LITMIR.BIZ

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Family and with this likable little man of the movies. They rode out between long lines of hated barbed wire stretched taut, and they lied systematically and consistently to Luck Lindsay about themselves and their fellows and their particular condition of servitude to fate.

      But somewhere along the trail they forgot to carry on the deception; and only Luck could have told why they forgot, and when they forgot, and how it was that, ten miles or so out from town, the two were telling how the Flying U had fought to save itself from extinction; how the “bunch” had schemed and worked and had in a measure succeeded in turning aside the tide of immigration from the Flying U range. Big issues they talked of as they rode three abreast through the warm haze of early fall; and as they talked, Luck’s mind visioned the tale vividly, and his eyes swept the fence-checkered upland with a sympathetic understanding.

      “Right here,” said Andy at last, when they came up to a gate set across the trail, “right here is where we drawed the line—and held it. Now, half of those shacks you see speckled around are empty. The rest hold nesters too poor to get outa the country. One or two, that had a little money, have stuck and gone into sheep. But from here on to Dry Creek there’s nothing ranging but the Flying U brand. Not much—compared to what the old range used to be—but still it keeps things going. We throwed a dam across the coulee, up there next the hills, and there’s some fair hay land we’re putting water on. We have to winter-feed practically everything these days. The range just nicely keeps the stock from snow to snow. I’ve got pitchfork callouses on my hands I never will outgrow if I was to fall heir to a billion dollars and never use my hands again for fifty years except to feed myself. It takes work, believe me! And if there’s anything on earth a puncher hates worse than work, it’s some other kind of work.

      “At the Flying U,” he went on, looking at Luck pensively, “you’ll see the effect of too many people moved into the range country. If there’s anything more distressing than a baby left without a mother, it’s a bunch of cow-punchers that’s outlived their range. Ain’t that right?”

      “Sure it’s right!” Luck’s sympathy was absolutely sincere. “How well I know it! Barbed wire scraped me outa the saddle in Wyoming—barbed wire and sheep. All there is left for a fellow is to forget it and start a barber shop or a cigar stand, or else make pictures of the old days, the way I’ve been doing. You can get a little fun out of making pictures of what used to be your everyday life. You can step up on a horse and go whoopin’ over the hills and kinda forget it ain’t true.” A wistfulness was in Luck’s tone. “You pick out the big minutes from the old days—that had a whole lot of dust and sun and thirst and hunger in between, when all’s said—you pick out the big minutes, and you bring them to life again, and sort of push them up close together and leave out most of the hardships. That’s why so many of the old boys drift into pictures, I reckon. They try to forget themselves in the big minutes.”

      The two who rode with him were silent for a space. Then the Native Son spoke drily: “About the biggest minutes we get now come about meal times.”

      “Oh, we can get down in the breaks on round-up time and kinda forget the world’s fenced clear ‘way round it with barb-wire,” Andy bettered the statement. “But round-up gets shorter every year.”

      “My next picture,” Luck observed artfully and yet with a genuine desire to unbosom himself a little to these two who would understand, “my next picture is going to be different. It’s going to have a crackajack story in it, of course, but it will have something more than a story. I’m going to start it off with a trail herd coming up from Texas. You know—like it was when we were kids. I’m going to show those cattle trailing along tired—and footsore, some of them—and a drag strung out behind for a mile. I’m going to show the punchers tired and hungry, and riding half asleep in the saddle. And with that for a starter, I’m going to show the real range; the real range—get that, boys? I’m going to cut clean away from regulation moving-picture West; clear out away from posses chasing outlaws all over a ten-acre location. I’m going to find me a real old cow-ranch; or if I can’t find one, by thunder I’m going to make me one. I’m sick of piling into a machine and driving out into Griffith Park and hunting a location for shooting scrapes to take place in. I know a place where I could produce stuff that would make people talk about it for a month after. Maybe the buildings would need some doctoring, but there’s sure some round-pole corrals that would make your mouth water.”

      “We used to have some,” sighed Andy, “at the Flying U. But they kinda went to pieces, and Chip’s been replacing them with plank. By gracious, you don’t see many round-pole corrals any more, come to think of it. There’s remains, scattered around over the country.”

      “The West—the real honest-to-goodness, twelve-months-in-the-year West,” Luck went on riding his hobby, “has been mighty little used in films. Ever notice that? It’s all gone to shooting, and stealing the full product of all the gold mines in the world, and killing off more bad men than the Lord ever sent a flood to punish. For film purposes, the West consists of one part beautiful maiden in distress, three parts bandit, and two parts hero. Mix these to taste with plenty of swift action and gun-smoke, and serve with bandits all dead or handcuffed and beautiful maiden and hero in lover’s embrace on top. That’s your film West, boys—and how well I know it!” Luck stopped to light a cigarette and to heave a sigh. “I’ve been building film West to order for four years now, and more. Only fun I’ve had, and the best work I’ve done, I did with a bunch of Indians I’ve just taken back to their reservation. For the rest, it’s mostly bunk.”

      “Not that stage-driver picture,” Andy dissented. “There wasn’t any bunk about that, old-timer. That was some driving!”

      “Some driving, yes. Sure, it was. It was darned good driving, but the same old story doctored up a little. Same old shipment of gold, same old bandits lying in wait, same old hero doing stunts. I ought to know,” he added with a grin. “I wrote the story and did the stunts myself.”

      “Well, they were some stunts!” admired Andy with unusual sincerity.

      Luck waved aside the compliment and went back to his hobby. “Yes, but the West isn’t just a setting for stunts. I’ve got my story—here,” and he tapped his forehead, which was broad and full and not too high. “I’m going to fire my camera man and get a better one, and I’m going to round me up a bunch of real boys that can get into the story and live it so well they won’t need to do any acting,—boys that can stand a panoram on their work in the saddle. I’ve been getting by with a bunch of freaks that think they’re real riders if they can lope a horse up-grade without falling off backwards. Most of my direction of those actorines has been knowing to a hair how much footage to give ‘em without showing how raw their work is.

      “They say the public demands a certain grade of rottenness in Western films, but I never believed that, down deep in my heart. I believe the public stands for that stuff because they don’t see any better. This four-reeler I’ve got in mind will sure open the eyes of some producers—or I’ll buy me a five-acre tract in Burbank and raise string beans for a living.”

      “I’ve got a patch of string beans,” sighed the Native Son, “that I’ve been sitting up nights with. I don’t know what ails the cussed things. Some kind of little green bug chews on them soon as my back is turned. They ought to be ripe by now—and they aren’t through blossoming. Don’t go into beans, amigo.”

      Luck looked at him and laughed. The Native Son, in black and white Angora chaps and cream-colored shirt and silver-filigreed hatband as ornamental touches to his attire, did not look like a man who was greatly worried over his crop of string beans while he rode with a negligent grace away from a glowing sunset. But in these days the West is full of incongruities.

      “Oh, shut up about them beans!” implored Andy Green with a bored air. “It’s water they want; and a touch of the hoe now and then. You leave ‘em for a month at a time and then go back and wonder why you can’t pick a hatful off ‘em. Same as the rest of us have been ranching,” he added ruefully, turning to Luck. “With the best intentions in the world, the Lord never meant us fellers for farmers, and that’s a fact. We’ll drop a hoe any

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