The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  Down the dry wash where Applehead had hunted for baling wire she went swiftly, with the straight-backed, free stride of the plainswoman who knows not the muscle-bondage of boned girdle. In moccasins she walked; for a certain pride of race, a certain sense of the picture-value of beaded buckskin and bright cloth, held her fast to the gala dress of her people, modified and touched here and there with the gay ornaments of civilization. So much had her work in the silent drama taught her. Bareheaded, her hair in two glossy braids each tied with a big red bow, she strode on and on in the clear sunlight of spring.

  Not until she was more than two miles from the ranch did she show herself upon one of the numberless small ridges which, blended together in the distance, give that deceptive look of flatness to the mesa. Even two miles away, in that clear air that dwarfs distance so amazingly, Wagalexa Conka might recognize her if he looked at her with sufficient attention. But Wagalexa Conka, she told herself with a flash of her black eyes, would not look. Wagalexa Conka was too busy looking at that slim woman he had brought with him.

  That ridge she crossed, and two others. On the last one she stopped and stood, straight and still, and stared away towards the mountains, shading her eyes with one spread palm. On a distant slope a small herd of cattle fed, scattered and at peace. Nearer, a great hawk circled slowly on widespread wings, his neck craned downward as if he were watching his own shadow move ghostlike over the grass. Annie-Many-Ponies, turning her eyes disappointedly from the empty mesa, envied the hawk his swift-winged freedom.

  When she looked again toward the far slopes next the mountains, a black speck rolled into view, the nucleus of a little dust cloud. Her face brightened a little; she turned abruptly and sought easy footing down that ridge, and climbed hurriedly the longer rise beyond. Once or twice, when she was on high ground, she glanced behind her uneasily, as does one whose mind holds a certain consciousness of wrongdoing. She did not pause, even then, but hurried on toward the dust cloud.

  On the rim of a shallow, saucer-like basin that lay cunningly concealed until one stood upon the very edge of it, Annie-Many-Ponies stopped again and stood looking out from under her spread palm. Presently the dust cloud moved over the crest of a ridge, and now that it was so much closer she saw clearly the horseman loping abreast of the dust. Annie-Many-Ponies stood for another moment watching, with that inscrutable half smile on her lips. She untied the cerise silk kerchief which she wore knotted loosely around her slim neck, waited until the horseman showed plainly in the distance and then, raising her right hand high above her head, waved the scarf three times in slow, sweeping half circles from right to left. She waited, her eyes fixed expectantly upon the horseman. Like a startled rabbit he darted to the left, pulled in his horse, turned and rode for three or four jumps sharply to the right; stopped short for ten seconds and then came straight on, spurring his horse to a swifter pace.

  Annie-Many-Ponies smiled and went down into the shallow basin and seated herself upon the wide, adobe curbing of an old well that marked, with the nearby ruins of an adobe house, the site, of an old habitation of tragic history. She waited with the absolute patience of her race for the horseman had yet a good two miles to cover. While she waited she smiled dreamily to herself and with dainty little pats and pulls she widened the flaring red bows on her hair and retied the cerise scarf in its picturesque, loose knot about her throat. As a final tribute to that feminine instinct which knows no race she drew from some cunningly devised hiding place a small, cheap “vanity box,” and proceeded very gravely to powder her nose.

  CHAPTER III

  TO THE VICTORS THE SPOILS

  “Hey, boys!” Luck Lindsay shouted to Applehead and one or two of the Happy Family who were down at the chuck—wagon engaged in uneasy discussion as to what Luck would say when he found out about their intention to leave. “Come on up here—this is going to be a wiping out of old scores and I want to get it over with!”

  “Well, now, I calc’late the fur’s about to fly,” Applehead made dismal prophecy, as they started to obey the summons. “All ’t su’prises me is ’t he’s held off this long. Two hours is a dang long time fer Luck to git in action, now I’m tellin’ yuh!” He took off his hat and polished his shiny pate, as was his habit when perturbed. “I’m shore glad we had t’ wait and set them wagon-tires,” he added. “We’d bin started this mornin’ only fer that.”

  “Aw, we ain’t done nothing,” Happy Jack protested in premature self defense. “We ain’t left the ranch yet. I guess a feller’s got a right to think!”

  “He has, if he’s got anything to do it with,” Pink could not forbear to remark pointedly.

  “Well, if a feller didn’t have, he’d have a fat chance borrying from you,” Happy Jack retorted.

  “Well, by cripes, I ain’t perpared to bet very high that there’s a teacupful uh brains in this hull outfit,” Big Medicine asserted. “We might a knowed Luck’d come back loaded fer bear; we would a knowed it if we had any brains in our heads. I’m plumb sore at myself. By cripes, I need kickin’!”

  “You’ll get it, chances are,” Pink assured him grimly.

  Luck was in the living room, sitting at a table on which were scattered many papers Scribbled with figures. He had a cigarette in his lips, his hat on the back of his head and a twinkle in his eyes. He looked up and grinned as they came reluctantly into the room.

  “Time’s money from now on, so this is going to be cut short as possible,” he began with his usual dynamic energy showing in his tone and in the movements of his hands as he gathered up the papers and evened their edges on the table top. “You fellows know how much you put into the game when we started out to come here and produce The Phantom Herd, don’t you? If you don’t, I’ve got the figures here. I guess the returns are all in on that picture—and so far She’s brought us twenty-three thousand and four hundred dollars. She went big, believe me! I sold thirty states. Well, cost of production is-what we put in the pool, plus the cost of making the prints I got in Los. We pull out the profits according to what we put in—sabe? I guess that suits everybody, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure,” one astonished voice gulped faintly. The others were dumb.

  “Well, I’ve figured it out that way—and to make sure I had it right I got Billy Wilders, a pal of mine that works in a bank there, to figure it himself and check up after me. We all put in our services—one man’s work against every other man’s work, mine same as any of you. Bill Holmes, here, didn’t have any money up, and he was an apprentice—but I’m giving him twenty a week besides his board. That suit you, Bill?”

  “I guess it’s all right,” Bill answered in his colorless tone.

  Luck, being extremely sensitive to tones, cocked an eye up at Bill before he deliberately peeled, from the roll he drew from his pocket, enough twenty dollar notes to equal the number of weeks Bill had worked for him. “And that’s paying you darned good money for apprentice work,” he informed him drily, a little hurt by Bill’s lack of appreciation. For when you take a man from the streets because he is broke and hungry and homeless, and feed him and give him work and clothes and three meals a day and a warm bed to sleep in, if you are a normal human being you are going to expect a little gratitude from that man; Luck had a flash of disappointment when he saw how indifferently Bill Holmes took those twenties and counted them before shoving them into his pocket. His own voice was more crisply businesslike when he spoke again.

  “Annie-Many-Ponies back yet? She’s not in on the split either. I’m paying her ten a week besides her board. That’s good money for a squaw.” He counted out the amount in ten dollar bills and snapped a rubber band around them.

  “Now here is the profit, boys, on your winter’s work. Applehead comes in with the use of his ranch and stock and wagons and so on. Here, pard—how does this look to you?” His own pleasure in what he was doing warmed from Luck’s voice all the chill that Bill Holmes had sent into it. He smiled his contagious smile and peeled off fifty dollar banknotes until Applehead
’s eyes popped.

  “Oh, don’t give me so dang much!” he gulped nervously when Luck had counted out for him the amount he had jotted down opposite his name. “That there’s moren the hul dang ranch is worth if I was t’ deed it over to yuh, Luck! I ain’t goin’ to take—”

  “You shut up,” Luck commanded him affectionately. “That’s yours—now, close your face and let me get this thing wound up. Now—will you quit your arguing, or shall I throw you out the window?”

  “Well, now, I calc’late you’d have a right busy time throwin’ me out the window,” Applehead boasted, and backed into a corner to digest this astonishing turn of events.

  One by one, as their names stood upon his list, Luck called the boys forward and with exaggerated deliberation peeled off fifty-dollar notes and one-hundred-dollar notes to take their breath and speech from them.

  With Billy Wilders, his friend in the bank, to help him, he had boyishly built that roll for just this heart-warming little ceremony. He might have written checks to square the account of each, but he wanted to make their eyes stand out, just as he was doing. He had looked forward to this half hour more eagerly than any of them guessed; he had, with his eyes closed, visualized this scene over more than one cigarette, his memory picturing vividly another scene wherein these same young men had cheerfully emptied their pockets and planned many small personal sacrifices that he, Luck Lindsay, might have money enough to come here to New Mexico and make his one Big Picture. Luck felt that nothing less than a display of the profits in real money could ever quite balance that other scene when all the Happy Family had in the world went in the pot and they mourned because it was so little.

  “Aw, I betche Luck robbed a bank er something!” Happy Jack stuttered with an awkward attempt to conceal his delight when his name was called, his investment was read and the little sheaf of currency that represented his profit was laid in his outstretched palm.

  “It’s me for the movies if this is the way they pan out,” Weary declared gleefully. “Mamma! I didn’t know there was so much money in the world!”

  “I’ll bet he milked Los Angeles dry of paper money,” Andy Green asserted facetiously, thumbing his small fortune gloatingly. “Holding out anything for yourself, Luck? We don’t want to be hogs.”

  “I’m taking care of my interests—don’t you worry about that a minute,” Luck stated complacently. “I held mine out first. That wipes the slate—and cleans up the bank-roll. I maintain The Phantom Herd was so-o-ome picture, boys. They’ll be getting it here in ‘Querque soon—we’ll all go in and see it.”

  “Now we’re all set for a fresh start. And while you’re all here I’ll just put you up to date on what kind of a deal I made with Dewitt. We come in under the wing of Excelsior, and our brand name will be Flying U Feature Film—how does that hit you? You boys are all on a straight board-and-salary basis—thirty dollars a week, and it’s up to me to make you earn it!” He grinned and beckoned to Jean Douglas Avery and her companions in the next room.

  “Mrs. Avery, here, is our leading woman—keeping the name of Jean Douglas, since she made it valuable in that Lazy A serial she did a year or so ago. Lite is on the same footing as the rest of you boys. Her father will be my assistant in choosing locations and so on. Tommy Johnson, as I said, is another assistant in another capacity, that of scenic artist and stage carpenter. Pete Lowry, here, is camera man and Bill Holmes will be his assistant. The rest of you work wherever I need you—a good deal the way we did last winter. Annie-Many-Ponies stays with us as character lead and is in general stock. Rosemary—” he stopped and smiled at her understandingly—“Rosemary draws fifteen a week—oh, don’t get scared! I won’t give you any foreground stuff! just atmosphere when I need it, and general comforter and mascot of the company!”

  Luck may have stretched a point there, but if he did it was merely a technical one. Rosemary Green was hopelessly camera-shy, but he could use her in background atmosphere, and when it came to looking after the physical and mental welfare of the bunch she was worth her weight in any precious metal you may choose to name.

  “You better put me down as camp cook and dishwasher, Luck Lindsay,” Rosemary protested, blushing.

  “No—thank the Lord you won’t have to cook for this hungry bunch any longer. I’ve got a Mexican hired and headed this way. There’ll be no more of that kind of thing for you, lady—not while you’re with us.

  “Now, boys, let’s get organized for action. Weather’s perfect—Lowry’s been raving over the light, all the way out from town. I’ve got a range picture all blocked out—did it while I was waiting in Los for Jean to show up. Done anything about roundup yet, Applehead?”—

  Poor old Applehead, with his guilty conscience and his soft-hearted affection for Luck so deeply stirred by the money laid in his big-knuckled hand, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat and did not get one intelligible word past his dry tongue.

  “If you haven’t,” Luck hurried on, spurred by his inpatient energy, “I want to organize and get out right away with a regular roundup outfitchuck-wagon, remuda and all—see what I mean I While I’m getting the picture of the stuff I want, we can gather and brand your calves. That way, all my range scenes will be of the real thing. I may want to throw the Chavez outfit in with ours, too, so as to get bigger stuff. I’ll try and locate Ramon Chavez and see what I can do. But anyway, I want the roundup outfit ready to start just as soon as possible—tomorrow, if we could get it together in time. How about that cracked tongue on the chuck-wagon? Anybody fixed that?”

  “We-ell, I wired it up so’st it’s as solid as the rest uh the runnin’ gear,” Applehead confessed shamefacedly, rolling his eyes apprehensively at the flushed faces of his fellow traitors.

  “Yuh did? Good! Tires need setting, if I recollect—”

  “Er—I had the boys set the tires, ’n’—”

  “Fine! I might have known you fellows would put things in shape while I was gone! How about the horses? I thought I saw a bunch in the big corral—”

  “I rustled enough saddle horses to give us all two apiece,” Applehead admitted, perspiring coldly. “’Tain’t much of a string, but—”

  “You did? Sounds like you’ve been reading my mind, Applehead. Now we’ll grubstake the outfit—”

  “Er—well, I took the chuck-wagon in yest’day and loaded ’er up with grub fer two weeks,” blurted Applehead heroically. “I was figurin’—”

  “Good! Couldn’t ask better. Applehead, you sure are there when it comes to backing a man’s play. If I haven’t said much about how I stand toward you fellows it isn’t because I don’t appreciate every durned one of you.”

  The Happy Family squirmed guiltily and made way for Applehead, who was sidling toward the open door, his face showing alarming symptoms of apoplexy. Their confusion Luck set down to a becoming modesty. He went on planning and perfecting details. Standing as he did on the threshold of a career to which his one big success had opened the door, he was wholly absorbed in making good.

  There was nothing now to balk his progress, he told himself. He had his company, he had the location for his big range stuff, he had all the financial backing any reasonable man could want. He had a salary that in itself gauged the prestige he had gained among producers, and as an added incentive to do the biggest work of his life he had a contract giving him a royalty on all prints of his pictures in excess of a fixed number. Better than all this, he had big ideals and an enthusiasm for the work that knew no limitations.

  Perhaps he was inclined to dream too big; per-haps he assumed too great an enthusiasm on the part of those who worked with him—I don’t know just where he did place the boundary line. I do know that he never once suspected the Happy Family of any meditated truancy from the ranch and his parting instructions to “sit tight.” I also know that the Happy Family was not at all likely to volunteer information of their lapse. And as for Applehead, the money burned his soul deep with remorse; so deep that he went around with an abject eage
rness to serve Luck that touched that young man as a rare example of a bone-deep loyalty that knows no deceit. Which proves once more how fortunate it is that we cannot always see too deeply into the thoughts and motives of our friends.

  CHAPTER IV

  LOVE WORDS FOR ANNIE

  In Tijeras Arroyo the moon made black shadows where stood the tiny knolls here and there, marking frequently the windings of dry washes where bushes grew in ragged patches and where tall weeds of mid-May tangled in the wind. The roundup tents of the Flying U Feature Film Company stood white as new snow in the moonlight, though daylight showed them an odd, light-blue tint for photographic purposes. On a farther slope cunningly placed by the scenic artist to catch the full sunlight of midday, the camp of the Chavez brothers gleamed softly in the magic light.

  So far had spring roundup progressed that Luck was holding the camp in Tijeras Arroyo for picture-making only. Applehead’s calves were branded, to the youngest pair of knock-kneed twins which Happy Jack found curled up together cunningly hidden in a thicket. They had been honored with a “close-up” scene, those two spotted calves, and were destined to further honors which they did not suspect and could not appreciate.

  They slept now, as slept the two camps upon the two slopes that lay moon-bathed at midnight. Back where the moon was making the barren mountains a wonderland of deep purple and black and silvery gray and brown, a coyote yapped a falsetto message and was answered by one nearer at hand—his mate, it might be. In a bush under the bank that made of it a black blot in the unearthly whiteness of the sand, a little bird fluttered uneasily and sent a small, inquiring chirp into the stillness. From somewhere farther up the arroyo drifted a faint, aromatic odor of cigarette smoke.