A Season of Dreams

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I know what they’re gonna do,” Adam nodded confidently. “They’re gonna have a fight.”

  “How do you know that?” Bonnie asked, amused at his assurance.

  “Because in the saloons they always have fights. Look,” he said suddenly, “see that man all dressed in black? He’s the bad guy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The bad guys always wear black, and black hats. The good guys always wear white hats.” Adam rattled on, giving her the benefit of his experience. “And the bad guys need a shave and the good guys like Mr. Mix don’t. Gosh, I thought you knew all that!”

  “It makes it easy to know how to watch a movie,” Bonnie laughed. “I believe you’re right.”

  They watched as Mix acted his part. She knew many stars used doubles, but in the fight that ensued—which included broken bottles and breaking of chairs over heads—Mix was right in the middle of it.

  When the scene was over, the director yelled, “All right, that’s a take!”

  “Gosh! Could we go up and meet him, do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t know. He probably doesn’t like to be bothered—but we’ll try.”

  They made their way across the floor and Mix looked up at them. He was wearing a white suit with many buttons across the front, cavalry style, and the white hat had not come off his head during the fight scene. He was a ruggedly handsome man with heavy black eyebrows, firm lips, and a hard-muscled body. “Well, hello young fella! Came to see the movie made, did you?”

  “This is Adam Stuart. I believe you know his mother, Lylah Stuart.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mix said at once and smiled broadly. He put his hand out and said, “I wish we were doing a take outside. I’d let you ride my horse.”

  “You mean Tony?”

  “You know his name?”

  “Gosh! Everybody knows your horse’s name, Mr. Mix. You’re the best actor there ever was.”

  Mix found this amusing and said, “I wish you’d tell that to that man right over there,” he nodded toward the director. “But I guess really I’m more of a cowboy than I am an actor.” He spoke the truth. Tom Mix had been an athletic young man with a flair for showmanship. He often said his horse Tony had more of a genius for acting than he did.

  As they left the studio with Adam clutching a piece of paper containing the famous man’s autograph, he said, “That’s what I want to be when I grow up, a cowboy.” His eyes were bright and he said, “You think I could do that?”

  “I think you can do anything you want to,” Bonnie said and gave him a hug as they passed through the gates of the studio. It had been an exciting day for them both, and it accomplished what she had thought—to take the questions about his father off his mind.

  The boardroom of Monarch Studio was small compared with those of other production companies. Monarch had been born through Lylah’s efforts. The first film she produced, The Gangster, had been a hit. A rival said it was only because she had enticed Rudolph Valentino into playing the starring role. Since then, Valentino had died, but Lylah had clung to the studio, learning the producer’s trade as she had learned that of an actor. Now, however, as she sat at the table and looked across at Jesse, she felt weary. The two of them had struggled with the finances until they were both exhausted. She turned to Carl Thomas, who at the age of seventy looked not a day older than when he had helped her make her first picture seven years before. Thomas was five-feet five, trim, and dapper. He touched his small mustache from time to time, and his black hair was still full despite his age. It was dyed, of course, but he laughed at that himself.

  “Well, where do we go from here?” Thomas asked. “Are you getting ready to do another picture, Lylah?”

  “I don’t know, Carl. I’m tired, to tell the truth about it. I don’t know what kind of picture to do.”

  “How about another gangster movie?” Carl said. “It would be hard to make a better one than your first one, though.”

  Lylah shook her head. “No, there’ve been too many of them lately.” She leaned back and named them off. “Paul Muni did Scarface and then there’s Cagney in Public Enemy.”

  Jesse added, “There’s Little Caesar. I think that’s the best of all of them. Eddy Robinson’s new but he’s going places in the movie business, quite an actor. But I think you’re right; too many gangster movies already. We need something fresh.”

  They talked for quite a while and finally Thomas said, “Whatever you do, you better make it a good one, Lylah. The competition’s getting tougher. The depression’s cut down on attendance.”

  “I know, Carl, but I’ve tried everything in my head and nothing seems to be good.”

  Jesse leaned forward. “I’ve got an idea,” he said slowly. “As a matter of fact,” he grinned suddenly and looked much younger, “I’ve got a script.”

  Lylah stared at him, “A script! When did you have time to write a script?”

  “When you weren’t looking.” Jesse leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I’ve been thinking about this one for a long time. I think it would be a good time to release it, but I don’t know.”

  “What is it, Jesse?” Carl demanded. “Is it a horror movie?” He nodded eagerly. “You know, that seems to be the big thing. We’ve got Karloff and Frankenstein, and Bella Lugosi and Dracula. I don’t see why we couldn’t come up with a monster of our own.”

  “No, not a monster. It’s a film about aviation.”

  Instantly, Lylah grew alert. She was fascinated with aviation. Her brother Gavin had been a flyer with the Lafayette Escadrille and she still remembered his reports of the fierce battles over France.

  “What sort of film?”

  “It’s a simple story. One that’s pretty common. The plot deals with a young pilot who loses his best friend in the war. He comes home and, after the excitement of the war, he can’t find himself. So he flies for an air circus and the depression hits. Then the aviation world goes down just like every other business. But—”

  “Sounds pretty depressing to me,” Carl said. “I can’t help humming that song, ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?’ and it’s driving me crazy! I wish it’d never been written. We’ve heard enough about this blasted depression!”

  Lylah knew that Jesse was very much aware of what audiences liked. He had a sharpness about him that enabled him to see things, and had proven it with his scripts. “But you’re thinking about something else, aren’t you, Jesse?”

  “Yes. Flying somehow seems to symbolize this country. It’s exciting, it’s new, and people still go out to air circuses. Look at the long distance flyers like Amelia Earhart. She’s on the pages of every newspaper in the country, and people are interested in flying. The airlines are struggling, but they’re romantic. You’re not trundling along in a beat-up Model T, you’re flying up in the air. I thought we could make it a film,” he said slowly, “of hope. You can do that with scenes in the air.”

  “Hey,” Carl said, “I think you’ve got something. I’ve been to one of those air shows,” he shuddered and turned to Lylah. “Your brother, he had one, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did—and you remember Jerry, my nephew. He’s one of the best stunt flyers in the business.”

  “What’s Gavin doing?” Carl demanded. “If we could get those two to do the actual flying, we could save money.”

  The idea triggered a long meeting that lasted not only that day, but several days. Finally, Carl said, “I think we can get the money on this one. It’ll be tight, but if Gavin and Jerry can do the flying, and we get somebody that’ll be a draw to star, I think we’ve got a shot on hitting it big.”

  “I hope so,” Lylah said slowly, “because this is all or nothing, Carl. We’ll sink everything we have into it and if it flops, we’ll all be selling apples on the street corner.”

  The door burst open and Bonnie, who was wearing her oldest dress as she did the cleaning, looked up. She had her hair tied up with a bandanna and was shocked to see Jerry Stuart en
ter, followed by Gavin, and a woman she had never wanted to see again.

  Jerry came over at once. “Hey, it’s us! Look at me, I’m a movie star!” He stood there, his eyes shining, and said, “Where are Lylah and Jesse?”

  “They’re—they’re not home yet from the studio.”

  “Oh!” Jerry turned and said, “Look who’s here. You remember Cara?”

  Cara stepped forward, a smile on her carmine lips. “Well, you’ve grown up. The last time I saw you, you were just a little girl.”

  “Oh, yeah, she’s like a kid sister to me,” Jerry said breezily. He did not see the angry look that flashed in Bonnie’s eyes as he turned to Gavin to say, “Maybe we ought to go down to the studio.”

  Gavin shook his head. “We might miss them on the way. Let’s go back to the hotel. We left Heather and the kids there anyway.” He turned to Bonnie. “We’ll be at the Avon Hotel. Have Lylah call as soon as she gets in.”

  “All right, Gavin.”

  Jerry seized Cara by the waist and squeezed her and said proudly, “Cara’s going to be a movie star. Maybe me, too. Isn’t that swell?”

  Bonnie had never felt so grubby and dirty in her life. Cara was wearing a beautifully tailored green dress that outlined her figure well. Her hair was done in the latest style and she looked ready to model for one of the fashion agencies. Very much aware of her dirty apron, her old dress, her hair done up in a rag, and feeling like one of the witches from Macbeth, Bonnie glared at Jerry and said, “Just swell!” She whirled and stalked out of the room abruptly.

  “I wonder what’s wrong with her?” Jerry asked in surprise. “She’s not usually so grumpy.”

  There was ancient wisdom in Cara’s eyes and a light smile tugged at her lips. “Come along, Sweetheart. We’ve got things to talk about.”

  IN DEFENSE OF WINONA DANCE

  This sure ain’t much country for looks, is it?”

  Dent DeForge wiped the sweat out of his face and looked over Violet’s shoulders at the landscape. The oil-field country was about as ugly as anything he’d ever seen. He had been traveling around some, looking at the different rigs, and they were all about the same: platforms of all conditions, each with its own walking beam creaking up and down, and its own little steam engine huffing and puffing. Everywhere he saw crud from the slush pits and lakes of salt water pooled under the platforms and in most open spaces. This, along with piles of rotting garbage thrown out by roughnecks, never known for their hygiene, was what he had seen.

  Violet had been watching Dent work on the wooden derrick, which was now lying flat on the ground. Pete had taken it down to lengthen it and restructure it and now it lay like the skeleton of some sort of rectangular dinosaur.

  “No, it’s not very pretty,” Violet said. She looked along the length of the derrick, then shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t see how you’re going to get it to stand up.”

  Dent finished tightening a bolt, tossed the wrench to the ground, then stood up and stretched his back. “I don’t either,” he admitted, “but I guess I’ll have to try.”

  Violet was wearing a pair of overalls that had belonged to Pete at one time. She had been sick of the torn dress she had worn and had appropriated the overalls, tucking them up at the legs, and a blue chambray shirt, which she wore with the sleeves rolled up. Despite the roughness of the garb, the curves of her youthful figure were clearly revealed. She pulled her cap down more firmly on her head to keep the continual breeze from blowing it off. “What do you have to do to get it to stand up?”

  Dent said cheerfully, “Well, that’s a gin pole sticking up in the air over there. These here are gun tackle blocks. These are pulleys running over to the top of the derrick.” He pointed to a tangle of blocks and cables that made absolutely no sense to Violet. Getting up, he walked over to the power source, which was a gas engine bolted to the bed of Pete’s truck. He stared at it and shook his head. “This thing probably just has a hundred and fifty horsepower, but it’s all we got. I’ve done a little hoisting and hauling, but I don’t know. You ready to try it?”

  “Let me go get everybody out. They all want to see it.”

  Ten minutes later, everybody, including Pete on his crutches, moved out to watch the demonstration. Pete’s eyes were doubtful and he said, “I don’t know, Dent—,” and he began to make some complicated suggestions, but Dent shook them all off.

  “Nope, we’ll try ’er one way or the other. Here we go!”

  Starting up the engine, he shoved the throttle forward. The engine began chugging rapidly, coughing from time to time, then Dent threw the engine in gear. The cables were taken up on the drum and grew taut.

  Slowly the derrick structure began to rise—very slowly. Pete was straining his shoulders as if he had part of the load. “You see,” he said to Maury, who was standing beside him, “the first ten degrees in a lift like this are the hardest. Gravity’s against you and you got the worst possible angle on this thing. Even with that gin pole to take the angle away, this is a critical time right here.”

  All held their breath as Dent advanced the throttle. The small engine chugged frantically, and as a few seconds passed, they could hear a sudden creak.

  “Look out!” Pete yelled. “You’re picking up the truck!”

  And that was what was happening. Instead of the derrick lifting, the strain on the engine that was bolted to the truck lifted up the truck.

  “The truck’s winding itself up on its own cable!” Pete shouted. Dent made a leap at the engine, shoved at the clutch, and the Ford settled down with a crunching sound as the derrick fell back with a crash, raising a big pool of dust.

  A moan went up from the small crowd of spectators, and Ray walked over to where Dent was looking down with disgust at the rig. “I don’t think that’s gonna do it, Dent. Maybe we could get a bigger engine.”

  Dent shook his head, then kicked the tire of the truck with a futile gesture of anger. “We’ll have to gear it down lower,” he said. “That’ll mean getting a few more block and tackle rigs—two more, I figger. I saw some down the road there where a fella’s sellin’ out. I figure we can get ’em for a few bucks. You wanna go along?”

  “Sure,” Ray said. “Let’s go. Be good to move around a little bit.”

  Finding the equipment was not hard, and after a minimum of bargaining, Dent bought all they needed for five dollars. “Don’t tell Pete I paid for these,” he cautioned Ray. “We’ll just let this be our secret.”

  “He’s pretty hard up, isn’t he, Dent?” Ray asked with a worried look. He was pale from his sickness, but there was some color in his cheeks. The hot summer sun beat down on him, and already he was beginning to get a tan. “I don’t know if he can do it. How deep do you have to go to get oil?”

  “Shoot! I don’t know,” Dent grinned. “We just get that derrick up and drill till we hit China, I guess. I was gonna take you and Violet on home but I got a letter from Logan—said stay here and help Pete as long as we need to. Look!” he broke off suddenly, “let’s stop and get an RC Cola and maybe a Moon Pie. I’m hungry.”

  They pulled up at a small general store, parking in front of a powerful-looking truck loaded with drilling equipment. On the side it said Kingman Oil Company.

  “That’s some of our competition,” Dent grinned. “I figure we can put them out of business one of these days.”

  The store was adjoined to a cafe and Dent said, “Hey, let’s go in there and sit down, maybe get a piece of pie instead of a Moon Pie. They always taste like wax to me, anyhow.”

  They moved inside the cafe, which consisted of a counter along one side with half a dozen tables scattered around. It was a rough enough looking place. As they seated themselves, a small woman with Indian features came toward them. She was wearing a blue flowered dress, half hidden by a white apron. Her hair was pure black and her eyes were large and brown. She was very pretty and both men looked at her with appreciation.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked.

  �
�You got any kind of homemade pie back there, Sweetheart?”

  “I’m not your sweetheart,” the young woman said firmly. “We’ve got apple and cherry.”

  “Bring us one slice of each. We’ll test it out,” Dent said. He took off his straw hat and tossed it on the chair next to him. As she walked away, he kept his eyes on her shapely figure. “Now, there’s a good-looking woman,” he said. “Don’t you think so?”

  Ray smiled. He was used to Dent’s ways. “Yes, she’s pretty,” he said.

  They waited until she came back with the pie. “What’s your name, Miss?”

  She gave the pair a scornful glance, then turned and walked away.

  “I guess that settles your hash,” Ray grinned. “You lost some of your charm since you became a roughneck.”

  The two ate their pie slowly and finished off an RC apiece, and each ordered a second. As they were halfway through these, four men came in, obviously roughnecks. One of them was frightening in his appearance. He was no more than five-feet ten but must have weighed over 220 pounds. He was bald but had heavy sandy eyebrows over pale blue eyes. His nose was flattened and he had a battered, strange-looking ear.

  “That fellow’s a pug,” Dent said quietly, “a prizefighter.”

  The four men sat down and when the young woman came they all began to make rough remarks to her. She took their orders on a pad and turned to walk away. The largest man, whom the others had called Ollie, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down on his lap. “How ’bout a kiss to go with the order?” he grinned.

  She turned her face away as he tried to kiss her, and she began to struggle. “Let me go!” she cried.

  “Aw, now, a little squaw like you shouldn’t mind kissing a white man.”

  “That’s right, Ollie. Give ’er a good ’un,” a tall, lean man with a sunburned face encouraged. He had a wolfish grin and laughed loud as the big man began to kiss the woman.

  She struggled silently, trying to beat the huge roughneck with her fists, but it was useless.