven’t got.”

  “Hell!” said Andy softly, voicing the dismay of them all.

  Presently old Applehead unlimbered himself from his chair and went out into the cold and darkness. When he came back, ribbing his knuckles for warmth, he stood before the fireplace and ruminated dispiritedly before he spoke.

  “Ain’t ary hope of it blizzardin’ to-morrer, boy,” he broke his silence reluctantly, “’less the wind changes, which she don’t act to me like she’s got ary notion of doin’; she’s shore goin’ to blind ye with sun to-morrer, now I’m tellin’ yuh.”

  “Well, there won’t be any more static in my film,” Luck declared with sudden decision, and carried his camera outside. When he returned Applehead eyed him solicitously.

  “We-ell, this ain’t but the middle uh November, yuh want to recollect,” he said. “We’re liable to have purtier storms ’n what this here one was, ’fore winter’s over. Cattle’ll be in worse condition, too,—ribs stickin’ out so’st you kin count ’em a mile off ’n’ more. Way winter’s startin’ in, wouldn’t s’prise me a mite if we had storms all through till spring opens up.”

  Luck knew the old man was trying in his crude way to encourage him, but he made no reply, and Applehead relapsed into drowsy meditation over his pipe. The boys, yawning sleepily, trailed off to bed in the Ketch-all cabin. Rosemary and Annie-Many-Ponies, having finished washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen, came through the room on their way to bed, Annie-Many-Ponies cunningly hiding the little black dog behind her skirts. Rosemary frowned at the two and went to the door and called Compadre; but the blue cat, scenting a dog in the house, meowed his regrets and would not come.

  “I’ll take ’im down with me,” said Applehead, rising stiffly. “He cain’t take no comfort in the house no more—not till he spunks up and licks that thar dawg a time er two. Comin’, Luck?” he added, waiting at the door. But Luck was staring into the fire and did not seem to hear him, so Applehead went off alone to where the Happy Family were already creeping thankfully into their hard bunks.

  The house grew still; so still that Luck could hear the wind whispering in the chimney, coming from the quarter which meant clearing weather. He sighed, flung more wood on the coals to drive back the chill of the night, and got out his scenario and some sheets of blank paper and a pencil. He had sold his typewriter when he was raising money for this trip, and he was inclined now to regret it. But he sharpened the pencil, laid a large-surfaced “movie” magazine across his knees, and prepared to revise his scenario to meet his present limitations.

  With a good thousand feet of film spoiled through no real fault of his own, and with the expenses he knew he must meet looming inexorably before him, he simply could not afford a leading woman. Therefore, he must change his story, making it a “character” lead instead of the conventional hero and heroine theme. Chance—he called
it luck—had sent him Annie-Many-Ponies, who “Wants no monies.” He must change his story so that she would fit into it as the necessary feminine element, but he was discouraged enough that night to tell himself that, just as he had her placed and working properly, the Indian Agent or her father, old Big Turkey, would probably demand her immediate return. In his despondent mood he had no faith in his standing with the Indians or in the letter he had written to the Agent. His “one best bet”, as he put it, was to make her scenes as soon as possible, before they had time to reach him with a letter; therefore he must reconstruct his scenario immediately, so that he could get to work in the morning, whatever the weather.

  He read the script through from beginning to end, and his heart went heavy in his chest. He did not want to change one scene of that Big Picture. Just as it stood it seemed to him perfect in its way. It had the bigness of the West when the West was young. It had the red blood of courage, the strength of achievement, the sweetness of a great love. It was, in short, Luck’s biggest, best work. Still, without a woman to play that lead—

  Luck sighed and dampened his pencil on his tongue and drew a heavy line through the scene where “Marian” first appeared in the story. It hurt him like drawing a hot wire across his hand. It was his first real compromise, his first step around an obstacle in his path rather than his usual bold jump over it. He looked at the pencil mark and considered whether he could not send for a girl young in the profession, who would be satisfied with her transportation and thirty or forty dollars a week while she stayed. He could make all her scenes and send her back. But a little mental arithmetic, coupled with the cold fact that he did not know of any young woman who was capable of doing the work he required and would yet be satisfied with a small salary, killed that new-born hope. He drew a line through the next scene where the girl appeared.