Cowboy For Hire (7 page)

“Need some help, Martin?” the big cowboy
asked as if the problem were nothing to him.

“I sure do. Thanks, Charlie. We’ve got to get
him out of here and to his tent. We’ll have to dry him out
somehow.”

“Tie him up,” Charlie suggested. “That’s what
we had to do with Pete Thatcher at the ranch. He’d be okay tied up.
Loose, he was hell on fire.”

Although so drastic a measure hadn’t occurred
to Martin, the circumstances were such that he grabbed at it
instantly. “Good idea.”

Charlie seemed to survey the wobbly actor
with a judicious eye for a moment. Then he said, “Reckon I’ll catch
him up top, Martin. I’ve had more practice rassling wild animals
than you have, I ‘spect.”

In spite of the catastrophic entrance of
Horace Huxtable onto the scene, stinking drunk in the face of dire
warnings from Phineas Lovejoy and Martin himself, Charlie’s
easygoing, practical assessment of the task ahead of them tickled
Martin. He approved wholeheartedly. “Thanks, Charlie.”

Charlie seemed to catch sight of Amy Wilkes a
moment after Martin himself did. He hitched himself up for a
second, then rubbed his hands together and said, “Aw, hell, Martin.
‘Tain’t nothin’.”

Good God, the man was deliberately making
himself sound like an oaf in front of Miss Wilkes! Martin had no
time to contemplate this weird phenomenon before Charlie, who
really did look as if he’d performed this operation more than once
in his life, slipped behind Huxtable and snaked his arms around
him, pinning the actor’s arms to his sides and immobilizing him.
Huxtable spluttered for a second, then bellowed obscenely.
Spectators flinched from the noise and began to laugh. Amy blushed
and pressed a hand to her cheek.

“Fetch up his legs, Martin. Maybe somebody
will have to help, since he’s got tow of ‘em—although they ain’t
workin’ too good at the moment.”

This was true. However, Huxtable was still
able to kick, and Martin was glad to see a man—he thought it was
the chief cameraman, but couldn’t take the time to make sure—step
out from the crowd. “I’ll get the left leg, Tafft. You take the
right.”

“Thanks.” Martin waited until Huxtable had
lifted his right knee and grabbed him by the calf and stuck the leg
under his arm tightly, subduing Huxtable’s struggles. The cameraman
grabbed the actor’s other leg.

“There we go.” Charlie nodded and grinned at
his helpers. “Point the way, Martin, and we can carry him there. I
got me a rope in my bag, if somebody’ll fetch it out of my
tent.”

Glancing around wildly, Martin’s attention
landed on Amy, the one person on hand in whose common sense he
trusted implicitly. “Miss Wilkes?” he asked, lending a tone of
pleading to his voice.

She swallowed. “I—why, of course, Mr.
Tafft.”

“Thanks a lot, Miss Wilkes. Charlie’s tent is
the first one on the left next to the one where the cameras are
stored.”

“Very well.” She gave what looked like a
valiant smile and Martin appreciated her a lot. “I’ll be there as
soon as possible.” She started briskly off, then stopped in her
tracks. “Er, where shall I bring it?”

“You won’t have any trouble findin’ us,”
Charlie assured her with a wink. “You’ll hear this here hoss
bellerin’ like a stuck hog.”

Martin wasn’t surprised when Amy’s eyebrows
arched nearly into her prettily piled hairdo. He couldn’t fault her
for her reaction. Charlie in cowboy mode was an astonishing thing
to behold. And to be-heard.

* * *

Intensely glad that she’d taken the time to
loosen her corset, Amy ran to Charlie Fox’s tent. She felt a pang
of indecision—after all, it was dreadfully improper to go through a
gentleman’s bag—which she overcame quickly. She’d been sent on an
important errand, and she’d been given permission by the bag’s
owner to rifle through it.

She had to force herself not to dawdle,
because she’d never had the opportunity to inspect a gentleman’s
things before. He wore very large shirts, she noticed. And his
underthings were clean and mended, if not of the highest quality.
Amy supposed a cowboy had considerations other than luxury when
purchasing such items.

“Good heavens, Amy Wilkes, you’re behaving
badly.” She quit contemplating Charlie’s underwear and searched for
the rope, making sure she didn’t wrinkle anything. Ah, there is
was. She snatched it up, replaced the clothes in the carpetbag and
fastened it, and hastened back to Huxtable’s tent.

Charlie had been right. If Amy had any doubts
about which tent was the right one, Huxtable’s bellows would have
led her on the proper path. The man was a disgrace to humankind.
And Amy was supposed to fall in love with him on-screen. She wasn’t
sure she had any acting talent, but if she did, she was pretty
certain it didn’t extend that far.

Thrusting her apprehension about
One and
Only
aside, she entered the tent. The sight that greeted her
wasn’t an attractive one. Huxtable was on his back on his bed,
shouting vile curses as he bucked and kicked, and Charlie, the
cameraman, and Martin tried to hold him down. Amy gazed upon the
spectacle, frowning, trying to figure out what to do now. Charlie
couldn’t very well leave off holding the beast down, because Martin
was surely not strong enough to hold him by himself, and the
cameraman looked exhausted already.

“Hurry up with the rope!” Charlie hollered at
her.

She transferred her frown to him. “In a
minute. I’m thinking.”

“Kee-rist,” Charlie muttered, offending
Amy.

Huxtable let go of a string of words, half of
which Amy had never heard before. She had no trouble at all in
discerning their meanings, however.

She shook her head once, decisively, said,
“This is ridiculous,” and headed straight for Huxtable’s dressing
table. There she picked up the flowered water pitcher, which some
underling had filled earlier in the day, and carried it to the
bed.

“For God’s sake, give me the rope!” Charlie
cried. He sounded as if he were tiring some himself.

“Oh, hold your horses.” Amy was quite pleased
with the tone of voice she achieved, which was both peeved and
steadfast. She paused only long enough to observe the deplorable
spectacle in order to judge trajectories. Then she said, “Please
close your eyes, Mr. Fox. Prepare yourself, Mr. Tafft,” and she
emptied the entire pitcher of water on Huxtable’s face.

“Aaaaarrrrgh!” bubbled out from Huxtable’s
throat. After the one terrified yell, he was too busy coughing and
choking to make any more noise. Amy stepped back, pleased with her
work.

Charlie, who had been splattered, as Amy had
expected, in the face and front of his shirt, grinned broadly at
her. “Quick thinking, Miss Wilkes,” he said. “May I have the rope
now?”

My, wasn’t he polite and grammatical all of a
sudden? Amy was beginning to think Mr. Charlie Fox was something of
a fraud. Which would probably make him a superb actor. She said,
“Certainly,” and handed over the rope.

Quick as a wink, Charlie had Horace Huxtable
wrapped and tied. “Hog-tied,” Charlie said with a pleased
expression on his face.

Amy was pleased, too.

Martin laughed. “I swear, you two make quite
a team. I must say, Miss Wilkes, I never expected you to do
anything to enterprising.”

“Neither did I,” said Charlie.

Amy smiled at Martin, lifted her chin, and
turned to Charlie. “I’m sure you didn’t. But it worked, didn’t
it?”

“It sure did.” For the first time since she’d
met him several hours earlier, Charlie looked as if he approved of
her. Amy tried not to bask.

“God damn you!” Huxtable bellowed from the
bed. “What did you do that for?” He was glaring at Amy. He was also
dripping all over the floor of his tent.

Amy picked up her skirt so its hem wouldn’t
get wet. She walked over and stared down at Huxtable, not bothering
to hide her contempt. “I did that because you were behaving in a
vile and abominable way. A body would think these men were dealing
with a baby, the way you carried on. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself!” And, although Amy had no experience with good exit
lines, she turned on her heel and headed for the flap of Huxtable’s
tent.

“So there,” Charlie laughed.

After sputtering in impotent fury for a
moment, Huxtable scowled up at him. “Shut up, you damned
bastard.”

“Got a rag?” Charlie asked Martin.

“Um, I don’t know. Why?” Martin sounded
puzzled.

“We’d probably better gag this stinker so he
can’t call anybody else any dirty names.”

Amy hoped the men in the tent wouldn’t hear
the giggle that burst out of her mouth. My goodness, in spite of
their differences, she
did
like Charlie Fox.

The rest of Amy’s day was spent in
accustoming herself to the rigors of on-site motion picture making.
Martin gave her and Charlie a tour of the tent settlement. Amy was
vastly interested in the cameras. She’d never seen anything like
them, and wondered if the cameraman’s arm didn’t get tired from all
the cranking it had to do. Believing the question too naïve to
voice aloud, she didn’t.

She went to bed that night, after a tolerable
supper of soup and bread and butter and cheese, in her own little
tent, and hoped she’d be able to acquit herself well in this new
and dangerous endeavor.

She also vowed she’d never be lured into
making another moving picture again as long as she lived. She even
said as much to Vernon in the letter she wrote to him that night.
She missed him terribly. She told him that, too.

Four

Horace Huxtable arrived at rehearsal the next
morning looking sick and with a greenish cast to his skin. His eyes
were streaked with red veins, and their lids were puffy. He scowled
horribly at Charlie Fox and eyed Amy with evident loathing. Which
was fine with her. She loathed him, too.

Martin, observing his cast with misgiving,
put on a cheerful mien in spite of it all. “All right, everyone!”
he called out in a chipper voice. “Let’s assemble for the first
scene.”

Huxtable groaned and said bitterly,
“
Can
you keep your voice down, Tafft? None of us are
deaf.”

“None of us are hungover, either, except
you,” Amy muttered under her breath, hoping nobody would hear.

Huxtable did. He grimaced at her—Amy thought
it was supposed to be a smile—and said, “Oh, but perhaps we can
help you overcome that flaw, my dear.”

Detestable animal
, Amy thought,
although she kept that one to herself. Charlie, she noticed, was
grinning at her as if he thought she’d said something witty. She
thought she had, too, actually.

Martin said in a voice not quite so loud or
cheerful, “All right. Take your places, everyone. Miss Wilkes,
you’ll note in this first scene that you’ve been told by Charlie
here that his boss, Mr. McAllister, is going to buy up your father’
loan on the ranch you’ve been trying to keep since his death.
Charlie’s convinced you that McAllister is an evil fellow, although
he’s really a noble hero.”

“That’s me, all right,” said Huxtable from
the sidelines. Amy’s nose wrinkled spontaneously.

Speaking a little louder, Martin went on.
“You’re afraid that if McAllister gets his hands on the notes,
he’ll either drive you from your home or exact an improper payment
from you.”

Huxtable muttered. “Improper, my ass.”

Amy pressed a sweaty palm to her cheek and
prayed that a lightning bolt from heaven would rid the world of
Horace Huxtable. At least until she’d finished this job. He could
come back after that, as long as he didn’t plague her any longer.
She was
so
nervous about this moving picture nonsense.

Martin said, “Huxtable, please. We don’t need
that sort of thing.” He smiled kindly upon Amy. “Ready? Your marks
are chalked on the ground, so you’ll know where to stand.”

Thank God for that, at any rate. At least
she’d know where to stand, if she didn’t know another single thing
about this idiotic picture.

Amy nodded at Martin, feeling more shy than
she could ever recall. She’d never even acted in a school play, for
heaven’s sake, and now she was supposed to emote in front of a
bunch of strangers and, eventually, a bunch of strangers with
cameras. Not to mention Horace Huxtable, who had taken to leering
at her, in what she was sure was a studied campaign to discompose
her.

Little did he know that his efforts were
unnecessary, as she was so unnerved already that it was all she
could do to keep herself from trembling like a Pasadena poppy field
in a breeze. She tried with every fiber of her being not to let her
lack of experience show.

With that in mind, and trying to keep
Vernon’s face in her mind’s eye as a stabilizing influence, she
stepped forward, holding her script steady. Martin had been right
about the script. It was merely a story outline, and there was no
dialogue printed therein. She was glad to know what the story was,
however. Charlie walked up to her and turned to Martin.

“This all right, Martin? Should I be closer?
He demonstrated, almost bumping into Amy, who fought the urge to
take a step back. She was supposed to be a sophisticate, for the
love of glory. She wasn’t supposed to be shy around her second
leading man. She tried to remember if she had ever been this close
to Vernon, physically, and decided she’d not been.

“Back up a little bit,” Martin suggested.
“There. That’s good. All right, Miss Wilkes? Remember, you’re
worried about what you perceive as an impending disaster. After
all, this ranch has been your only home your whole life.”

“Right,” Amy said, and licked her lips.
Determined not to fail, and drawing upon what she remembered of the
few moving pictures she’d seen, she adopted what she hoped was a
desperately worried expression. She remembered to wring her hands
as she’d seen other distressed-looking females do in pictures, and
was pleased with herself.