Pictures And Plans And Mysterious Footsteps
: Jean Of The Lazy AWhen Lite objected to her staying altogether at the Lazy A, Jean
assured him that she was being terribly practical and cautious and
businesslike, and pointed out to him that staying there would save Pard
and herself the trip back and forth each day, and would give her time,
mornings and evenings to work on her book.
Lite, of course, knew all about that soon-to-be-famous book. He
usually did know nearly e
interest. Whether, after three years of futile attempts, Lite still
felt himself entitled to be called Jean's boss, I cannot say for a
certainty. He had grown rather silent upon that subject, and rather
inclined to keep himself in the background, as Jean grew older and more
determined in her ways. But certainly he was Jean's one confidential
friend,--her pal. So Lite, perforce, listened while Jean told him the
plot of her story. And when she asked him in all earnestness what he
thought would be best for the tragic element, ghosts or Indians, Lite
meditated gravely upon the subject and then suggested that she put in
both. That is why Jean lavishly indulged in mysterious footsteps all
through the first chapter, and then opened the second with
blood-curdling war-whoops that chilled the soul of her heroine and led
her to suspect that the rocks behind the cabin concealed the forms of
painted savages.
Her imagination must have been stimulated by her new work, which called
for wild rides after posses and wilder flights away from the outlaws,
while the flash of blank cartridges and the smoke-pots of disaster by
fire added their spectacular effect to a scene now and then.
Jean, of course, was invariably the wild rider who fled in a blond wig
and Muriel's clothes from pursuing villains, or dashed up to the
sheriff's office to give the alarm. Frequently she fired the blank
cartridges, until Lite warned her that blank cartridges would ruin her
gun-barrel; after which she insisted upon using bullets, to the secret
trepidation of the villains who must stand before her and who could
never quite grasp the fact that Jean knew exactly where those bullets
were going to land.
She would sit in her room at the Lazy A, when the sun and the big,
black automobile and the painted workers were gone, and write
feverishly of ghosts and Indians and the fair maiden who endured so
much and the brave hero who dared so much and loved so well. Lee
Milligan she visualized as the human wolf who looked with desire upon
Lillian. Gil Huntley became the hero as the story unfolded; and while
I have told you absolutely nothing about Jean's growing acquaintance
with these two, you may draw your own conclusions from the place she
made for them in her book that she was writing. And you may also form
some idea of what Lite Avery was living through, during those days when
his work and his pride held him apart, and Jean did "stunts" to her
heart's content with these others.
A letter from the higher-ups in the Great Western Company, written just
after a trial run of the first picture wherein Jean had worked, had
served to stimulate Burns' appetite for the spectacular, so that the
stunts became more and more the features of his pictures. Muriel Gay
was likely to become the most famous photo-play actress in the West, he
believed. That is, she would if Jean continued to double for her in
everything save the straight dramatic work.
Jean did not care just at that time how much glory Muriel Gay was
collecting for work that Jean herself had done. Jean was experiencing
the first thrills of seeing her name written upon the face of fat,
weekly checks that promised the fulfillment of her hopes, and she would
not listen to Lite when he ventured a remonstrance against some of the
things she told him about doing. Jean was seeing the Lazy A restored
to its old-time home-like prosperity. She was seeing her dad there,
going tranquilly about the everyday business of the ranch, holding his
head well up, and looking every man straight in the eye. She could not
and she would not let even Lite persuade her to give up risking her
neck for the money the risk would bring her.
If she could change these dreams to reality by dashing madly about on
Pard while Pete Lowry wound yards and yards of narrow gray film around
something on the inside of his camera, and watched her with that
little, secret smile on his face; and while Robert Grant Burns waddled
here and there with his hands on his hips, and watched her also; and
while villains pursued or else fled before her, and Lee Milligan
appeared furiously upon the scene in various guises to rescue her,--if
she could win her dad's freedom and the Lazy A's possession by doing
these foolish things, she was perfectly willing to risk her neck and
let Muriel receive the applause.
She did not know that she was doubling the profit on these Western
pictures which Robert Grant Burns was producing. She did not know that
it would have hastened the attainment of her desires had her name
appeared in the cast as the girl who put the "punches" in the plays.
She did not know that she was being cheated of her rightful reward when
her name never appeared anywhere save on the pay-roll and the weekly
checks which seemed to her so magnificently generous. In her ignorance
of what Gil Huntley called the movie game, she was perfectly satisfied
to give the best service of which she was capable, and she never once
questioned the justice of Robert Grant Burns.
Jean started a savings account in the little bank where her father had
opened an account before she was born, and Lite was made to writhe
inwardly with her boasting. Lite, if you please, had long ago started
a savings account at that same bank, and had lately cut out poker, and
even pool, from among his joys, that his account might fatten the
faster. He had the same object which Jean had lately adopted so
zealously, but he did not tell her these things. He listened instead
while Jean read gloatingly her balance, and talked of what she would do
when she had enough saved to buy back the ranch. She had stolen
unwittingly the air castle which Lite had been three years building,
but he did not say a word about it to Jean. Wistful eyed, but smiling
with his lips, he would sit while Jean spoiled whole sheets of
perfectly good story-paper, just figuring and estimating and building
castles with the dollar sign. If Robert Grant Burns persisted in his
mania for "feature-stuff" and "punches" in his pictures, Jean believed
that she would have a fair start toward buying back the Lazy A long
before her book was published and had brought her the thousands and
thousands of dollars she was sure it would bring. Very soon she could
go boldly to a lawyer and ask him to do something about her father's
case. Just what he should do she did not quite know; and Lite did not
seem to be able to tell her, but she thought she ought to find out just
how much the trial had cost. And she wished she knew how to get about
setting some one on the trail of Art Osgood.
Jean was sure that Art Osgood knew something about the murder, and she
frequently tried to make Lite agree with her. Sometimes she was sure
that Art Osgood was the murderer, and would argue and point out her
reasons to Lite. Art had been working for her uncle, and rode often to
the Lazy A. He had not been friendly with Johnny Croft,--but then,
nobody had been very friendly with Johnny Croft. Still, Art Osgood was
less friendly with Johnny than most of the men in the country, and just
after the murder he had left the country. Jean laid a good deal of
stress upon the circumstance of Art Osgood's leaving on that particular
afternoon, and she seemed to resent it because no one had tried to find
Art. No one had seemed to think his going at that time had any
significance, or any bearing upon the murder, because he had been
planning to leave, and had announced that he would go that day.
Jean's mind, as her bank account grew steadily to something approaching
dignity, worked back and forth incessantly over the circumstances
surrounding the murder, in spite of Lite's peculiar attitude toward the
subject, which Jean felt but could not understand, since he invariably
assured her that he believed her dad was innocent, when she asked him
outright.
Sometimes, in the throes of literary composition, she could not think
of the word that she wanted. Her eyes then would wander around
familiar objects in the shabby little room, and frequently they would
come to rest upon her father's saddle or her father's chaps: the chaps
especially seemed potent reminders of her father, and drew her thoughts
to him and held them there. The worn leather, stained with years of
hard usage and wrinkled permanently where they had shaped themselves to
his legs in the saddle, brought his big, bluff presence vividly before
her, when she was in a certain receptive mood. She would forget all
about her story, and the riding and shooting and roping she had done
that day to appease the clamorous, professional appetite of Robert
Grant Burns, and would sit and stare, and think and think. Always her
thoughts traveled in a wide circle and came back finally to the
starting point: to free her father, and to give him back his home, she
must have money. To have money, she must earn it; she must work for
it. So then she would give a great sigh of relaxed nervous tension and
go back to her heroine and the Indians and the mysterious footsteps
that marched on moonlight nights up and down a long porch just outside
windows that frequently framed white, scared faces with wide,
horror-stricken eyes which saw nothing of the marcher, though the steps
still went up and down.
It was very creepy, in spots. It was so creepy that one evening when
Lite had come to smoke a cigarette or two in her company and to listen
to her account of the day's happenings, Lite noticed that when she read
the creepy passages in her story, she glanced frequently over her
shoulder.
"You want to cut out this story writing," he said abruptly, when she
paused to find the next page. "It's bad enough to work like you do in
the pictures. This is going a little too strong; you're as jumpy
to-night as a guilty conscience. Cut it out."
"I'm all right. I'm just doing that for dramatic effect. This is very
weird, Lite. I ought to have a green shade on the lamp, to get the
proper effect. I--don't you think--er--those footsteps are terribly
mysterious?"
Lite looked at her sharply for a minute. "I sure do," he said drily.
"Where did you get the idea, Jean?"
"Out of my head," she told him airily, and went on reading while Lite
studied her curiously.
That night Jean awoke and heard stealthy footsteps, like a man walking
in his socks and no boots, going all through the house but never coming
to her room. She did not get up to see who it was, but lay perfectly
still and heard her heart thump. When she saw a dim, yellow ray of
light under the door which opened into the kitchen, she drew the
blanket over her head, and got no comfort whatever from the feel of her
six-shooter close against her hand.
The next morning she told herself that she had given in to a fine case
of nerves, and that the mysterious footsteps of her story had become
mixed up with the midnight wanderings of a pack-rat that had somehow
gotten into the house. Then she remembered the bar of light under the
door, and the pack-rat theory was spoiled.
She had taken the board off the doorway into the kitchen, so that she
could use the cookstove. The man could have come in if he had wanted
to, and that knowledge she found extremely disquieting. She went all
through the house that morning, looking and wondering. The living-room
was now the dressing-room of Muriel and her mother, and the make-up
scattered over the centertable was undisturbed; the wardrobe of the two
women had apparently been left untouched. Yet she was sure that some
one had been prowling in there in the night. She gave up the puzzle at
last and went back to her breakfast, but before the company arrived in
the big, black automobile, she had found a stout hasp and two staples,
and had fixed the door which led from her room into the kitchen so that
she could fasten it securely on the inside.
Jean did not tell Lite about the footsteps. She was afraid that he
might insist upon her giving up staying at the Lazy A. Lite did not
approve of it, anyway, and it would take very little encouragement in
the way of extra risk to make him stubborn about it. Lite could be
very obstinate indeed upon occasion, and she was afraid he might take a
stubborn streak about this, and perhaps ride over every night to make
sure she was all right, or do something equally unnecessary and foolish.
She did not know Lite as well as she imagined, which is frequently the
case with the closest of friends. As a matter of fact, Jean had never
spent one night alone on the ranch, even though she did believe she was
doing so. Lite had a homestead a few miles away, upon which he was
supposed to be sleeping occasionally to prove his good faith in the
settlement. Instead of spending his nights there, however, he rode
over and slept in the gable loft over the old granary, where no one
ever went; and he left every morning just before the sky lightened with
dawn. He did not know that Jean was frightened by the sound of
footsteps, but he had heard the man ride up to the stable and dismount,
and he had followed him to the house and watched him through the
uncurtained windows, and had kept his fingers close to his gun all the
while. Jean did not dream of anything like that; but Lite, going about
his work with the easy calm that marked his manner always, was quite as
puzzled over the errand of the night-prowler as was Jean herself.
For three years Lite had lain aside the mystery of the footprints on
the kitchen floor on the night after the inquest, as a puzzle he would
probably never solve. He had come to remember them as a vagrant
incident that carried no especial meaning. But now they seemed to
carry a new significance,--if only he could get at the key. For three
years he had gone along quietly, working and saving all he could, and
looking after Jean in an unobtrusive way, believing that Aleck was
guilty,--and being careful to give no hint of that belief to any one.
And now Jean herself seemed to be leading him unconsciously face to
face with doubt and mystery. It tantalized him. He knew the prowler,
and for that reason he was all the more puzzled. What had he wanted or
expected to find? Lite was tempted to face the man and ask him; but on
second thought he knew that would be foolish. He would say nothing to
Jean. He thanked the Lord she slept soundly! and he would wait and see
what happened.
Jean herself was thoughtful all that day, and was slow to lighten her
mood or her manner even when Gil Huntley rode beside her to location
and talked enthusiastically of the great work she was doing for a
beginner, and of the greater work she would do in the future, if only
she took advantage of her opportunities.
"It can't go on like this forever," he told her impressively for the
second time, before he was sure of her attention and her interest.
"Think of you, working extra under a three-day guarantee! Why, you're
what's making the pictures! I had a letter from a friend of mine; he's
with the Universal. He'd been down to see one of our pictures,--that
first one you worked in. You remember how you came down off that
bluff, and how you roped me and jerked me down off the bank just as I'd
got a bead on Lee? Say! that picture was a RIOT! Gloomy says he never
saw a picture get the hand that scene got. And he wanted to know who
was doubling for Gay, up here. You see, he got next that it was a
double; he knows darned well Gay never could put over that line of
stuff. The photography was dandy,--Pete's right there when it comes to
camera work, anyway,--and that run down the bluff, he said, had people
standing on their hind legs even before the rope scene. You could tell
it was a girl and no man doubling the part. Gloomy says everybody
around the studio has begun to watch for our releases, and go just to
see you ride and rope and shoot. And Gay gets all the press-notices!
Say, it makes me sick!" He looked at Jean wistfully.
"The trouble is, you don't realize what a raw deal you're getting," he
said, with much discontent in his tone. "As an extra, you're getting
fine treatment and fine pay; I admit that. But the point is, you've no
business being an extra. Where you belong is playing leads. You don't
know what that means, but I do. Burns is just using you to boost Muriel
Gay, and I say it's the rawest deal I ever saw handed out in the
picture game; and believe me, I've seen some raw deals!"
"Now, now, don't get peevish, Gil." Jean's drawl was soft, and her
eyes were friendly and amused. So far had their friendship progressed.
"It's awfully dear of you to want to see me a real leading lady. I
appreciate it, and I won't take off that lock of hair I said I'd take
when I shoot you in the foreground. Burns wants a real thrilling
effect close up, and he's told me five times to remember and keep my
face turned away from the camera, so they won't see it isn't Gay. If I
turn around, there will have to be a re-take, he says; and you won't
like that, Gil, not after you've heard a bullet zip past your ear so
close that it will fan your hair. Are--aren't you afraid of me, Gil?"
"Afraid of you?" Gil's horse swung closer, and Gil's eyes threatened
the opening of a tacitly forbidden subject.
"Because if you get nervous and move the least little bit-- To make it
look real, as Bobby described the scene to me, I've got to shoot the
instant you stop to gather yourself for a spring at me. It's that
lightning-draw business I have to do, Gil. I'm to stand three quarters
to the camera, with my face turned away, watching you. You keep
coming, and you stop just an instant when you're almost within reach of
me. In that instant I have to grab my gun and shoot; and it has to
look as if I got you, Gil. I've got to come pretty close, in order to
bring the gun in line with you for the camera. Bobby wants to show off
the quick draw that Lite Avery taught me. That's to be the 'punch' in
the scene. I showed him this morning what it is like, and Bobby is
just tickled to death. You see, I don't shoot the way they usually do
in pictures--"
"I should say not!" Gil interrupted admiringly.
"You haven't seen that quick work, either. It'll look awfully real,
Gil, and you mustn't dodge or duck, whatever you do. It will be just
as if you really were a man I'm deadly afraid of, that has me cornered
at last against that ledge. I'm going to do it as if I meant it. That
will mean that when you stop and kind of measure the distance, meaning
to grab me before I can do anything, I'll draw and shoot from the level
of my belt; no higher, Gil, or it won't be the lightning-draw--as
advertised. I won't have time to take a fine aim, you know."
"Listen!" said Gil, leaning toward her with his eyes very earnest. "I
know all about that. I heard you and Burns talking about it. You go
ahead and shoot, and put that scene over big. Don't you worry about
me; I'm going to play up to you, if I can. Listen! Pete's just
waiting for a chance to register your face on the film. Burns has
planned his scenes to prevent that, but we're just lying low till the
chance comes. It's got to be dramatic, and it's got to seem
accidental. Get me? I shouldn't have told you, but I can't seem to
trick you, Jean. You're the kind of a girl a fellow's got to play fair
with."
"Bobby has told me five times already to remember and keep my face away
from the camera," Jean pointed out the second time. "Makes me feel as
if I had lost my nose, or was cross-eyed or something. I do feel as if
I'd lose my job, Gil."
"No, you wouldn't; all he'd do would be to have a re-take of the whole
scene, and maybe step around like a turkey in the snow, and swear to
himself. Anyway, you can forget what I've said, if you'll feel more
comfortable. It's up to Pete and me, and we'll put it over smooth, or
we won't do it at all. Bobby won't realize it's happened till he hears
from it afterwards. Neither will you." He turned his grease-painted
face toward her hearteningly and smiled as endearingly as the sinister,
painted lines would allow.
"Listen!" he repeated as a final encouragement, because he had sensed
her preoccupation and had misread it for worry over the picture. "You
go ahead and shoot, and don't bother about me. Make it real. Shoot as
close as you like. If you pink me a little I won't care,--if you'll
promise to be my nurse. I want a vacation, anyway."
More
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At dusk that night a glow was in the southern sky, and the wind carried the pungent odor of burning grass. Dick went out on the porch after dinner, and sniffed the air uneasily. "I don't much like the look of it," he admitted to Sir Redmond. "It... Pink As Chappyrone
Rowdy was sprawled ungracefully upon somebody's bunk--he neither knew nor cared whose--and he was snoring unmelodiously, and not dreaming a thing; for when a cow-puncher has nothing in particular to do, he sleeps to atone for the weary hours when he... Pink In A Threatening Mood
Eagle Creek Smith had at last reached the point where he must face new conditions and change established customs. He could no longer ignore the barrenness of the range, or close his eyes to the grim fact that his cattle were facing starvation--and t... Play That Was Work And Work That Was Play
The silence that followed Leslie's frightened cry, as he hurled himself to the ground beside the old man he had struck, lasted but an instant. Then, recovering their scattered wits, Herbert and Monty stooped and lifted the Captain's head. The m... Playing For Time
"They've got 'em. Caught them on Dry Creek, just below Green Forks." Helen Messiter, just finishing her breakfast at the hotel preparatory to leaving in her machine for the ranch, laid down her knife and fork and looked with dilated eyes at Denver... Poleon Doret's Hand Is Quicker Than His Tongue
The trader's house sat back of the post, farther up on the hill. It was a large, sleepy house, sprawling against the sunny side of the slope, as if it had sought the southern exposure for warmth, and had dozed off one sultry afternoon and never wa... Pot Shots
There was an old mission at the outskirts of the town of Skull, established many years before there were any other buildings in the vicinity. The Spanish fathers had built it for the Indians, and it remained a sanctuary, in spite of the roughness a... Progress Of The Lost Dog
It was not even an hour's visit that the Virginian was able to pay his lady love. But neither had he come a hundred miles to see her. The necessities of his wandering work had chanced to bring him close enough for a glimpse of her, and this glimps... Prophets Of Evil
The difference between success and failure is sometimes only a hair's breadth, the turning of a hand, and although the man who loses is frequently as deserving of commendation as the man who wins he seldom receives it, and Bruce knew that this wou... Prosper Comes To A Decision
Perhaps, in spite of his gruesome boast as to dead men, it was as much to satisfy his own spirit as to comfort Joan's that Prosper actually did undertake a journey to the cabin that had belonged to Pierre. It was true that Prosper had never been a... Prosperity And Parting
They were both so excited that at first they couldn't talk, but could only stare at each other in speechless delight. Jim was trembling, for he was still weak from his long illness, and he steadied himself by attentions to Zaraza and by bidding Jo... Prove It! Prove It!
Sam Bleyer, superintendent of the big Verinder mines, had been up to see his chief at the hotel and was passing the private sitting-room of the Farquhar party when a voice hailed him. He bowed inclusively to Lady Farquhar, Miss Seldon, and Miss Dw... Prowlers In Camp
"Huh! so it's you, is it!" cried Link Merwell, in surly tones. "So you are after my mine!" cried Roger, sharply. "Well, I'll tell you right now, if you locate it, it won't do you any good." "Bah! We know what we are doing," retorted the youth ... Punch Verses Prestige
It seems to be a popular belief among those who are unfamiliar with the business of making motion pictures that all dangerous or difficult feats are merely tricks of the camera, and that the actors themselves take no risks whatever. The truth is th... Pursuit
Fire flames darted occasionally from the high tulles, licking the darkness like the tongues of venomous serpents. Rifles cracked, and bullets, fired at random, buzzed across the sand flats. Kid Wolf had an uncomfortable few minutes ahead of him. ... Quality And Equality
To the circle at Bennington, a letter from Bear Creek was always a welcome summons to gather and hear of doings very strange to Vermont. And when the tale of the changed babies arrived duly by the post, it created a more than usual sensation, and ... Rangers
Longorio stared first at the huddled, perspiring man beside the telephone and then at the frightened woman. "Is that the truth?" he demanded, harshly. "Yes," Austin answered. "They are bringing the body to this side. You know what that means." ... Realizing A Passion
Ruth stood for a long time on the porch after Hagar's departure, gripped by emotions, that had had no duplicates in all her days. Never before had she thought herself capable of experiencing such emotions. For the man she loved was in danger. She ... Receiving At Los Lobos
The trip to Lasalle County was mere pastime. All three of the outfits kept in touch with each other, camping far enough apart to avoid any conflict in night-herding the remudas. The only incident to mar the pleasure of the outing was the discovery o... Red Brings Trouble
After a night spent on the plain and a cigarette for his breakfast, Hopalong, grouchy and hungry, rode slowly to the place appointed for his meeting with Red, but Mr. Connors was over two hours late. It was now mid-forenoon and Hopalong occupied his... Red River Station
When the spirit of a man is once broken, he becomes useless. On the trail it is necessary to have some diversion from hard work, long hours, and exposure to the elements. With man and beast, from the Brazos to Red River was a fire test of physical e... Relays
The horses from St. Vincent already wheezed from the run, but the mounts of the posse were staggering completely blown. Ever since they left Rickett they had been going at close to top speed and the last rush finished them; at least seven of that ch... Rescue Requited
A change had come over the spirit of Camp Sandy's dream. The garrison that had gone to bed the previous night, leaving Natzie silent, watchful, wistful at the post commander's door, had hardly a thought that was not full of sympathy and admiration... Revelations
It was the Mexican woman, Maria. As Buck recognized her he rose quietly and moved swiftly toward the door. But if he had hoped to catch her unawares, he was disappointed. He had scarcely taken a step when, through the telltale mirror, he saw her s... Riders In The Background
Luck, as explained elsewhere, was sweating and swearing at the heat in Bear Canon. The sun had crept around so that it shone full into a certain bowlder-strewn defile, and up this sunbaked gash old Applehead was toiling, leading the scrawniest burro... Riders Of The Purple Sage
Black Star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward along the white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. Venters heard a mournful howl from Ring, but Whitie was silent. The blacks settled into their fleet, long-striding gallop. T... Riding The Ranges
THE shepherds were home in the oasis that evening, and next day the tragedy of the sheep was a thing of the past. No other circumstance of Hare's four months with the Naabs had so affected him as this swift inevitable sweeping away of the flock; n... Robert Grant Burns Gets Help
"You know the brand, don't you?" the proprietor of the hotel which housed the Great Western Company asked, with the tolerant air which the sophisticated wear when confronted by ignorance. "Easy enough to locate the outfit, by the cattle brand. Wha... Rogers Takes A Hand
The trail herd had made good progress through the valley, and Rogers, aided by the Star men, had kept them going. The men feared no interference with the work, for they had terrorized the ranchers in the valley until the latter well knew the futil... Rosemary Allen Does A Small Sum In Addition
Miss Rosemary Allen, having wielded a wet gunny sack until her eyes were red and smarting and her lungs choked with cinders and her arms so tired she could scarcely lift them, was permitted by fate to be almost the first person who discovered that h... Rowdy Finds Happiness
Miss Conroy was rather listlessly endeavoring to persuade the First Reader class that "catch" should not be pronounced "ketch," when she saw Rowdy ride past the window. Intuition of something amiss sent her to the door before he reached it. "Can'... Rowdy Hires A New Boss
Next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Rodway followed Vaughan out to the stable, and repeated Bill Brown's question. "I'd like to know where yuh got this horse," he began, with an apologetic sort of determination in his tone. "He happens to belong to...