Cowboy For Hire

by Duncan, Alice

  She didn’t mention Charlie’s shirt, either.

  After she sealed the envelope and affixed a stamp, she still didn’t feel sleepy. Instead, she lay under her quilt and thought about what it might be like to live on a ranch in Arizona Territory. With Charlie Fox, the happy-go-lucky cowboy.

  And when the occasional disruptive ostrich thrust its ungainly head into her pleasant fantasy, her brain immediately turned it into a cow. While Amy’d had almost as little to do with live cows as she’d had with live ostriches, they weren’t’ as disquieting somehow.

  The image of Vernon Catesby in cowboy garb, riding a horse and chasing an ostrich, galloped into her head right before her eyelids finally grew heavy, and she went to sleep giggling.

  Seven

  The guards who had been assigned to dog Horace Huxtable’s footsteps were right there beside him when he showed up for the next day’s rehearsal. Charlie could clearly tell that Huxtable was trying to make the best of a bad situation. He even felt a little sorry for the obnoxious old coot.

  He could also tell that Huxtable was feeling none too chipper today, due to yesterday’s excesses. Served him right.

  Of course, Charlie himself wasn’t too well rested this morning, either. Which served him right, too, for lying there in his bed, spinning impossible daydreams about Amy Wilkes.

  He thought it was a dirty shame that he should have had the opportunity both to see and to feel Amy in so few clothes the day before. Things like that rattled a man’s balance. Hell, the finest, most upright fellow might allow his thoughts to slip from the straight and narrow when forced not merely to confront, but to touch, such blatant and lovely femininity.

  Charlie considered it right unkind of God to have thrust him into that situation. Maybe it was a test, although if it was, he couldn’t conceive why the good Lord was testing him so blamed hard. What possible purpose could it serve God to have Charlie Fox in a state of frustrated sexual arousal for the next few weeks? Charlie resented it.

  Martin had called this rehearsal for nine o’clock, and it was to have been a dress rehearsal. Charlie had heard of dress rehearsals. Since Huxtable had ruined the costume tent, a dress rehearsal wasn’t possible this morning, so they’d had to delay the shooting schedule for a day, although Martin said he had hopes they could make things go faster after they achieved smooth sailing. Charlie thought that was a diplomatic way of phrasing it, not to mention highly optimistic, all things considered.

  Actually, this movie crew was working amazingly hard to get everything put back together again. They were efficient at it, too. The costume tent had been righted already, and now poor Miss Crenshaw was rooting around in it, with assistants, trying to get it back into some kind of shape. Charlie had heard folks voice concerns about some newfangled sewing machine that had got knocked around some. He hoped that, if the machine was broken and needed to be replaced, the cost would come out of Huxtable’s pocket. The man was a confounded carbuncle on the seat of society, if you asked Charlie.

  “Places, everyone,” Martin called through his megaphone. He looked haggard this morning, too, and Charlie vowed to do his best to make Martin’s life easier. This was the opening scene, so he had to be in the shot. His job here was to stare soulfully at Amy.

  No problem there, dagnabbit.

  This morning Amy was clad in a sensible white shirtwaist and a sensible brown skirt. Someone had convinced her that her collar didn’t really need to be buttoned up to her chin and she didn’t have to wear her tie with it since the weather was hot and there was lot of standing-around-in-the sun-and-waiting to be done on a movie set. Charlie suspected that Miss Crenshaw, who seemed like a pragmatic sort even if she did smoke cigarettes—Charlie, too, had been a tiny bit shocked to see a lady smoke, since up until now he’d only seen sporting girls light up—was the one who’d suggested that Amy go a little easier on herself, clothing-wise.

  He also suspected that Amy still wore a corset, even though the day promised weather in the 100’s. Hot on that thought’s heels came the idea that he’d like to investigate her underpinnings and find out for himself.

  “Shoot, man, you’re hopeless.” He chucked his toothpick aside and strode onto the set.

  Huxtable didn’t even look at him—ashamed of himself, Charlie hoped—but Amy gave him a nice smile. She appeared a bit shy, but her eyes were shining like stars. Charlie swallowed, removed his Stetson, and said, “Howdy, ma’am.”

  She said “Howdy” back, but she wasn’t comfortable with the word. Charlie didn’t know whether to consider such a lack of sophistication about the language of his world sweet or unfortunate. His romantic side endorsed the former, but his larger, no-nonsense side leaned toward the latter.

  He jumped when he heard his name called and realized he’d been mooning at Amy and not paying attention to Martin. Huxtable snickered. Amy blushed. Charlie, knowing from experience that there was no gainsaying Providence and it was foolish to deny an error that twenty persons had seen, grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Martin. Got a little moonshine in my eyes this morning and my mind went gallivanting.”

  “This morning?” Huxtable said under his breath but fully loud enough for Charlie to hear.

  “Stop that, Mr. Huxtable,” Amy said sharply, scowling at the man.

  “No problem, Charlie,” said Martin, who either didn’t hear Huxtable or chose to ignore him. “Would you move a little closer to the fence? That will make a more artistic shot.”

  “Artistic, faugh. Not with that big lummox in it.” Huxtable sneered.

  “Mr. Huxtable, will you be quiet?” Amy scowled.

  Hmmm. It sounded to Charlie as if his two co-stars weren’t ready to toss out their grievances yet. He feared their mutual dislike might affect the rehearsal. While he wouldn’t mind being in Amy’s company for hours or even days, he’d rather do it somewhere that wasn’t so blasted hot and public—and so filled with strife and animosity. He smiled at her and mouthed, “Don’t get riled. He’s just an old poop.”

  He wasn’t sure if his assessment of Huxtable shocked or amused her, but she did give him an answering smile, so that was fine and dandy. He moseyed to the fence and turned. “This okay?”

  “The pose is fine. Look casual,” Instructed Martin.

  Charlie decided the best way to do that was to adopt a pose familiar to everyone on an Arizona ranch. He hitched his elbow over the top rail, lifted his left boot and rested it on the lowest fence board, and sort of draped himself. In Charlie’s experience, which was considerable, that was the most comfortable posture a man could assume while standing.

  “All right,” said Martin. “Perfect. Horace, you come into the picture from the left and go over to talk to Charlie. He’s your foreman, remember, and you trust him.”

  “The more fool, I,” Huxtable growled.

  Charlie had to give the great oaf credit. As soon as he set foot onto the set, he was his character. Damned if he didn’t look exactly like this Luke McAllister fellow whom he was supposed to be. Since Charlie’s character was supposed to be trying to undermine McAllister’s ranching operation while attempting to steal McAllister’s girl from him, Charlie guessed it wouldn’t be amiss to try to look the part. He recalled a fellow named Eli Grant who had turned out to be a thorough-going scoundrel although everyone, at first, had believed him to be a nice man. Charlie did his best to emulate old Eli.

  “Don’t look so sinister, Charlie. At this point, nobody knows you’re a snake in the grass.”

  “I do,” said Huxtable—to no one’s surprise, evidently, because nobody called him to task. Amy humphed off-screen, but that was all right. Charlie’d talk to her later.

  “But the guy is sinister, isn’t he?” Charlie would never argue with Martin, who knew what he was doing, but he thought the question wouldn’t be out of place since he wanted to do a good job here and he really needed to know.

  “Right. But nobody knows it yet except you. Remember, the audience hasn’t read the script.”

  “Ri
ght.” That made sense to Charlie.

  Huxtable gave him a superior smirk. That made sense to Charlie, too, since Huxtable was a miserable, low-life, belly-crawling polecat. He didn’t react, but smoothed his sinister expression out to reflect nothing but blandness and goodwill. The way Eli Grant had appeared when he’d first arrived on the scene and before he’d proven his snakishness beyond all doubt.

  “Oh, I get it!” he cried, enlightenment having stricken him hard.

  “Good,” said Martin with a smile.

  “God,” muttered Huxtable. Charlie decided to pretend Horace had left out the second o by accident. Life was less troublesome that way.

  Amy hissed, “Honestly!” from the wings.

  He’d definitely have to talk with her at lunchtime. The way Charlie had it figured, the more people reacted to Huxtable, the worse he got. What with bodyguards standing around everywhere, Charlie imagined Horace would not be able to get himself off alone and get drunk. Besides, he’d drunk all the vanilla extract in the kitchen quarters yesterday.

  If, in addition to the bodyguards, folks stopped reacting to his offensive asides and smirking looks, maybe he’d get tired of being such a hound dog. Charlie tossed Amy a smile, hoping it conveyed at least part of his message. Since she was at present glaring at Horace Huxtable, the smile went for naught. Charlie sighed and resumed his pose.

  “I imagine I’m supposed to ask if you’ve seen Miss Priscilla—Miss Wilkes to you, if your brain hasn’t figured out her name’s supposed to be Priscilla in this picture,” Huxtable said as he approached Charlie.

  Charlie peered at him and was astounded to see that his facial expression was perfect for a boss merely asking a subordinate a civil question. This acting stuff was weird. Trying to play his part, he said, “I reckon you are, Mr. Huxtable.”

  “No, no, no!” Huxtable stopped walking and looked aggrieved. He even put his fists on his hips. “For the love of Christ, man, don’t say my name. If the audience has never seen a motion picture before, they’ve at least seen people say my name. The slowest person in the world will be able to lip-read that much.”

  The conceited bastard. Charlie heard Amy growl, “Vanity. All is vanity in that man,” and he decided that for today at least, it would be best for him not to react to Huxtable’s provocations, no matter how severe. “Reckon you’re right, Mr. H.” He even managed a fairly good imitation of a smile.

  “Mr. H. Is just as bad,” Huxtable snarled.

  “That so? I wonder. After all, a H could stand for horse’s ass just as easily as Huxtable.” Charlie’s smile didn’t waver, but he did mentally kick himself in the butt. Poor Martin would never get this picture made if the cast took to feuding. As it was, Huxtable’s jaw was a livid yellow-green and still swollen. Charlie felt kind of guilty about that—but not very.

  Through gritted teeth, Huxtable muttered, “Just say the name as it’s supposed to be in the script if you can’t think of anything else to say, you unmitigated oaf.”

  Fortunately, Charlie wasn’t sure what unmitigated meant, so he managed to shrug off the oaf part without much trouble.

  “You’d better just call him McAllister,” Martin suggested from his director’s chair. He smiled sympathetically, so Charlie decided to do it that way. As much fun as it might be to provoke Huxtable, he didn’t want to make Martin’s life any rougher than it already was. Or delay shooting, which Huxtable was doing quite nicely all by himself.

  Charlie gave Martin a salute. “Will do.”

  “All right, let’s start again.” Martin’s relief was visible.

  Huxtable stalked off the set, looking pained. Charlie didn’t perceive any reason for Horace to be peeved, as he must know that Charlie and Amy both were new at this moviemaking business. Nevertheless, Charlie assumed his former insouciant pose and gazed off into the distance—which was at present full of tents and people and didn’t look at all ranchlike.

  With a smile that seemed absolutely genuine, Huxtable again walked onto the set. “I see you’re gazing at the tents. Planning a nap, are we?”

  Charlie turned and plastered an almost-genuine smile on his own face. “No, sir, Mr. McAllister. Just wondering how much it’s costing to make this picture.”

  “More money than you’ll ever see, no doubt.”

  Since it was meant as a low blow, Charlie countered with a fake. “you’re probably right, Mr. McAllister. Some of us work hard for not much pay, unlike you picture folks.”

  “Unlike those of us with talent in our bones, you mean?”

  “If you take that to mean acting talent and experience, I reckon you’re right.”

  “It takes little skill to user one’s muscles.” Huxtable brushed a dot of dust from his shoulder.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous!” Amy cried. “Can’t you make him stop taunting the other actors, Mr. Tafft? He’s being hateful!”

  Charlie heard Martin’s enormous sigh from where he stood. He turned and shook his head at Amy, but she wasn’t looking at him. She looked charmingly indignant, actually, and all of that precious female indignation was being expended on his account. Charlie thought that was sweet. He also wished she’d keep her rosy lips shut.

  “It’s all right, Martin,” he said pleasantly. “I’m used to it. Poor Mr. Huxtable here hasn’t got any manners, and I reckon the whole crew knows it by this time.”

  “You’re very understanding, Charlie,” Martin told him. He turned to Huxtable. “Horace, can’t you please forget your difference and follow the script? You’re making this very difficult for all of us.”

  Huxtable drew himself up tall. He was still five or so inches shorter than Charlie, which gave Charlie a deplorable sense of pride, but at present Huxtable was looking as vain as the very devil. Charlie thought the comparison as apt as any he could come up with if he’d thought about it for a week.

  “I,” Huxtable intoned in his best stage actor’s voice, “am the star of this motion picture. Without me, the thing will be a total flop.”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it,” Martin said, finally losing his temper. “Folks will flock to see anything nowadays. I have a good mind to throw you out on your ear and let Charlie take the hero’s role. He’d look a darned sight better in the role than you do.”

  Aw, horse turds. Charlie wished Martin hadn’t said that. It was difficult enough dealing with Huxtable without the man getting jealous, too. “He don’t mean that, Mr. H.,” Charlie said gently. “Everybody knows you’re the star of this thing.”

  Huxtable had started to nod regally when Amy’s voice sang out from the sidelines. “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Tafft! Wouldn’t that be grand? No more ruined tents. No more delays and so forth. Why, I think it’s a splendid notion!”

  Crap. Charlie turned and gave Amy a very small frown. Not that he didn’t appreciate her sentiments on the issue; he simply wanted to get this picture finished some day in this century. She caught his glance this time, and blinked at him as if she couldn’t understand his attitude. He’d be happy to explain it over lunch. Right now he wanted her to shut up.

  Turning back to Huxtable, he said, “She don’t mean it either, Mr. H. They’re both a little put off by your shenanigans, is all. Miss Wilkes doesn’t understand that there’s more to this acting business than standing around and looking silly in front of a camera. I’m sure she’d see the difference if I was to take over your role.” He choked out a fairly successful laugh of self-deprecation. “Why, can you feature it?”

  Huxtable eyed him from Stetson to boots. “No,” he said haughtily. “I cannot.”

  “Well, then,” Charlie said, giving Huxtable a sizable pat on his shoulder. “There we go.”

  Staggering slightly, Huxtable glared at him. “Keep your dirty hands to yourself, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Because his anger had begun to rise and he feared he’d pop the star again if he didn’t watch himself, Charlie smiled innocently and turned away. Because he didn’t trust himself within slugging range of Huxtab
le, he moseyed over to where Amy stood.

  Her pretty eyebrows were lowered, and she looked as if she were mad at him now. With an internal sigh, Charlie decided he just couldn’t win this game.

  “I don’t know why you’re trying to be so nice to that big bully!”

  “Well, ma’am,” Charlie said reasonably. “I sure don’t like him.”

  “I should say not!”

  “But I do want to get home one of these days.”

  She glanced sharply at him, her frown in place. “What do you mean?”

  “I think we ought to try to ignore him. He’s only saying these things to get a rise out of us, and that only delays the process of making this picture. Poor Mr. Tafft would probably appreciate it if we’d just get on with business.”

  Her lips pressed together and she appeared unconvinced. “Well, I don’t see him trying to cooperate with Mr. Tafft.” She jerked her head in the direction of Huxtable.

  Charlie sighed. “No, ma’am. He seems to be doing everything he can to make everybody miserable.” Sudden insight made him add, “I sure don’t want to be anything like him, though, so I believe I’ll just go along with Mr. Tafft’s instructions and try to ignore Huxtable’s meanness.”

  “Oh.” Amy’s frown eased some. “I see what you mean. No, one doesn’t want to be anything at all like him, does one?”

  “No, ma’am. One sure doesn’t.” Charlie wasn’t accustomed to speaking of himself in the third person, but he acknowledged himself to be innocent of city manners.

  Amy huffed, which lifted her bosom deliciously under her frothy white blouse. Charlie, remembering the pressure of that delightful bosom against his chest, tried not to stare. “you’re right, of course. I understand. It’s galling, though.”