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Steve Yeager, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 8. The Heavy Gets His Time |
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_ CHAPTER VIII. THE HEAVY GETS HIS TIME Threewit came to Steve while Cummings was preparing the stage set for a dissolve. "Wish you'd look over this scenario, Yeager. The old man sent it out to me to see if we can pull off the riding end of it. Scene twenty-seven is the sticker. Here's the idea: You've been thrown from your horse and your foot's caught in the stirrup. You draw your gat to shoot the bronch and it's bumped out of your hand as you're dragged over the rough ground. See? You save your life by wriggling your foot out of your boot. Can it be done without taking too many chances?" The rider considered. "I reckon it could if a fellow's boot was fixed so he could slip his foot out at the right time. I'll take a whirl at it." "There's another scene where you save Maisie by jumping from your horse to a wild steer that's pursuing her. You'll have to twist its head and throw the brute after you straddle it." "All right. When you want to pull it off?" "We can do the stirrup one to-day, before you go--if you still want to go." "Got an answer yet from Arixico?" "Just got it. Mendoza's still alive, but mighty badly hurt. I've sent the kid out to the animal farm. He'll lie low, and they won't find him there." "I'm still curious about that bunch of cattle we lost. If you can spare me I'll run down and see if old Pasquale hasn't got 'em. It ain't likely we'll ever get hide or hair of 'em, but there's one thing I'd like to find out." "Still got that notion about Harrison?" "Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. Anyhow, folks that are blind can't see. I'll keep my notions in my own fool haid for a while." "Harrison has some friends across the line. He's going to try and fix it for the kid if they run him down." "That's fine," commented Yeager dryly. "He sure must have influential friends." "All ready, Mr. Threewit," called out Cummings. The director lit a cigar and moved forward to the stage. "Lennox, you're too far up stage. Register fear, Daisy. That's the idea. Now, then, Miss Winters. Keep your eyes on Daisy as you come into the room. No--no--no! That won't do at all." Yeager left them to their rehearsal troubles and strolled back to his boarding-house. He would not be needed till afternoon. He spent a half-hour softening the leather of his right boot around the ankle. A man cannot tumble from a running horse, let himself be dragged forty yards, and then slip his foot from the stirrup of a cowpony that has become frightened without taking a big chance. But it was his business to take chances. He always had taken them. And he knew that they could be minimized by careful preparation, expertness, and cool skill of execution. As it turned out, Yeager had to make his fall twice. The ground selected for the set was a bit of level space just at the foot of a hillside. The rider went down hard on his shoulder at exactly the spot selected, but he had miscalculated slightly and the force of the fall dragged his foot from the boot at once. His calculations worked better at the second attempt. Hanging on by a toe-hold, he was dragged bumping over the rough ground. His revolver came out on schedule time and flew into the air. When Farrar gave the word,--which was at the moment the galloping horse was opposite the camera,--Steve worked his foot free, leaving the boot still clinging to the stirrup. Yeager got to his feet rather unsteadily. The fall had been an unusually hard one, and it had not helped any to be dragged at full speed over the bumpy ground. Maisie Winters ran forward and slipped an arm around his waist to support him. "You dandy man! I never did see one so game as you, Steve." The cowpuncher grinned. He liked Maisie Winters. There was about her a boyish, slangy camaraderie that made for popularity. "Says the extra to the star, 'Much obliged, ma'am.'" "You're no extra. In your own line you're as big a star as we've got. I know there isn't a rider in the country like you. You're a jim-dandy." "He's quite a family pet," contributed Harrison sourly. Farrar came forward from the camera, his eyes shining. "Some picture, I'll bet. Good boy! You pulled it fine, Steve. Didn't he, Threewit?" The director nodded. He was wondering how much he would have to raise this young man's salary to hold him from rival companies. "Sho! I just fell out of the saddle, Frank. Most any one can fall off a horse." Harrison laughed spitefully. "I saw him do a better fall than that oncet." Farrar was on the spot. "I saw you do a mighty good one the same day." "Don't get fresh, young fella, or you'll do more than see one," snarled the heavy. "Want to beat me up, Chad?" asked Farrar with innocent impudence. "I weigh one hundred and thirty-one pounds when I'm hog fat. How much do you weigh?" "Cut it out, Frank," ordered Threewit. "I've had about enough of this jangling. If it isn't stopped, some one's going to lose a job. We're here to take pictures. Any one who's got any other idea had better call at the office for his time." "Meaning me, Mr. Director?" demanded Harrison menacingly. "Meaning you or anybody else that won't keep the rules I set for the company I run," retorted the director sharply. "Forget it, Threewit. I'm no kid. Nobody runs me with rules. I do as I please." "You'll not make trouble in my company." "You ain't any little tin god on wheels. Don't run away with that idee in your bean. I haven't seen any man yet that can lay onto me without getting his hair curled for him. Me, I play my own hand, by God; and I don't care whether it's against Mr. Yeager or Mr. Farrar--or Mr. Threewit. See?" "Your pay is waiting for you, Harrison." "What? How's that?" he snarled. "You're discharged--no longer working for the Lunar Company." Harrison's face became an apoplectic purple. He stood with clenched fists glaring at the director, ready to explode with rage. It was a part of his vanity that he had not supposed for an instant that Threewit would let him go. But it happened that the director had a temper of his own. He had chafed long enough under the domineering ways of the ex-prizefighter. Moreover, Harrison was no longer so essential to the company. Yeager was a far better rider and could register more effectively the feats of horsemanship that were a feature of the Lunar films. Billie Threewit had known for some time that this man was an element of disorganization in the company. Therefore he was letting him go. Steve stood quietly in the background, one arm thrown carelessly across the neck of his pony. But his gaze did not lift from the heavy, who stood glaring at the director, his fingers working and head thrust low on the deep chest so that the gorilla hunch was emphasized. The man's black eyes snapped with a blazing fire that seemed ready to leap like a crouched tiger. "Through with me, are you? Going to use that grand-stander Yeager instead, I reckon. That's the game, is it?" "I'm not discussing my plans with you." "Ain't you? Well, I'll discuss mine to this extent. I'll make you sick of this day's work all right before I'm through with you. Get that? Plumb sick." His eyes traveled around the half-circle till they met those of Yeager. "You'll get yours too, my friend. Believe _me_. Get it a-plenty. You're going to sweat blood when I git you hog-tied." He turned away, flung himself on his horse, and dug the rowels into the sides of the animal savagely. Farrar laughed nervously. "Exit Mr. Chad Harrison, some annoyed." Steve looked gravely at his employer. "Sorry you tied that can on him, Mr. Threewit. He's not just the man I'd choose for an enemy if I was picking one." "Had to do it sometime. The sooner the quicker. Anyhow, he hasn't got it in for me as much as he has for you." Yeager shrugged. "Oh, me. That's different. 'Course he hates me thorough, but I'm sorry you got mixed in it." "What difference does it make? He can't hurt me any." The director clapped his hands briskly. "All over at the willows for the kid-finding scene. Got your location picked, Farrar?" _ |
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