The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

They made their way through the station grounds, and when they got out front, Priscilla was amused to see a team of matched bays harnessed to a black surrey with shiny brass fittings that flickered in the sun. “I thought you’d be driving a car by this time.”

  “Not as long as there’s a horse and carriage around,” Jason grinned wryly. He helped her into the surrey, then mounted quickly to the opposite side. Taking up the lines, he spoke to the horses. The team moved out smartly, their hooves clattering on the hard-surfaced road. The traffic was mostly horses, buggies, and wagons, but a few automobiles also moved down the broad street.

  “I hate those blasted automobiles!” Jason said. “All they’re good for is to scare horses!”

  “You might as well get used to them. They’re here to stay,” Priscilla said. She looked around as they drove down a wide boulevard into the main part of the city.

  “So this is Los Angeles,” she said. “It’s not as big as New York.”

  “No, and I hope it stays that way. I never did like crowds.”

  “No, you never did.” Priscilla turned to him and studied his profile. He had a large nose with a slight break in the middle of it, and his neck was thick and strong and tanned. She let her eyes fall to his hands, which were large and obviously powerful. There were scars on his hands from years of working with ropes and cattle, and they looked tough and competent.

  “How were your folks?” he asked and turned to watch her. She was wearing a simple blue dress and had a small hat on that was pinned down firmly with hat pins.

  “They were fine, but I do have some news. Cass is moving to Los Angeles. He’s bought an orange grove somewhere around here. I have the address. I want to go out and see him as soon as I can.”

  “Anytime you want to go, I’ll take you, Priscilla,” he offered.

  As they drove through town, Priscilla was charmed by the Southwest-style architecture—the many adobe buildings and red-tiled roofs, landscaped with flowering tropical plants, varieties of cactus, and splashing fountains. Many of the broad streets were lined with palm trees, and they teemed with people going about their business or simply enjoying the delightful California sunshine—among them quite a few Mexicans and Orientals, Priscilla noticed. From certain vantage points she caught her first glimpses of the sparkling Pacific Ocean and was awed by the beauty of the rugged San Gabriel Mountains in the distance, which served as a magnificent backdrop to the scene before her. As they made their way into the heart of the city, she could hardly believe her good fortune in coming to this exotic place.

  “Tell me all about the studio,” she said, excited to know more about the movie-making business. “What have you been doing?”

  “Mostly getting a crew together and a remuda of horses.”

  Priscilla listened intently as he proceeded to tell her of his activities, speaking in an easy voice, his eyes alert as he threaded the surrey through the traffic that was getting heavier. He sat loosely in the seat, almost idly, but Priscilla knew that he could change in a moment, for she had seen him leap into action with startling speed.

  “Do you like it here, Jason?”

  “Not as much as the ranch, but it’s better than New York. A man can stretch around here.” He lifted his eyes and gestured to his right. “I spend a lot of time down at the ocean watching the boats. Never was around water before. I’ve even gone out on a couple. Scares me a little bit. I can’t swim, and if that boat sinks I’d be a gone goose.” Then he motioned to his left. “Plenty of spaces out there, though. All the way to the mountains. It’s a nice valley, Priscilla. Lots of ranches, but a lot of people are startin’ to put in orange groves like your brother. I think he’s pretty smart getting in on the ground floor like that.”

  “I hope it works out well for him.”

  “What about Pete?”

  “Oh, you know Pete. He’s on his way back to Detroit. He plans to build a race car and win every race in the world.”

  “I bet he’ll do it, too.” Ballard motioned with his right hand. “There’s the hotel. I figure you might want to rest up from your trip. It’s too late to go to the studio today.” He pulled up in front of a hotel that appeared to be new. It was made out of gleaming white stucco with large pillars in the front. A doorman wearing a military-looking uniform came at once to take their luggage. Ballard turned to her and removed his hat again. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Would you like for me to take you out later and show you the town?”

  “I’m pretty tired, Jason. Maybe another time.”

  “Sure.” He nodded, and his face did not change. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up about eight.”

  “Come for breakfast,” Priscilla said, looking up at him and smiling. “We’ll try some of this orange juice that’s going to make Cass rich.”

  “That would be fine.” He watched her move gracefully up the hotel steps, and when she disappeared through the front door, he clamped his hat over his head and climbed back up into the surrey. He slapped the rumps of the horses with the lines, saying, “Get up!” and settled down as they broke into a fast trot. He drove through town until he came to the outskirts where a low bungalow sat to one side of a large corral filled with horses grazing and switching their tails at the flies. Ballard leaped out of the carriage, then handed the lines to a short, fat man dressed in overalls and wearing a white Stetson. “Unhitch the team, Charlie,” he said. “Grain ’em down and turn ’em out in the pasture.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Ballard entered the building, which was in effect a bunkhouse. The largest room ran for almost twenty-five feet and was filled with tables, chairs, and lamps. Everything was illuminated by the brilliant afternoon sunlight that filtered through the large windows across the front of the room. At least two poker games were going on, and a few men were asleep with their feet propped up against other chairs. The room was filled with cigar smoke and the pungent smell of horses from the clothing of the men.

  “All right, you yahoos!” Ballard called out, and at once everybody turned to look at him. They were a fairly rough crew, and Jason had been obliged to educate two of the rougher members with his fists. He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of gingersnaps. Removing one, he put it into his mouth and chewed on it for a moment. “All right, Miss Winslow’s here. She’s a fine lady, and I’m giving you the law of the land. You say one word out of line to her, and I’ll pound you into the ground!”

  A tall, lanky cowboy sitting at one of the poker tables shoved back his high-crowned white hat with one finger and grinned. “Ah now, Jason. You don’t have to make us a speech like that.” He looked around the room and winked secretly at the crowd and then said innocently, “We’re all gentlemen here. I thought you knowed that.”

  Jason grinned at the cowboy. “I made this speech especially for you, Mike. You’re the ladies’ man, but it won’t go with Miss Winslow.”

  “She pretty special, is she?” Mike Smith inquired. He leveled his brown eyes on the foreman, and his fingers toyed with a whiskey glass in front of him. “I had a friend that seen her on the stage in New York. He said she was as pretty as a speckled pup.”

  “You can look—but don’t touch, and watch your mouth!”

  Another cowpoke spoke up, an older man with gray hair and a pair of steady blue eyes. “Don’t worry, Jase. We’ll behave.”

  Jason ran his hands through his hair, studied them, and then grinned as he went over to take a seat across from Mike Smith. “I’ll just relieve you of some of that big money you been earnin’,” he said.

  Jason Ballard had a way with the men. He could be hard and tough, but he was one of them, and they all knew they could come to him if they needed help. Smith studied him carefully, started to say something about Priscilla Winslow, then decided against it. He picked up the cards and began to shuffle, and the game went on as the humming sound of the men’s voices filled the room.

  ****

  Priscilla rose before dawn. She never slept well in
a strange room. Feeling the need for a walk, she slipped into a violet-colored cotton dress with a tiny white-flowered pattern trimmed in dark purple. Leaving the hotel, she walked around as the sun came up, throwing its first crimson rays of light over the city. She returned feeling invigorated and found Jason waiting for her in front of the hotel. “I went for a little walk,” she said.

  “Wish I’d known that. I’d have gone with you. Ready for breakfast?”

  “That sounds good. Let’s try some of that orange juice I’ve heard so much about.”

  The two stepped inside, and Jason led her to the restaurant. The elegant dining room was well lit by the early morning sun streaming through the large windows, brightening the dark red walls and the red-and-black patterned carpet. The tables were covered with white linen cloths, a folded red linen napkin at each place setting, and in the center of each table sat a Hampshire pottery lamp with leaded glass shade. Jason and Priscilla chose a corner table behind a potted palm, which afforded them some privacy, and sat down in the sumptuous red leather oak chairs. They ordered ham and eggs and large glasses of orange juice. When the juice came, Priscilla picked up her tall glass and looked at it carefully, then tried it. “Why, that’s wonderful, Jase!”

  “The best in the world, I guess. Although, folks down in Florida might argue with that,” he grinned. His face glowed from a shave, and he looked roughly handsome in his royal blue shirt and string tie. As they ate they talked at length about the motion pictures that were going to be made, and he gave her a quick rundown of the crew. Neither of them spoke of New York nor of their early days together on the ranch. Finally he said, “Well, if you’re ready we’ll go see the studio.”

  “I’m ready, Jase.”

  The two left the hotel and climbed into the same surrey they had ridden in from the train station. During the short trip to the studio, Priscilla plied him with questions about the men and the horses. As he spoke she had to constantly remind herself to be on her guard. It was uncomfortable knowing that he was in love with her. After what had happened with Eddie Rich, she was determined to have no close relationships that might lead to anything serious. The old saying that her mother had often used jumped into her mind: A burnt child dreads the fire. She had heard her mother say that a thousand times, but never had it seemed more real than it did to her at this particular time of her life. It was a strange feeling, for she had everything she had always thought she wanted—plenty of money, some recognition, acceptance in the theater, which had been her dream—and yet something was still missing, but she could not identify it nor put her finger on it.

  The sun had come up now and was beating down upon them, yet it was not uncomfortable. “I know I’m going to like it here better than New York,” she said. “I couldn’t stand another one of those cold winters.”

  “No cold winters here, so they tell me,” Jason said. “Just sunshine all year round. Heaven on earth, the natives say.”

  “I doubt that. They may have good weather, but no place is heaven on earth.”

  He looked at her, surprised. Usually she was a cheerful girl, but now he saw a disturbed look in her eyes. He hesitated and, not wanting to upset her, merely said, “How have you been, Priscilla?”

  She knew exactly what he meant. What he actually wanted to ask was, had she gotten over Eddie Rich? Since she could not answer honestly that she had, she put him off, saying, “I’m feeling very well. I had a good time at home. I got to relax and be with the folks a lot. I’d almost forgotten how to ride, but I picked it up again in a hurry. Benjamin, my nephew, is going to be a great rider. I gave him some lessons. We went out riding every day.”

  “Is he like Cass?”

  “Very much like him. Only he’s a little bit too fresh.”

  “Ah, he’s just a kid. He’ll change.”

  “I suppose so.” They drew up in front of a large structure that appeared to be a barn. Priscilla stared at it with amazement. “Is this it?”

  “This is it. There’s more of it around over there. Mr. Porter bought up quite a bit of land here. He keeps building what he calls ‘sets.’ See anything funny about this building?”

  She looked at it carefully. “Why, it doesn’t have a roof!” she exclaimed.

  “That’s right. Come on in and take a look.” Jason jumped out of the surrey, tied the horses up, and came back to extend his hand. When she put hers in his, he held it for a moment with an odd look on his face. Then without another word, he led her to the door of the set and opened it.

  When she stepped inside, she saw that the structure was subdivided by walls, but overhead there was no ceiling. “Why, this is crazy!” she said. “What’s to keep it from raining on everybody?”

  “Nothing,” Jason drawled. “When it does rain we go someplace that’s got a roof.”

  “Why doesn’t the place have a roof on it?”

  “Them cameras need lots of light, and this way they can shoot an indoor scene right at noon. Look, they got everything in here. All kinds of sets, living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens. Everything’s kind of waterproof, though. It does rain once in a while, but not a lot.” He turned quickly and said, “Look, there’s Mr. Porter.”

  Priscilla turned to see Edwin Porter approaching. He was a short, hefty man with an abundant crop of brown hair. He was not fat but rather stocky, with the kind of muscle that comes to wrestlers and heavyweight boxers. He had a pair of sharp gray eyes that were fixed on her now, and he was smiling as he came to her. Before she could move, he reached over, took her by the arms, pulled her forward, and kissed her soundly on the cheek.

  “Hey, Priscilla!” he said. “It’s good to see you. How was your trip?”

  She was somewhat accustomed to the kisses that many of her theatrical friends bestowed, but she had never liked them. Still, Edwin Porter was a fine man, and she had learned to trust him absolutely. “Very good, Edwin,” she said. “Jason was right there to meet me. He’s been showing me around a bit.”

  “Everything all right with those cowpunchers of yours, Jason?”

  “All ready to roll, Mr. Porter.”

  “I guess we can start this afternoon. Stan will tell you what we need.”

  “Who’s Stan?” Priscilla asked.

  “Stanislas Lem. He’s a big director from Europe—Germany mostly. He’ll be directing the picture. Come on. I want you to meet him right away.”

  “I’ll hang around until he tells me what to do,” Jason said.

  “I’ll send him right over as soon as I introduce him to Priscilla, our star.” He took Priscilla’s arm and propelled her through the sets, speaking briefly to those he passed. Turning to Priscilla, he said, “Let me give you a word about Stan. He’s a genius with a camera, but he’s got a temper like a blowtorch. Just don’t pay any attention to him.”

  “I’ll try,” Priscilla agreed. As they approached a different set, she was surprised when they met a tall, lean man with hollow cheeks and a shock of black hair. He was about forty, she guessed, and there was an electric energy about the man.

  “Stan, this is our new star I’ve been telling you all about. Miss Priscilla Winslow. Priscilla, Stanislas Lem.”

  “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Lem.” Priscilla put out her hand, and he took it and squeezed it so hard that she winced.

  “I’m glad to see you, Miss Winslow.” He bowed from the hips in the European fashion, and his smile made his Slavic features less grim. “You can’t be as fine an actress as Edwin here has been telling me, I don’t think.”

  “I’m sure he’s been much too kind, but I promise I’ll do my best for you.”

  “Fine . . . fine!”

  “Stan, why don’t you go and get Jason lined up on the details for that scene we’re going to do out on the prairie. The one where the wagon trains are jumped by the Indians.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I left him back by the door. I think he’s waiting for you.”

  “I will go at once.” He turned to Priscilla. “Have you seen th
e script yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I’ll get you one.” He waved to a young man who was standing at some distance holding a megaphone and a sheaf of papers. “Billy, give Miss Winslow a script. Go over it with her.” He turned then and left abruptly.

  The young man came forward and grinned. “I’m Billy Winters,” he said. “Here’s the script. If you have any questions, I’ll be glad to answer them for you, Miss Winslow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Winters.”

  “Just Billy is fine.” The young man wheeled around and briskly walked away.

  “What did you think of Stan?” Mr. Porter asked.

  “He’s got a lot of energy, hasn’t he?”

  “He sure does. And he’s a perfectionist. He doesn’t want anything to go wrong. Well, come along. I’ll introduce you to the wardrobe woman, and you can pick out a costume. You’ll be in that scene out on the prairie. Can you ride a horse? But of course you can. You grew up in Wyoming.”

  “Yes. I grew up on a ranch. As a matter of fact, Jason taught me a lot about riding. He was my father’s foreman.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  The day was fascinating but terribly demanding for Priscilla. Porter was constantly at her side, explaining how he intended to make the Western story into a new art form. Expecting to have some sort of run-in with Stan Lem, Priscilla was surprised when he did not display the temper Porter had warned her about. Though he was very demanding down to the last detail, the director was extremely kind every time he spoke to her.

  The prairie scene had been shot with a group of Indians—not real ones, but merely some of the cowboys dressed in Indian garb and made up with war paint. There had been a great deal of shouting and jeering and laughter among this group, which did not matter since their voices would never be heard in the theater. Jason handled the riding scenes well, and when it was time for Priscilla to ride in, he stood holding her horse while she mounted.

  “Don’t fall off and make a liar out of me. I’ve been telling everybody that you’re the best rider in the state of Wyoming—except for me.”