Books: Merton of the Movies

H >> Harry Leon Wilson >> Merton of the Movies

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

The girth went still tighter. Dexter glanced about with genuine
concern. Someone was intending to harm him. He curved his swanlike
neck and snapped savagely at the shoulder of his aggressor, who
kicked him again in the aide and yelled, "Whoa, there, dang you!"

Dexter subsided. He saw it was no use. Whatever queer thing they
meant to do to him would be done despite all his resistance. Still
his alarm had caused him to hold up his head now. He was looking
much more like a horse.

"There!" said Merton Gill, and as a finishing touch he lashed the
coiled clothesline to the front of the saddle. "Now, here! Get me
this way. This is one of the best things I do--that is, so far."
Fondly he twined his arms about the long, thin neck of Dexter, who
tossed his head and knocked off the cowboy hat. "Never mind that--
it's out," said Merton. "Can't use it in this scene." He laid his
cheek to the cheek of his pet. "Well, old pal, they're takin' yuh
from me, but we got to keep a stiff upper lip. You an' me has been
through some purty lively times together, but we got to face the
music at last--there, Lowell, did you get that?"

The artist had made his study. He made three others of the same
affecting scene at different angles. Dexter was overwhelmed with
endearments. Doubtless he was puzzled--to be kicked in the ribs at
one moment, the next to be fondled. But Lowell Hardy was
enthusiastic. He said he would have some corking studies. He made
another of Buck Benson preparing to mount good old Pinto; though, as
a matter of fact, Buck, it appeared, was not even half prepared to
mount.

"Go on, jump on him now," suggested the artist. "I'll get a few more
that way."

"Well, I don't know," Merton hesitated. He was twenty-two years old,
and he had never yet been aboard a horse. Perhaps he shouldn't try
to go too far in one lesson. "You see, the old boy's pretty tired
from his week's work. Maybe I better not mount him. Say, I'll tell
you, take me rolling a cigarette, just standing by him. I darned
near forgot the cigarettes."

From the barn he brought a sack of tobacco and some brown papers. He
had no intention of smoking, but this kind of cigarette was too
completely identified with Buck Benson to be left out. Lolling
against the side of Dexter, he poured tobacco from the sack into one
of the papers. "Get me this way," he directed, "just pouring it
out."

He had not yet learned to roll a cigarette, but Gus Giddings, the
Simsbury outlaw, had promised to teach him. Anyway, it was enough
now to be looking keenly out from under his hat while he poured
tobacco into the creased paper against the background of good old
Pinto. An art study of this pose was completed. But Lowell Hardy
craved more action, more variety.

"Go on. Get up on him," he urged. "I want to make a study of that."

"Well--"again Merton faltered--"the old skate's tired out from a
hard week, and I'm not feeling any too lively myself."

"Shucks! It won't kill him if you get on his back for a minute, will
it? And you'll want one on him to show, won't you? Hurry up, while
the light's right."

Yes, he would need a mounted study to show. Many times he had
enacted a scene in which a director had looked over the art studies
of Clifford Armytage and handed them back with the remark, "But you
seem to play only society parts, Mr. Armytage. All very interesting,
and I've no doubt we can place you very soon; but just at present
we're needing a lead for a Western, a man who can look the part and
ride."

Thereupon he handed these Buck Benson stills to the man, whose face
would instantly relax into an expression of pleased surprise.

"The very thing," he would say. And among those stills, certainly,
should be one of Clifford Armytage actually on the back of his
horse. He'd chance it.

"All right; just a minute."

He clutched the bridle reins of Dexter under his drooping chin. and
overcoming a feeble resistance dragged him alongside the watering
trough. Dexter at first thought he was wished to drink, but a kick
took that nonsense out of him. With extreme care Merton stood upon
the edge of the trough and thrust a leg blindly over the saddle.
With some determined clambering he was at last seated. His feet were
in the stirrups. There was a strange light in his eyes. There was a
strange light in Dexter's eyes. To each of them the experience was
not only without precedent but rather unpleasant.

"Ride him out in the middle here, away from that well," directed the
camera man.

"You--you better lead him out," suggested the rider. "I can feel him
tremble already. He--he might break down under me."

Metta Judson, from the back porch, here came into the piece with
lines that the author had assuredly not written for her.

"Giddap, there, you Dexter Gashwiler," called Metta loudly and with
the best intentions.

"You keep still," commanded the rider severely, not turning his
head. What a long way it seemed to the ground! He had never dreamed
that horses were so lofty. "Better lead him," he repeated to his
camera man.

Lowell Hardy grasped the bridle reins, and after many vain efforts
persuaded Dexter to stumble away from the well. His rider grasped
the horn of his saddle.

"Look out, don't let him buck," he called.

But Dexter had again become motionless, except for a recurrent
trembling under this monstrous infliction.

"Now, there," began the artist. "Hold that. You're looking off over
the Western hills. Atta boy! Wait till I get a side view."

"Move your camera," said the rider. "Seems to me he doesn't want to
turn around."

But again the artist turned Dexter half around. That wasn't so bad.
Merton began to feel the thrill of it. He even lounged in the saddle
presently, one leg over the pommel, and seemed about to roll another
cigarette while another art study was made. He continued to lounge
there while the artist packed his camera. What had he been afraid
of? He could sit a horse as well as the next man; probably a few
little tricks about it he hadn't learned yet, but he'd get these,
too.

"I bet they'll come out fine," he called to the departing artist.
"Leave that to me. I dare say I'll be able to do something good with
them. So long."

"So long," returned Merton, and was left alone on the back of a
horse higher than people would think until they got on him. Indeed
he was beginning to like it. If you just had a little nerve you
needn't be afraid of anything. Very carefully he clambered from the
saddle. His old pal shook himself with relief and stood once more
with bowed head and crossed forelegs.

His late burden observed him approvingly. There was good old Pinto
after a hard day's run over the mesa. He had borne his beloved owner
far ahead of the sheriff's posse, and was now securing a moment's
much-needed rest. Merton undid the riata and for half an hour
practised casting it at his immobile pet. Once the noose settled
unerringly over the head of Dexter, who still remained immobile.

Then there was the lightning draw to be practised. Again and again
the trusty weapon of Buck Benson flashed from its holster to the
damage of a slower adversary. He was getting that draw down pretty
good. From the hip with straight wrist and forearm Buck was ready to
shoot in no time at all. Throughout that villain-infested terrain
along the border he was known for his quick draw. The most desperate
of them would never molest him except they could shoot him from
behind. With his back to a wall, they slunk from the encounter.

Elated from this practice and from the memory of that one successful
rope cast, Merton became daring in the extreme. He considered
nothing less than remounting his old pal and riding, in the cool of
early evening, up and down the alley upon which the barnyard gave.
He coiled the rope and again lashed it to the left front of the
saddle. Then he curved an affectionate arm over the arched neck of
Pinto, who sighed deeply.

"Well, old pal, you and me has still got some mighty long miles to
git over between now and sunup to-morrow. I reckon we got to put a
right smart of distance between us and that pesky sheriff's posse,
but I know yuh ain't lost heart, old pal."

Dexter here tossed his head, being cloyed with these embraces, and
Two-Gun Benson caught a look in the desperate eyes of his pet which
he did not wholly like. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him
any more to-day. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him again
until next Sunday. After all, wasn't Dexter practically a wild
horse, caught up from the range and broken to saddle only that
afternoon? No use overdoing it. At this moment the beast's back
looked higher than ever.

It was the cutting remark of a thoughtless, empty-headed girl that
confirmed Merton in his rash resolve. Metta Judson, again on the
back steps, surveyed the scene with kindling eyes.

"I bet you daresn't get on him again," said Metta.

These were strong words; not words to be flung lightly at Two-Gun
Benson.

"You know a lot about it, don't you?" parried Merton Gill.

"Afraid of that old skate!" murmured Metta, counterfeiting the
inflections of pity.

Her target shot her a glance of equal pity for her lack of
understanding and empty-headed banter. He stalked to the barnyard
gate and opened it. The way to his haven over the border was no
longer barred. He returned to Dexter, firmly grasped the bridle
reins under his weak chin and cajoled him again to the watering
trough. Metta Judson was about to be overwhelmed with confusion.
From the edge of the trough he again clambered into the saddle, the
new boots groping a way to the stirrups. The reins in his left hand,
he swept off his ideal hat with a careless gesture--he wished he had
had an art study made of this, but you can't think of everything at
one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one who had not even heard
her tasteless taunts.

"Well, so long! I won't be out late." Metta was now convinced that
she had in her heart done this hero a wrong.

"You better be here before the folks get back!" she warned.

Merton knew this as well as she did, but the folks wouldn't be back
for a couple of hours yet, and all he meant to venture was a ride at
sober pace the length of the alley.

"Oh, I'll take care of that!" he said. "A few miles' stiff gallop'll
be all I want." He jerked Dexter's head up, snapped the reins on his
neck, and addressed him in genial, comradely but authoritative
tones.

"Git up there, old hoss!"

Dexter lowered his head again and remained as if posing
conscientiously for the statue of a tired horse.

"Giddap, there, you old skate!" again ordered the rider.

The comradely unction was gone from his voice and the bony neck
received a smarter wallop with the reins. Dexter stood unmoved. He
seemed to be fearing that the worst was now coming, and that he
might as well face it on that spot as elsewhere. He remained deaf to
threats and entreaties alike. No hoof moved from its resting place.

"Giddap, there, you old Dexter Gashwiler!" ordered Metta, and was
not rebuked. But neither would Dexter yield to a woman's whim.

"I'll tell you!" said Merton, now contemptuous of his mount. "Get
the buggy whip and tickle his ribs."

Metta sped on his errand, her eyes shining with the lust for
torture. With the frayed end of the whip from the delivery wagon she
lightly scored the exposed ribs of Dexter, tormenting him with
devilish cunning. Dexter's hide shuttled back and forth. He whinnied
protestingly, but did not stir even one hoof.

"That's the idea," said Merton, feeling scornfully secure on the
back of this spiritless animal. "Keep it up! I can feel him coming
to life."

Metta kept it up. Her woman's ingenuity contrived new little tricks
with the instrument of torture. She would doubtless have had a
responsible post with the Spanish Inquisition. Face set, absorbed in
her evil work, she tickled the ribs crosswise and tickled between
them, up and down, always with the artist's light touch.

Dexter's frame grew tense, his head came up. Once more he looked
like a horse. He had been brave to face destruction, but he found
himself unable to face being tickled to death. If only they had
chosen some other method for his execution he would have perished
gamely, but this was exquisitely poignant--beyond endurance. He
tossed his head and stepped into a trot toward the open gate.

Metta yelled in triumph. The rider tossed his own head in rhythm to
Dexter's trot. His whole body tossed in the saddle; it was a
fearsome pace; the sensations were like nothing he had ever dreamed
of. And he was so high above the good firm ground! Dexter continued
his jolting progress to the applause of Metta. The rider tried to
command Metta to keep still, and merely bit his tongue.

Stirred to life by the tickling, Dexter now became more acutely
aware of that strange, restless burden on his back, and was inspired
to free himself from it. He increased his pace as he came to the
gate, and managed a backward kick with both heels. This lost the
rider his stirrups and left him less securely seated than he wished
to be. He dropped the reins and grasped the saddle's pommel with
both hands.

He strangely seemed to consider the pommel the steering wheel of a
motor car. He seemed to be twisting it with the notion of guiding
Dexter. All might have been well, but on losing his stirrups the
rider had firmly clasped his legs about the waist of the animal.
Again and again he tightened them, and now Dexter not only looked
every inch a horse but very painfully to his rider felt like one,
for the spurs were goring him to a most seditious behavior. The mere
pace was slackened only that he might alarmingly kick and shake
himself in a manner as terrifying to the rider as it was unseemly in
one of Dexter's years.

But the thing was inevitable, because once in his remote, hot youth
Dexter, cavorting innocently in an orchard, had kicked over a hive
of busy bees which had been attending strictly to their own affairs
until that moment. After that they had attended to Dexter with a
thoroughness that had seared itself to this day across his memory.
He now sincerely believed that he had overturned another hive of
bees, and that not but by the most strenuous exertion could he
escape from their harrying. They were stinging him venomously along
his sides, biting deeper with every jump. At last he would bear his
rider safely over the border.

The rider clasped his mount ever more tightly. The deep dust of the
alley road mounted high over the spirited scene, and through it came
not only the hearty delight of Metta Judson in peals of womanly
laughter, but the shrill cries of the three Ransom children whom
Merton had not before noticed. These were Calvin Ransom, aged eight;
Elsie Ransom, aged six; and little Woodrow Ransom, aged four. Their
mother had lain down with a headache, having first ordered them to
take their picture books and sit quietly in the parlour as good
children should on a Sabbath afternoon. So they had noisily
pretended to obtain the picture books and then quietly tiptoed out
into the backyard, which was not so stuffy as the parlour.

Detecting the meritorious doings in the Gashwiler barnyard, they
perched in a row on the alley fence and had been excited spectators
from the moment that Merton had mounted his horse.

In shrill but friendly voices they had piped, "Oh, Merton Gill's a
cowboy, Merton Gill's a cowboy! Oh, looka the cowboy on the big
horse!"

For of course they were motion-picture experts and would know a
cowboy when they saw one. Wide-eyed, they followed the perilous
antics of Dexter as he issued from the alley gate, and they screamed
with childish delight when the spurs had recalled to his memory that
far-off dreadful day with the busy bees. They now balanced
precariously on the alley fence, the better to trace Merton's flight
through the dust cloud. "Merton's in a runaway, Merton's in a
runaway, Merton's in a runaway!" they shrieked, but with none of the
sympathy that would have become them. They appeared to rejoice in
Merton's plight. "Merton's in a runaway," they joyously chanted.

Suddenly they ceased, frozen with a new and splendid wonder, for
their descriptive phrase was now inexact. Merton was no longer in a
runaway. But only for a moment did they hesitate before taking up
the new chant.

"Looky, looky. He's throwed Merton right off into the dirt. He's
throwed Merton right off into the dirt. Oh, looky Merton Gill right
down there in the dirt!"

Again they had become exact. Merton was right down there in the
dirt, and a frantic, flashing-heeled Dexter was vanishing up the
alley at the head of a cloud of dust. The friendly Ransom tots
leaped from the fence to the alley, forgetting on her bed of pain
the mother who supposed them to be engrossed with picture books in
the library. With one accord they ran toward the prostrate horseman,
Calvin ahead and Elsie a close second, holding the hand of little
Woodrow.

They were presently able to observe that the fleeing Dexter had
narrowly escaped running down a motor car inopportunely turning at
that moment into the alley. The gallant animal swerved in time,
leaving the car's driver and his wife aghast at their slight margin
of safety. Dexter vanished to the right up shaded Spruce Street on a
Sabbath evening as the first call to evening worship pealed from a
neighbouring church tower.

His late rider had erected himself and was beating dust from the new
chaps and the front of the new shirt. He picked up the ideal hat and
dusted that. Underneath all the flurry of this adventure he was
still the artist. He had been set afoot in the desert by a
treacherous horse; he must find a water hole or perish with thirst.
He replaced the hat, and it was then he observed the motor car
bearing down the alley upon him.

"My good gosh!" he muttered.

The Gashwilers had returned a full two hours before their accustomed
time. The car halted beside him and his employer leaned out a warmly
hostile face.

"What's this mean?" he demanded.

The time was not one to tell Gashwiler what he thought of him. Not
only was there a lady present, but he felt himself at a
disadvantage. The lady saved him from an instant necessity for
words.

"That was our new clothesline; I recognized it at once." The woman
seemed to pride herself on this paltry feat.

"What's this mean?" again demanded Gashwiler. He was now a man of
one idea.

Again was Merton Gill saved from the need of instant speech, though
not in a way he would have chosen to be saved. The three Ransom
children ran up, breathless, shouting.

"Oh, Merton, here's your pistol. I found it right in the road
there." "We found your pistol right in the dirt there. I saw it
first." "You did not; I saw it first. Merton, will you let me shoot
it off, Merton? I found your pistol, didn't I, Merton? Didn't I find
it right in the road there?" The friendly tots did little step
dances while they were thus vocal.

"Be quiet, children," commanded Merton, finding a voice. But they
were not to be quelled by mere tones.

"He throwed Merton right off into the dirt, didn't he, Merton?
Merton, didn't he throw you right off into the dirt, Merton? Did he
hurt you, Merton?" "Merton, will you let me shoot it off just once--
just once, and I'll never ask again?" "He didn't either find it
first, Merton." "He throwed you off right into the dirt--didn't he
throw you right off into the dirt, Merton?"

With a harsher show of authority, or perhaps merely because he was
bearded--so unreasoning are the inhibitions of the young--Gashwiler
stilled the tumult. The dancing died. "What's this mean?" he
repeated.

"We nearly had an accident," said the lady.

"What's this mean?"

An answer of sorts could no longer be delayed.

"Well, I thought I'd give Dexter a little exercise, so I saddled him
up and was going to ride him around the block, when--when these kids
here yelled and scared him so he ran away."

"Oh, what a story!" shouted the tots in unison. "What a bad story!
You'll go to the bad place," intoned little Elsie.

"I swear, I don't know what's gettin' into you," declared Gashwiler.
"Don't that horse get exercise enough during the week? Don't he like
his day of rest? How'd you like me to saddle you up and ride you
round the block? I guess you'd like that pretty well, wouldn't you?"
Gashwiler fancied himself in this bit of sarcasm, brutal though it
was. He toyed with it. "Next Sunday I'll saddle you up and ride you
round the block--see how you like that, young man."

"It was our clothesline," said the lady. "I could tell it right
off."

With a womanish tenacity she had fastened to a minor inconsequence
of the outrage. Gashwiler became practical.

"Well, I must say, it's a pretty how-de-do, That horse'll make
straight back for the farm; we won't have any delivery horse to-
morrow. Sue, you get out; I'll go down the road a piece and see if I
can head him off."

"He turned the other way," said Merton.

"Well, he's bound to head around for the farm. I'll go up the road
and you hurry out the way he went. Mebbe you can catch him before he
gets out of town."

Mrs. Gashwiler descended from the car.

"You better have that clothesline back by seven o'clock to-morrow
morning," she warned the offender.

"Yes, ma'am, I will."

This was not spoken in a Buck Benson manner.

"And say"--Gashwiler paused in turning the car--"what you doing in
that outlandish rig, anyhow? Must think you're one o' them Wild West
cowboys or something. Huh!" This last carried a sneer that stung.

"Well, I guess I can pick out my own clothes if I want to."

"Fine things to call clothes, I must say. Well, go see if you can
pick out that horse if you're such a good picker-out."

Again Gashwiler was pleased with himself. He could play venomously
with words.

"Yes, sir," said Merton, and plodded on up the alley, followed at a
respectful distance by the Ransom kiddies, who at once resumed their
vocal exercises.

"He throwed you off right into the dirt, didn't he, Merton? Mer-tun,
didn't he throw you off right into the dirt?"

If it were inevitable he wished that they would come closer. He
would even have taken little Woodrow by the hand. But they kept far
enough back of him to require that their voices should be raised.
Incessantly the pitiless rain fell upon him--"Mer-tun, he throwed
you off right into the dirt, didn't he, Merton?"

He turned out of the alley up Spruce Street. The Ransom children
lawlessly followed, forgetting their good home, their poor, sick
mother and the rules she had laid down for their Sabbath recreation.
At every moment the shrill cry reached his burning ears, "Mer-tun,
didn't he throw you off?" The kiddies appeared to believe that
Merton had not heard them, but they were patient. Presently he would
hear and reassure them that he had, indeed, been thrown off right
into the dirt.

Now he began to meet or pass early churchgoers who would gaze at him
in wonder or in frank criticism. He left the sidewalk and sought the
centre of the road, pretending that out there he could better search
for a valuable lost horse. The Ransom children were at first in two
minds about following him, but they soon found it more interesting
to stay on the sidewalk. They could pause to acquaint the
churchgoers with a matter of common interest. "He throwed Merton off
right into the dirt."

If the people they addressed appeared to be doubting this, or to
find it not specific enough, they would call ahead to Merton to
confirm their simple tale. With rapt, shining faces, they spread the
glad news, though hurrying always to keep pace with the figure in
the road.

Spruce Street was vacant of Dexter, but up Elm Street, slowly
cropping the wayside herbage as he went, was undoubtedly Merton's
good old pal. He quickened his pace. Dexter seemed to divine his
coming and broke into a kittenish gallop until he reached the
Methodist Church. Here, appearing to believe that he had again
eluded pursuit, he stopped to graze on a carefully tended square of
grass before the sacred edifice. He was at once shooed by two
scandalized old ladies, but paid them no attention. They might
perhaps even have tickled him, for this was the best grass he had
found since leaving home. Other churchgoers paused in consternation,
looking expectantly at the approaching Merton Gill. The three happy
children who came up with him left no one in doubt of the late
happening.

Merton was still the artist. He saw himself approach Dexter, vault
into the saddle, put spurs to the beast, and swiftly disappear down
the street. People would be saying that he should not be let to ride
so fast through a city street. He was worse than Gus Giddings. But
he saw this only with his artist's eye. In sordid fact he went up to
Dexter, seized the trailing bridle reins and jerked savagely upon
them. Back over the trail he led his good old pal. And for other
later churchgoers there were the shrill voices of friendly children
to tell what had happened--to appeal confidently to Merton, vaguely
ahead in the twilight, to confirm their interesting story.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26